Location: Declan's Penthouse – The Following Morning
Hartley wasn't ready for war before coffee, but apparently, Declan was.
She walked into the kitchen barefoot, wearing one of his oversized dress shirts—because laundry wasn't a priority when you were fake-married to a billionaire sociopath.
Margaret, the eternally frostbitten housekeeper, gave her a once-over.
"You're not allowed in the kitchen."
Hartley blinked. "I'm not allowed to pour my own coffee?"
Margaret's lips twitched like a woman suppressing the urge to tase someone. "Mr. Westcott prefers order. Breakfast is scheduled at eight."
"It's 7:57."
"Exactly."
Hartley poured the coffee anyway.
Just as she took her first blessed sip, Declan appeared—freshly showered, in a grey vest and navy shirt, hair slicked back like the villain in a Netflix show no one could stop binge-watching.
"You look like a hostage in that shirt," he said without looking at her.
"You looked like a dictator at the gala," she shot back.
He stopped, turned, and cocked his head. "Excuse me?"
"You didn't warn me that the media would twist everything. Headlines. Cameras. My name is trending under 'mysterious wife'—and not in a fun, cool way."
"You're upset about… press?"
"I'm upset that you used me to get back at your ex, again, and then left me to handle the fallout."
Declan moved toward her, slow and deliberate. "You handled Camilla like a queen at the gala. You played your part."
"I wasn't acting!"
He paused. "Then what were you doing?"
She stared at him. "I was protecting myself. Something you clearly don't know how to let people do."
That touched a nerve. She saw it in the flicker of his jaw. His hands curled at his sides.
"I told you not to expect safety in this arrangement."
"And I told you I'd only stay if I had control."
"You have control," he snapped. "You control how this ends. Quietly or painfully."
"Oh, perfect," she said, slamming her coffee down. "The 'my-way-or-suffer' clause. I should've married a mob boss—it'd be less toxic."
Declan took a step forward, lowering his voice. "You don't understand what you're playing with, Hartley."
"And you don't understand that I'm not yours to play with."
They stood inches apart. Breathing hard.
Then Declan whispered something that chilled her.
"Camilla made the same mistake."
Her face dropped.
"What did you say?"
He turned away. "Nothing."
"No, say it again. What mistake?"
His silence was answer enough.
Hartley's hands trembled.
"You threatened her too, didn't you? You made her fall for you, then you punished her when she got too close."
Declan's eyes met hers—dangerous, empty.
"She tried to take my company. She deserved worse."
"And what do I deserve, Declan?"
He didn't answer.
So she left. Again.
Only this time, she slammed the door loud enough to wake the dead.
—----
Later That Day – Hartley's Temporary Office at Blackwood International
Turns out, part of Hartley's "duties" as a pretending wife include sitting in on meetings with people who thought smiling was a personality trait.
She stared at spreadsheets and legal briefings, trying to ignore the fact that everyone looked at her like she'd hacked the system.
An assistant leaned in. "Mr. Westcott wants to see you."
She sighed. "Does he ever 'want' anything? Or is everything a summons?"
—--
At Declan's Office – Ten Minutes Later
She stormed in.
"You rang, Your Majesty?"
He was on the phone. "I'll call you back."
Click.
He stood, walked around the desk, and held up a folder. "You need to sign this."
"What is it? My execution papers?"
"Prenuptial amendment. Legal protection. Financial separation clause."
She raised a brow. "You're already protecting your billions? That's insecure?"
"Just preparing for possibilities."
"Like what? Me robbing you blind after I fake-love you to death?"
"I've had worse."
"Oh, so tell me... Was Camilla your first heartbreak, or just the most expensive?"
He stared at her, unmoved. "You're unusually bitter today."
"And you're unusual… human. What's going on?"
He paused. "Leo's test results came in."
Her throat tightened. "Is he…?"
"He's stable. The treatment's working."
Relief flooded her face. She leaned against the desk, breathless.
"You did this?"
He nodded.
"Why?"
He hesitated. "Because I don't like debts. And I don't like seeing you look like you've lost everything."
That caught her off guard. It wasn't a compliment. It wasn't kindness. But it was the closest thing to real she'd gotten from him in days.
—--
That Night – Dining Room
Dinner was awkward. Silent. Margaret was silently judging the roast chicken, and Declan hadn't said a word since the Leo update.
Hartley finally broke the silence.
"So, are we still fighting or just awkwardly existing in the same tax bracket?"
Declan didn't look up. "You've had a long day. You should rest."
"Oh wow. The warm fuzzies never stop."
He set his fork down.
"Hartley."
She turned to him.
"I'm not good at this."
"This… what? Talking to women like they're human?"
"This… relationship. Fake or not."
She blinked. "Then maybe stop trying to control it."
A pause. Then—he smirked.
"I tried that. You're not easily controlled."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It's not."
They locked eyes.
For a heartbeat, there was no venom. No game.
Just breathe. Silence. Something real.
—----
Later That Night – Hartley's Bedroom
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Leo was okay. She'd survived Camilla. She'd thrown emotional daggers at Declan and lived.
But something gnawed at her.
This wasn't just about Leo anymore.
Declan had layers. And she was starting to care.
Dangerous.
She reached for her phone. One new message.
> UNKNOWN: You think you're safe with him. You're not. You're just his next casualty. – C
She sat up in bed, blood running cold.
Camilla.
Of course.
But it wasn't the message that terrified her.
It was the photo attached.
Leo.
Outside Blackwood Medical.
Being watched.