Mara stood frozen in the hallway, the velvet ring box still open in her palm.
The laugh came again: low, throaty, unmistakably pleased.
Then Rowan's voice, muffled but unmistakable: "Behave."
Her stomach twisted.
She told herself it was none of her business.
She told herself she didn't care.
She told herself a lot of lies in the space of three heartbeats.
But her feet moved anyway.
She walked barefoot across the cold marble, past the kitchen, past the living room with its ridiculous view, until she stood outside the double doors to the west wing.
They were ajar, just wide enough for sound to spill out.
Another laugh.
The rustle of fabric.
A soft, feminine gasp.
Mara's hand lifted before her brain caught up.
She pushed the door open an inch.
And saw them.
Rowan was shirtless, back to her, standing between the legs of a brunette draped across his bed.
The woman wore nothing but one of his white dress shirts, unbuttoned, hanging off her shoulders like a trophy.
Her legs were wrapped loosely around his hips, manicured fingers tracing the lines of his back.
Rowan's head was bent to her neck, lips moving against her skin.
One of his hands was braced beside her head; the other was out of sight beneath the shirt, moving slow, deliberate.
They weren't having sex.
But they were seconds away from it.
Mara's breath caught in her throat.
Rowan stiffened, as if he felt her stare.
He lifted his head, turned, and their eyes locked across the dim room.
For one endless second, nobody moved.
Then the woman followed his gaze, saw Mara, and smiled the same lazy, satisfied smile Camille had worn two nights ago.
"Well, hello," she purred. "Are you the new maid?"
Rowan didn't speak.
He just watched Mara with unreadable eyes.
Something inside Mara snapped.
She stepped fully into the doorway, spine straight.
"Actually," she said, voice ice-cold, "I'm the fiancée."
The woman's smile faltered.
Rowan's eyebrows rose a fraction, the only sign he was surprised.
The woman recovered first. "You're joking."
Mara lifted her left hand.
The 6.8-carat diamond caught the light like a warning shot.
The woman looked at Rowan. "You're engaged?"
Rowan finally moved.
He stepped away from the bed, buttoning his trousers with infuriating calm.
"Victoria," he said, tone flat, "leave."
Victoria's mouth opened, closed.
"But we—"
"Now."
She stared at him, then at Mara, then back at him.
Humiliation flashed across her perfect face.
She snatched her dress from the floor, clutched it to her chest, and stormed past Mara without another word, heels clicking angrily down the hall.
The front door slammed thirty seconds later.
Silence fell.
Rowan leaned against the bedpost, arms crossed, watching Mara like she was a bomb he hadn't decided whether to defuse or detonate.
"Jealous?" he asked quietly.
Mara laughed, sharp and humourless. "Please. I just don't like walking into live porn before breakfast."
His mouth curved, not quite a smile. "Clause 9. You don't enter my bedroom. Ever."
"You left the door open."
"I didn't expect you to come looking."
"I wasn't looking," she lied. "I was putting the ring on like a good little fiancée."
His gaze dropped to her hand, lingered on the diamond now glittering on her finger.
Something dark and unreadable moved behind his eyes.
"You're wearing it."
"You paid for it."
He pushed off the bedpost, walked toward her slowly.
Stopped when they were a foot apart.
Up close he smelled like sleep-warm skin and whatever expensive cologne Victoria had been rubbing herself against.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"I'm furious."
"Good. Use it."
He reached past her, closed the bedroom doors at her back, sealing them inside his wing.
Then he walked to the bar cart, poured two fingers of something amber, and held it out.
"Drink."
"I don't—"
"Drink."
She took the glass. Downed it in one burning swallow.
It tasted like smoke and money.
Rowan watched her throat work, eyes hooded.
"Better?"
"No."
He took the empty glass from her fingers, set it aside.
"Rule change," he said. "While you live here, my bed is off-limits to everyone else. Consider it professional courtesy."
Mara blinked. "You're banning your girlfriends for the sake of the lie?"
"I'm banning complications. Victoria talks. I don't need rumours before we've even had dinner with my mother."
She searched his face for mockery and found none.
"So what, I'm supposed to be grateful?"
