The penthouse was still cloaked in shadows when Ivy stirred awake. She lay in the king-sized bed, staring at the ceiling, her thoughts an endless storm.
The gala replayed in fragments—the flash of cameras, the whispers of strangers, the weight of Lucian's hand at her waist, steady and unyielding.
And that moment. The way he shielded her from ridicule with the sharp edge of his authority. His voice had sliced through the room like a blade.
But she wasn't sure what unsettled her more: his protection, or the terrifying truth that part of her had felt safe in his arms.
She sat up with a sharp breath, shaking the thought away. He doesn't care about you. He only cares about control.
---
The scent of roasted coffee filled the air when she padded barefoot into the kitchen. The sleek marble counters gleamed, untouched by any trace of ordinary life.
Lucian sat at the head of the long dining table, crisp in a tailored suit though it was barely 7 a.m. His laptop was open, his gaze glued to the screen. Even in silence, he exuded command.
Without looking up, he spoke. "You did well last night."
Her jaw clenched. That tone. As if she were an employee he was grading.
"You mean I didn't embarrass you."
Finally, his eyes lifted. Dark. Unreadable. "That too."
Anger bubbled in her chest. "Do you realize what that was for me? Standing there while people whispered, judged, mocked me? I was nothing but a trophy on your arm."
He closed the laptop with deliberate calm and leaned back, studying her. "And yet, they all believed, didn't they? That you were my wife."
"That's not the point, Lucian!" Her voice broke, louder than she intended. "You paraded me in front of your world like I was—was—"
"A possession?" His interruption was razor-sharp, his lips curving faintly.
Her chest tightened. "Yes. Exactly that."
Lucian rose slowly, every movement controlled, dangerous. He crossed the space between them until the counter pressed into her back.
He leaned down, his hand braced against the marble beside her. His eyes burned into hers, cold fire. "Then understand this, Ivy. In their eyes, you are. That's how this world works. Appearances are currency. And last night, you were priceless because you were mine."
Her breath caught.
His words weren't gentle. They weren't even kind. But the conviction in his voice made her heart stutter.
"No one disrespects what belongs to me," he added, softer this time.
Her skin prickled with conflicting emotions—rage, fear, something she refused to name. "I don't belong to anyone."
A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face—challenge, maybe even admiration—but it was gone as quickly as it came.
He straightened, his mask slipping back into place. "Eat. You'll need your strength."
---
She wanted to scream, to throw the coffee mug at him, to demand why he was doing this.
Instead, she sat at the table, hands trembling as she picked at the breakfast Clara had left.
Lucian returned to his laptop, typing with brisk precision. For a while, the only sound was the clink of silverware and the soft hum of the city outside the glass walls.
Finally, Ivy broke the silence. "Why me, Lucian? Really? Out of all the women you could've chosen—the ones who already fit your world—you chose me. Why?"
His fingers stilled on the keys.
The pause stretched. When he spoke, his voice was low, deliberate. "Because you're unpredictable. And I don't trust predictability."
Her brows furrowed. "That makes no sense."
He looked at her then, truly looked, as though peeling away her defenses. "The women in my world… they're too eager. Too polished. They want the name, the wealth, the power. You don't."
She gave a bitter laugh. "You think that makes me better?"
"It makes you dangerous," he said simply.
Her breath hitched.
Before she could respond, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, his expression darkening. "I have a meeting."
He gathered his jacket and briefcase, but before leaving, he paused at the door, his gaze cutting back to her.
"Remember this, Ivy. You signed a contract. For one year, you are mine to protect, mine to display, mine to control. Fight me if you want, but don't mistake survival for freedom."
The door shut behind him with a click, leaving her trembling in the silence.
---
For a long moment, Ivy sat frozen, her chest tight with unshed tears.
He was right about one thing—she had signed. She had chosen survival.
But she hadn't given up her freedom. Not entirely.
Her fists clenched. If Lucian thought she was going to be his silent possession, he was wrong.
She would find cracks in his armor, in this cold fortress he called a marriage. And maybe—just maybe—she'd find a way to turn this contract to her own advantage.
For herself. For her family.
---
In the back of his sleek black car, Lucian stared out at the skyline, jaw tight.
His assistant spoke from the front seat. "The press is buzzing about your wife. They're curious. Suspicious."
"Let them buzz," Lucian said curtly. "They'll learn quickly she's untouchable."
But his gaze hardened, his thoughts elsewhere.
He hadn't lied to Ivy. She was unpredictable. And unpredictability… kept him alive.
Still, something about her—those defiant eyes, that trembling voice that refused to break—was more dangerous than he anticipated.
For the first time in years, Lucian Cross felt something he despised.
Uncertainty.
Back in the penthouse, Ivy stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, the city sprawling beneath her like a kingdom she didn't belong to.
Her reflection stared back—fragile, yet fiercer than she'd ever seen herself.
She whispered into the silence, a vow only she could hear.
"This might be your world, Lucian Cross. But I won't drown in it."
And she didn't know that, at that very moment, Lucian was making a vow of his own.
That he would never let her go.