Ivy didn't sleep.
She lay in the massive bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the unfamiliar quiet of Alexander Crowe's penthouse. The silence here wasn't comforting. It was controlled—engineered to keep chaos out and obedience in.
Every sound felt amplified. The distant hum of the city below. The muted whirr of hidden ventilation. Even her own breathing felt too loud, too human for a place this immaculate.
She rolled onto her side, clutching the edge of the silk duvet.
Twelve months, she reminded herself.
Twelve months and you're free.
But even the thought rang hollow.
She had signed away more than time.
Morning came without warning.
Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the room gold. Ivy blinked awake, disoriented, momentarily forgetting where she was. Then the size of the bed, the unfamiliar scent of expensive fabric, and the faint ache in her chest brought everything crashing back.
She was married.
Not to a man who loved her.
But to a contract that owned her.
A soft knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts.
"Yes?" she called.
Elena entered with a tablet in hand, her expression professional but not unkind. "Good morning, Mrs. Crowe. Mr. Crowe asked that you join him for breakfast."
Ivy checked the clock.
7:00 a.m.
"Is that… mandatory?" she asked carefully.
Elena hesitated for half a second—long enough to be honest. "Highly recommended."
Ivy sighed and pushed herself out of bed.
Alexander was already seated at the long dining table when she arrived. He was dressed in a charcoal suit, sleeves rolled back slightly, tie perfectly straight. A tablet rested beside his plate, data scrolling across the screen as he ate with precise efficiency.
He glanced up when she entered.
"You're late," he said.
Ivy stopped short. "It's seven."
"Yes. I start at six."
She slid into the chair opposite him. "I wasn't aware I was expected to match your schedule."
"You're expected to adapt," he replied calmly.
Ivy clenched her jaw. "This isn't a job."
"No," Alexander said, finally setting the tablet aside. "It's a role. One with expectations."
She laughed softly, humorless. "Of course it is."
He studied her for a moment, then gestured toward the spread of food laid out before her. "Eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"You are," he countered. "Stress suppresses appetite. You'll need energy."
The casual certainty in his voice irritated her more than outright cruelty would have.
"I can take care of myself," she said sharply.
Alexander's gaze hardened slightly. "You couldn't," he replied. "That's why we're here."
The words struck deeper than she expected.
Ivy pushed her chair back. "You don't get to throw my desperation in my face."
"I get to acknowledge reality," he said evenly. "Emotions won't change it."
"No," she shot back. "But they remind us we're human."
Something shifted in his expression then—so subtle she almost missed it. A tightening around his eyes. A brief flicker of something unreadable.
He stood. "You have a schedule today. Elena will explain."
"And if I refuse?" Ivy asked.
Alexander stepped closer, placing both hands on the table and leaning forward just enough to invade her space.
"Then you embarrass me," he said quietly. "And I don't tolerate that."
Her pulse jumped, but she held his gaze. "Threats already?"
"A reminder," he corrected. "We both benefit if you learn the rules."
She swallowed. "Then maybe you should tell me what they are."
Alexander straightened slowly.
"Rule one," he said. "You don't speak about the contract in public."
"Rule two: you don't contradict me in front of others."
"Rule three: you don't leave without informing my security."
Ivy stared at him. "I'm your wife, not your prisoner."
He looked at her steadily. "The difference is perception."
The day blurred into something surreal.
Styling sessions. Media coaching. Etiquette lessons she never asked for. Ivy sat through it all, her patience thinning with every polite smile she was instructed to perfect.
By afternoon, exhaustion weighed heavily on her shoulders.
When Alexander finally returned to the penthouse that evening, Ivy was standing by the window, staring out at the city below. It looked smaller from up here. Manageable. Almost insignificant.
"Running already?" he asked.
She turned slowly. "Just reminding myself the world still exists."
He loosened his tie. "You handled today better than expected."
"That wasn't a compliment, was it?"
"No."
She laughed softly. "Figures."
Silence stretched between them, thicker this time. Less hostile. More charged.
"Why are you like this?" Ivy asked suddenly.
Alexander paused. "Like what?"
"Cold. Distant. So afraid of anything real that you hide behind contracts and control."
His eyes darkened. "You don't know me."
"I know you don't trust people," she said. "And that scares you."
"Enough," he said sharply.
Ivy flinched—but didn't back down. "You can own the contract, Alexander. You can own the image. But you don't own me."
The words hung between them, daring him to deny it.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he stepped closer.
Close enough that Ivy could feel his presence—solid, unyielding, dangerous.
"You're wrong," he said quietly. "I don't want to own you."
Her breath caught.