"You're supposed to be smart."
He stepped closer, crowding her against the door.
"You hate me. I know. But you need this arrangement more than I do. So here's how tonight goes. We leave at seven. You wear the navy dress in your closet. You smile at my mother. You let me touch your back, your hand, your waist. You pretend you can stand me for three hours. Then we come home and you can hate me again in peace."
His voice dropped.
"And if you ever walk in on me with another woman again, close the door and walk away. Or don't. But don't stand there looking like I just killed your dog. It's distracting."
Mara's pulse thundered in her ears.
"I wasn't—"
"You were."
He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
"And you liked it."
She shoved at his chest, hard.
He didn't budge.
"Get away from me."
He stepped back instantly, hands raised in mock surrender.
"Seven o'clock, Mara. Don't be late."
He turned and walked into his bathroom.
The shower started a second later.
Mara stood there for a long moment, chest heaving.
Then she stormed out, slammed her own bedroom door, and spent the next four hours trying not to replay the image of his hand under Victoria's shirt.
At 6:58 p.m. she walked into the living room wearing the navy dress, simple, backless, slit to mid-thigh, exactly the kind of dress she could never afford.
Rowan was at the bar cart again, this time in a black tuxedo that should have been illegal.
He turned.
His gaze travelled over her slowly, deliberately, like he was memorising every inch.
"You clean up well," he said.
"You own my wardrobe now. Congratulations."
He smiled, small and sharp.
"Car's waiting."
The drive to his mother's estate in Westchester was silent.
When they arrived, the mansion was lit up like Christmas, valets, string quartet, the whole performance.
Rowan helped her out of the car, fingers brushing the bare skin of her lower back.
"Showtime," he murmured.
Inside, his mother, Eleanor Vale, beautiful, frail, oxygen tubes discreetly tucked, took one look at Mara and burst into tears.
"Oh, Rowan, she's lovely."
Mara smiled on cue.
Dinner was four courses of torture: Eleanor asking about their "love story," Rowan lying smoothly about late nights at the office turning into something more, his hand never leaving Mara's knee under the table.
By dessert Eleanor was planning a spring wedding.
On the ride home Mara stared out the window, knuckles white.
Rowan finally spoke.
"You did well."
"I deserve an Oscar."
"You deserve a drink."
Back at the penthouse he poured her whiskey without asking.
She took it.
They stood at the kitchen island, tension crackling.
Rowan set his glass down.
"One more thing."
He reached into his pocket and produced a small black card.
Tomorrow night. Black-tie gala. You'll be on my arm. Wear the red dress.
Mara stared at the invitation.
The Annual Vale Foundation Gala
Honouring Eleanor Vale's lifetime achievement
She looked up.
"Your mother will be there?"
"She insisted."
Mara exhaled.
"Fine."
Rowan's eyes darkened.
"Good girl."
He started to walk away, then paused.
"Mara."
She turned.
He was closer than she expected.
"Tonight, when my mother asked how I proposed… you blushed."
Her cheeks heated again now.
"I was acting."
"Were you?"
He stepped forward, backing her slowly against the counter.
"Tell me to stop," he said quietly.
Mara's breath hitched.
He waited.
She didn't speak.
Rowan's hand lifted, thumb brushing her lower lip, feather-light.
Then his phone buzzed.
He cursed under his breath, stepped back, and answered in clipped Japanese.
When he hung up his face was stone.
"Emergency in Tokyo. I leave in an hour."
He looked at her for a long moment.
"Lock the doors. Don't wait up."
He disappeared into his wing.
Mara stood alone in the kitchen, heart racing, lips tingling where he'd touched them.
She went to bed telling herself it was nothing.
At 3:17 a.m. she woke to the sound of the front door opening.
Footsteps.
Rowan's low voice on a call, angry, rapid.
Then silence.
Then her bedroom door opened.
Moonlight sliced across the floor.
Rowan stood in the doorway, still in his tuxedo, hair dishevelled, eyes burning.
He didn't move.
Just looked at her in the dark.
Mara's heart stopped.
He spoke, voice rough from hours of shouting across time zones.
"I changed my mind about separate bedrooms."
And he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft, final click.