Location: Declan Westcott's Penthouse, Manhattan | Time: 8:45 P.M.
Hartley stood at the front of Blackwood Tower, gripping two suitcases and a third-hand sense of regret.
"This is a mistake," she muttered.
"You already signed, Miss Sinclair," said Ivan, the human shadow Declan called a driver. "Mistake or not—you're in."
He pressed a keycard to a black panel. The penthouse elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss, like something out of a spy movie.
"Seriously, you don't think this is weird?" she asked.
Ivan gave her a sideways glance. "Miss, I've seen Mr. Westcott take a call in five languages while closing a $90 million merger, shaving, and breaking a guy's kneecap in Dubai—all at once."
Hartley blinked.
Ivan shrugged. "This is Tuesday."
The elevator slid open and Hartley almost lost her breath. The place was spotless—black marble so shiny she could see the city lights winking in it, walls so cold and fancy they barely felt real. Not a single thing out of place. It was the kind of space that made you check your shoes and wonder if you belonged.
There were no family photos, no warmth—just power, the kind that whispered instead of shouted.
Hartley clutched her overnight bag tightly.
Declan appeared at the far end of the open-plan living room, dressed in a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled, glass of water in hand.
"You're late."
"I had to quit my job and say goodbye to the last shred of my dignity. It took a second."
"Excuses bore me."
"So do billionaires with god complexes."
Declan didn't blink. "Try not to start a war before dinner," he replied while leaving.
"This way, ma'am," said a middle-aged woman with a sharp bun and colder eyes as she approached Hartley. "I'm Margaret, the housekeeper. You'll find your room at the end of the hall."
"My… room?" Hartley echoed, surprised.
"Mr. Westcott occupies the master suite," Margaret replied. "You are to remain in the guest wing unless instructed otherwise. Dinner is served at nine. Dress appropriately."
"Instructed otherwise?" Hartley muttered. "I'm his wife, not an employee."
Margaret didn't blink. "You are whatever the contract says you are."
Hartley's room was as elegant as it was empty. It featured a king-size bed, designer decor, and windows overlooking Central Park. There were no photos, no personality—just polished detachment.
Dresses, Lingerie, Shoes, Jewelry, they looked like they belonged in a bank vault.
All tailored to her size.
She spent the next hour unpacking, then she sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at her reflection in the glass.
"What have I done?"
—-----
Wearing the only decent black dress she owned, she entered the dining room. Declan was already seated, reading a report with the same focus most people reserved for hostage negotiations.
He sat at the head of the long mahogany table like a Roman emperor, swirling a single glass of wine in his fingers.
"You're late," he said, still not looking up.
Hartley shot him a quick side-eye and muttered just loud enough,
"Fashionably late, actually. But if you really wanted me here sooner, you could've tried being pleasant for once. I mean, it's not like I even knew punctuality was part of the contract."
"It's implied."
The tension simmered as they ate in silence, the fancy meal totally wasted as Hartley just pushed the food around her plate.
Finally, she couldn't stand it and piped up,
"So… are we just going to keep pretending to be statues, or are you actually going to say something?"
Declan didn't look up. "I've found most conversation to be unnecessary."
"You know what's also unnecessary? This lemon foam. It's attacking my tongue."
Still no response.
She smirked. "Is this what married life's going to be like? Emotionally starved and fine-dining to death?"
"Why even bother? This is just a transaction. You eat, you sleep, you pretend in public—and I make your life easier."
"That's what you think this is?" she shot back.
He set down his fork and studied her. "What would you prefer, Hartley? Candlelight dinners and heart-to-hearts?"
"I prefer not to be treated like furniture."
He continued to examine her. "Then stop acting like it."
Her breath caught in her throat.
"I don't mean weak," he added. "I mean… quiet, passive, accepting. You're smarter than that."
"You can sugarcoat your devilish motivated speech if you like, I'm not buying that."
Declan flipped a page. "If you're trying to get a rise out of me, it won't work."
"That's what the last guy said. He cried before dessert."
Declan looked up then—just a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
Progress...….
But in a fit of frustration, Hartley stood up abruptly, knocking her chair back.
"Maybe I should just walk away."
He leaned back, too calm. "Clause sixteen, remember?"
Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth—she couldn't even think of a comeback. She turned on her heel to leave, wanting an escape, but his next words landed like cold water down her back.
"You know," Declan called, voice bored like this was nothing,
"You really ought to learn to hold your head a little higher. If you're gonna pretend to be my wife, at least look the part."
"Maybe I don't."
He stood up. In one smooth motion, he was right in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze.
His hand lifted to her chin—not gentle, not rough. Just… deliberate.
"You belong wherever I say you do," he murmured. "And right now, I say you belong here."
Her heartbeat raced. She hated how he made her feel—like her skin was too tight, her breath too loud.
"You don't scare me," she whispered, trying to sound defiant.
He smiled, a predatory grin. "You should be."
And then he kissed her.
There was no warning.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't sweet. It was a challenge—raw and dominant. She went completely rigid, barely trusting herself to breathe. Then his hand found her waist, pulling her in—closer than she'd ever let anyone, or ever meant to.
Her lips parted, almost on instinct. For just a split second—one mad, loaded heartbeat—she let herself forget every reason she was supposed to hate him.
Subsequently, just like that, he moved away. The spark was gone and the room turned cold.
"Don't read into that," he said, his voice like frost.
"You're a decent actress—just checking if you'd crack."
Her cheeks were on fire. Humiliation burned all the way up her neck.
She turned fast, desperate so he wouldn't see her eyes blur with tears.
But it didn't matter—he was already gone
—------
After dinner, Hartley returned to her room to find her suitcases gone, her bed turned down, and a single note on the pillow:
"Change of plans. You sleep in my wing now. Appearances, remember?" —D
Her heart stopped.
"What the hell?"
She stormed back down the hall and banged on Declan's office door.
It opened instantly. He stood there, cool and unreadable.
"Are you serious?" she snapped, waving the note. "What is this?"
"Relax. It's the guest room across from mine. We'll need to be seen coming from the same hallway. The staff is trained to report inconsistencies."
"Your staff spies on us?"
"They report suspicious behavior. So yes."
"God, you're worse than a Bond villain.
"Unless you'd rather I carry you down the hall, just take the damn room." Declan replied, stepping aside.
She held her ground.
"I told you earlier, you don't scare me," she said.
"You should be more worried about how easy it is to impress me."
She glared.
He stepped closer.
"You want to keep Leo safe? Then play your part. Don't ask for comfort. Don't expect warmth. And for the love of God—don't be dramatic."
She turned and walked away, muttering, "Too late."
The guest room across from Declan's was larger than her entire childhood apartment.
The bed felt too soft. The air is too cold.
She lay there staring at the ceiling, repeating the rules in her head like a prayer:
"No real feelings."
"No unplanned conversations."
"No touching."
Too bad his voice was still echoing in her skull.
"Don't ask for comfort. Don't expect warmth."
Well. That part would be easy.
Because Declan Westcott didn't offer warmth.
He was the cold