"I want you to stop fighting something you already agreed to."
Her heart pounded. "And if I can't?"
His gaze dropped briefly—to her lips—before returning to her eyes.
"Then this year will be very difficult for both of us."
Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down her spine.
That night, alone in her room again, Ivy pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady her racing heart.
She had challenged Alexander Crowe.
And instead of pushing her away—
She had seen a crack.
And cracks, she knew, were dangerous.
Because once you noticed them, you couldn't stop trying to break the wall down.
The next morning, Ivy woke later than usual.
The room was quiet, sunlight muted by heavy curtains. For a moment, she allowed herself to forget where she was. Then reality settled back into her bones, heavy and unavoidable.
A soft chime sounded from the intercom near her bed.
"Elena?" Ivy guessed.
"Yes, Mrs. Crowe," Elena's voice replied. "Mr. Crowe has already left for the office. He asked me to inform you that you're free until noon."
Free.
The word felt almost mocking.
"Thank you," Ivy said, sitting up.
She showered slowly, letting the hot water soothe the tension in her shoulders. As she dressed, she avoided looking at the clothes laid out for her—clothes chosen without her input, tailored to a life she hadn't asked for.
Instead, she pulled on a simple blouse and trousers from the back of the closet. Still expensive. Still not hers. But less suffocating.
By late morning, she found herself wandering into the private library.
It was vast. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, filled with books that looked untouched. Business strategy. Economics. Psychology. Control theory.
Of course.
She ran her fingers along the spines, then paused.
A novel.
Worn. Creased. Clearly read more than once.
That surprised her.
She pulled it free and sank into one of the leather chairs by the window. The story was old-fashioned, emotional, filled with longing and sacrifice.
This doesn't fit him at all, she thought.
"Interesting choice."
Ivy nearly jumped out of her skin.
She spun around to find Alexander standing in the doorway, jacket slung over one shoulder, his expression unreadable.
"You're back early," she said, forcing calm into her voice.
"Meeting ended ahead of schedule," he replied, his gaze flicking briefly to the book in her hands.
"I didn't think you read fiction," Ivy said before she could stop herself.
One corner of his mouth twitched—barely. "I don't. Usually."
"Then why keep it?"
Alexander stepped into the room, closing the distance between them slowly. "Because it reminds me of something I don't want to forget."
Her chest tightened. "What?"
"That emotions are expensive," he said. "And dangerous."
Ivy stood, holding the book tighter. "Yet you kept this one."
"Yes," he agreed. "And I locked it away."
She met his gaze. "You can't control everything forever."
"No," he said quietly. "Just the things that matter."
The words settled between them, heavy with meaning.
Later that afternoon, Ivy insisted on leaving the penthouse.
"I need air," she said firmly when security objected.
Alexander studied her for a long moment before nodding once. "Thirty minutes. Two guards. No deviation."
She bristled. "I'm not a child."
"No," he said. "You're a liability."
That stung.
The car ride was tense. Ivy stared out the window, watching normal life pass by—people walking freely, laughing, arguing, living without contracts binding their every move.
When the car stopped at a private garden near the river, Ivy stepped out and inhaled deeply. The air felt different here. Lighter.
For the first time since signing the contract, her chest loosened.
She walked slowly, ignoring the guards' presence as best she could. The sound of water soothed her, grounding her in something real.
"You look less like you're about to bolt," Alexander remarked, joining her.
"I thought you didn't have time for walks," she said.
"I make time when necessary."
She glanced at him. "Am I… necessary now?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"Yes," he said finally.
The honesty surprised her more than any lie would have.
They walked in silence for a while.
"I won't pretend this arrangement doesn't benefit me," Ivy said eventually. "But don't mistake my cooperation for submission."
Alexander stopped, turning to face her fully. "And don't mistake my restraint for weakness."
The tension between them sharpened, crackling like a live wire.
"You're not afraid of me," he observed.
"No," Ivy replied. "I'm afraid of what this will turn me into if I'm not careful."
Something in his expression softened—just a fraction.
"Then don't lose yourself," he said. "I won't respect you if you do."
Her breath caught.
That was the closest thing to permission she had been given since this nightmare began.
That night, Ivy stood at her bedroom window again, watching the city lights pulse like a living thing. But this time, her thoughts were different.
Alexander Crowe was not just a man hiding behind contracts.
He was a man at war with himself.
And Ivy was standing directly in the line of fire.
She didn't know whether that made her powerful—
Or incredibly foolish.
But one thing was certain now, as she slipped into bed with her heart pounding for reasons she refused to name:
The walls between them were cracking.
And once they broke, neither of them would walk away unchanged.