Chapter 3
Chapter 3: The Rules of Being His Wife
The silence of the penthouse was a living thing. It pressed against Dream's eardrums in the wake of Tom's departure. Mrs. Blackthorn. The name echoed. She was alone in a fortress of glass and steel, the signed contract a phantom weight in her hands.
She didn't sleep. She paced, her mind a riot of strategy and despair. By dawn, she had catalogued every exit, every potential weapon (a heavy modernist sculpture, a fire extinguisher), and the single, devastating fact: she had traded one prison for another, but this one came with the keys to save her family.
At precisely 7:00 AM, a woman in a severe charcoal suit arrived. "I am Ms. Vance, Mr. Blackthorn's household manager. Your schedule."
The schedule was a military operation. Breakfast (to be taken in the morning room). A 10:00 AM appointment with a stylist and image consultant. A 1:00 PM lunch with Eleanor Blackthorn. A 3:00 PM review of "social protocols." Dream's life was no longer her own.
The stylist, a flamboyant man named Pierre, clucked over her. "A diamond in the rough, chérie! We will sand off the… unfortunate associations." He dressed her in a cream silk blouse and tailored trousers that cost more than her former rent. "Armor," he said, pinning her hair into a sleek chignon. "You are a queen now. Look like one. Even if you feel like a prisoner."
The lunch was its own kind of trial. Eleanor Blackthorn met her at a sun-drenched patio restaurant. She was elegance personified, with Tom's sharp grey eyes, but they held a warmth his lacked.
"My grandson is a great many things, my dear," Eleanor said, sipping herbal tea. "A visionary. A force of nature. And, on matters of the past, a stubborn fool."
Dream's guard went up. "He was clear about his… motivations."
"Revenge." Eleanor sighed. "It's a cold bedfellow. It leaves you empty, long after the fire has gone out." She reached across, patting Dream's hand. A simple, kind gesture that almost undid her. "You have light in you. I saw it last night, even through the fear. Don't let him extinguish it. And don't," she added, her gaze sharpening, "underestimate your power in this arrangement. A wife, even a contractual one, holds a unique key."
"What key?"
"The key to his solitude," Eleanor said cryptically. "Now, tell me about your mother. How is she responding to treatment?"
The genuine concern broke something inside Dream. For twenty minutes, they didn't speak of Tom or contracts. It was the first human connection she'd felt since her world collapsed.
It shattered at 3:00 PM. Back in the penthouse study, Tom was waiting, Ms. Vance beside him with a tablet.
"Sit," he said, not looking up from his laptop.
He proceeded to outline the social protocols. How to stand beside him. How to smile (not too wide, never vacant). How to deflect personal questions. Who to avoid (a list headed by Celeste Moreau and her father). The rules were exhaustive, dehumanizing.
"You will refer to me as 'Tom' in public, 'my husband' when appropriate. I will call you 'Dream.' Endearments are not required and, at this stage, would be non-credible."
"Understood," she said, her voice as cold as his.
He finally looked at her, his gaze scanning Pierre's work. A flicker of something—approval?—gone too fast to catch. "You'll do. The engagement announcement is tomorrow. A press conference."
"So soon?"
"The scandal around your family is fresh. My intervention must appear decisive, a rescue. It brands you as mine and begins the narrative correction." He stood, circling the desk to lean against it, too close. "There will be questions. You will say you are grateful for my support. That our connection was 'instantaneous and profound.'"
Dream almost laughed. "And if I can't deliver that lie convincingly?"
He leaned down, his voice a low threat. "Then your father loses the new attorney I just secured for his appeal. And your mother's experimental treatment, scheduled for next week, will be canceled. Your performance, Dream, is directly tied to their comfort. See it as motivation."
The cruelty was so calculated it stole her breath. This was the devil she'd married.
"Now," he said, straightening. "The final item. The physical parameters of our… merger."
Dream's heart hammered against her ribs. Clause 5.2. Spousal duties.
"You have your wing of the penthouse. I have mine. Those boundaries are absolute, unless accompanied by explicit, prior consent for a public display. My room is off-limits. Your room is your own." He said it like he was discussing a corporate firewall. "However, there will be occasions where proximity is unavoidable. Galas. Car rides. You will not flinch from my touch in those moments. You will learn to tolerate it."
"Tolerate," she repeated, the word ash in her mouth.
"Yes." His eyes held hers, challenging. "We will practice."
"Practice?"
"Now." He pushed off the desk and held out his hand. "Take it."
It was a test. She saw it in his face. Swallowing her pride, she placed her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, warm and shockingly strong. A jolt, unwanted and electric, shot up her arm.
"Look at me, not at our hands," he instructed, his thumb brushing once, deliberately, over her knuckle. "Your expression should be soft. Trusting. Not like you're being led to an execution."
She tried to school her features, to conjure some semblance of softness. He studied her face, his gaze impersonal, analytical.
"Better." He didn't let go. Instead, he stepped closer, his other hand coming up to her waist. She stiffened. "This is a common pose for photographs. You will lean into it, not away."
He applied gentle pressure, pulling her an inch closer. She was surrounded by the scent of him—sandalwood, cold air, and power. Her breath hitched.
"Breathe," he commanded softly, his mouth dangerously close to her ear. "You are supposed to want to be here."
"I don't," she whispered, the truth escaping.
"I know." His voice was oddly flat. He released her so abruptly she stumbled back a step. The distance between them felt charged, more intimate than the touch. "That's enough for today. Ms. Vance will show you to your rooms. Memorize the protocols. I expect perfection tomorrow."
He turned back to his laptop, dismissal absolute.
Dream fled to the wing assigned to her. It was a beautiful, empty suite. As she closed the door, she slid down to the floor, wrapping her arms around herself. She could still feel the phantom heat of his hand on her waist, the whisper of his breath.
This was the game. A war fought in touches and glances, in performances and withheld truths. She had to be better at it than him. She had to find his weakness.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Luna: Got a lead on the "Project Vengeance" file. It's buried deep. His security is insane. But I'm in. Meet me tomorrow after your dog and pony show?
Dream typed back, her fingers trembling with a new kind of adrenaline: Yes. I hav
e a key now. Not to his room. To his solitude.
She didn't fully understand Eleanor's words, but she clung to them. And as she thought of Tom's cold, solitary figure behind his desk, a plan began to form. Not just to survive him.
But to unravel him.