Nadia was deep in a spreadsheet when Tom walked into her study, phone in hand. He looked unusually serious.
"Reinhardt just called," he said.
Nadia glanced up. "And?"
"They're sending Marcus Vogel again. This time, he's not just visiting for dinner. He wants to stay the night."
Nadia's stomach dropped. "Here?"
"Yes. Tomorrow."
She snapped her laptop shut. "That's absurd. We're not an Airbnb."
"It's a test," Tom said evenly. "He wants to see how we live when no one's performing. He'll be watching everything—where we sleep, how we talk, how we move around each other."
Nadia pressed her fingers to her temples. "We can stage most things. Dinner, small talk, even a casual argument if needed. But sleeping arrangements—"
Tom cut her off gently. "We'll share a room."
Her head shot up. "Absolutely not."
"It's the only way. If Vogel sees separate bedrooms, we're finished."
Nadia glared at him, but deep down she knew he was right. "One night. Nothing more."
Tom's mouth curved slightly. "One night is enough to convince him."
---
The following evening, Vogel arrived with a small suitcase. "Please don't trouble yourselves," he said at the door. "I prefer to see how couples live without fuss."
Tom welcomed him warmly, while Nadia managed a stiff smile. They ate dinner together—steak and roasted vegetables Tom had cooked himself. Vogel observed everything: the way Tom poured her wine, the way Nadia corrected his numbers when business came up, the brief touches Tom made look effortless.
After dinner, Vogel excused himself to call Switzerland. When he returned, he asked, "May I see the rest of the penthouse? Always interesting how people make a home."
Tom gestured to Nadia. "Lead the way."
She guided Vogel through the offices, the kitchen, the guest room—intentionally tidy, as if rarely used. Finally, they reached the hallway. Her heart pounded.
"And your bedroom?" Vogel asked casually.
Tom didn't hesitate. He opened the master suite door. A king-size bed neatly made, two phones charging on opposite nightstands, her silk blouse draped over a chair, his tie on the dresser.
"Comfortable," Vogel remarked. "And shared, I see."
Nadia forced a nod. "Efficient," she said shortly.
---
When Vogel finally retreated to the guest room, Nadia shut the master suite door and turned on Tom. "You've been planning this."
"Of course," he admitted. "I made sure the room looked lived in. We'll survive one night."
She crossed her arms. "I'll take the bed. You can sleep on the sofa."
"That would defeat the point," Tom said calmly. "If Vogel hears me snoring in another room, he'll know."
"Snoring?" she scoffed.
"Metaphorically," Tom said with a faint grin.
Her glare didn't soften. But when midnight came, they lay on opposite sides of the bed, stiff and silent.
"Relax," Tom murmured into the dark.
"Stop talking."
Minutes passed. Then his voice again, low, almost careful: "You don't have to carry everything alone, Nadia."
She shut her eyes tightly. "Go to sleep."
But his words dug deeper than she wanted to admit.
---
At dawn, she woke to find him still there, steady, calm, a quiet presence she had never asked for but somehow didn't resent.
For the first time since this marriage began, she wondered if the danger wasn't Vogel or Reinhardt—or even bankruptcy.
The danger was Tom.