Ivie knew the moment she stepped into Femi da Silva's house that her life had crossed a line it could never uncross.
The mansion was quiet—too quiet. Polished marble floors reflected soft golden lights, and the air smelled faintly of leather and something sharp and expensive. It didn't feel like a home. It felt like a fortress.
"This way," Femi said, his voice echoing slightly as he led her down a long corridor.
She followed, suitcase rolling behind her, heart pounding. Living with him had been part of the contract—logistics, he'd called it. Efficient. Practical.
But nothing about standing this close to him felt practical.
"You'll have your own wing," he continued. "No one enters without permission."
"Mine or yours?" Ivie asked.
A corner of his mouth lifted. "Yours."
That surprised her.
He stopped in front of a wide door and opened it. The room beyond was enormous—soft cream walls, tall windows overlooking the city, a bed large enough to swallow her whole.
"This is temporary," she reminded him, more for herself than for him.
"Everything is," he replied quietly.
The first week passed in careful distance.
They ate separately. Spoke only when necessary. Existed in the same space like two opposing forces waiting for the other to blink.
But tension has a way of seeping into cracks.
It happened one evening when Ivie returned from a prenatal appointment. She slipped off her shoes at the door, sighing softly as relief rushed through her feet.
She didn't realize Femi was watching.
"You should sit," he said from across the room.
She stiffened. "I'm fine."
"You're standing wrong," he said calmly. "Your balance is off."
She frowned. "Are you suddenly an expert?"
"No," he said, eyes unreadable. "I'm observant."
She sat anyway, irritation buzzing under her skin. As she leaned back, she caught him glancing—briefly, controlled—toward her feet resting against the cool marble.
The look was quick. Almost nothing.
Almost.
Something flickered between them.
She shifted, suddenly self-conscious. "The doctor says everything is normal."
"Good," he said, voice low. "I want no complications."
Of course you do, she thought bitterly.
Yet later that night, she noticed a bottle of foot cream placed discreetly beside her bed. No note. No explanation.
Her chest tightened.
Jealousy Has Teeth
The next crack came unexpectedly.
One afternoon, Ivie descended the stairs to laughter—female laughter. Soft, practiced, familiar. Two women sat in the living room beside Femi, legs crossed, eyes glittering with interest.
Something sharp twisted in Ivie's chest.
She froze.
Femi noticed immediately.
"Ivie," he said coolly. "This is business."
Business.
She nodded stiffly and turned away, heart pounding painfully. She reminded herself of the contract. Of her place.
Still, later that night, she barely slept.
And when she passed Femi in the hallway the next morning, she didn't look at him.
"Good," he murmured suddenly.
She stopped. "What?"
"Jealousy doesn't suit you," he said, voice quiet but edged. "But it tells me something."
Her pulse spiked. "You don't get to analyze me."
"No," he agreed. "But I do notice."
Silence stretched.
"You bring women into the same house as me," she said tightly, "and expect nothing?"
"I expect professionalism," he replied.
Her laugh was sharp. "Then stop looking at me like I belong to you."
His gaze darkened.
"I don't look at what I don't intend to protect," he said.
The words hit harder than she expected.
The storm broke a few nights later.
A power outage plunged the mansion into darkness. Ivie fumbled her way down the corridor, heart racing, when a hand closed gently around her wrist.
"It's me," Femi said softly.
She exhaled shakily. "You scared me."
"I didn't mean to," he said.
They stood too close. The dark erased boundaries, stripped away control. She could feel his warmth, his breath, the tension vibrating between them.
"This isn't part of the contract," she whispered.
"No," he agreed. "It isn't."
His hand lingered a second too long before he released her.
But when the lights flickered back on, something had already shifted.
Because hate was no longer enough.
And desire—quiet, dangerous, growing—had begun to rewrite the rules neither of them had planned to break.