I turned just in time to see him walk in, dressed in a charcoal T-shirt and dark slacks, barefoot and looking way too composed for someone I'd legally married this morning.
We stared at each other for a second, the silence stretching awkwardly between us.
"I wasn't sure if we had a meal plan," I said finally, trying to sound casual, like this wasn't the strangest, most surreal dinner I'd ever attempted to find.
He raised an eyebrow, then glanced at the fridge I was holding open.
"I usually have my assistant stock groceries weekly," he said. "Or I order in. There's a tablet on the counter with everything you need: restaurant links, delivery apps, even a grocery list."
"Right," I murmured. "So… fend for ourselves?" I asked because I know I could actually make his meals with mine; it wouldn't cost me anything.
"Unless you want a chef," he said, walking past me to grab a bottle of water. "That can be arranged too."
I almost laughed. A chef. In a marriage that wasn't real. The absurdity of it all threatened to crack through my calm, but I kept it in.
"No, thanks. I'm fine with simple things," I said, already reaching for eggs and bread. "I just didn't want to cross some invisible line."
He paused, water in hand, and for the first time that day, looked at me, really looked.
"There are no invisible lines in the kitchen, Carrie," he said quietly. "Just don't expect me to share the stove."
I cracked a smile. "Deal."
And with that, I turned back to the counter and began making the simplest thing I could think of: toast and scrambled eggs. Because tonight, all I needed was something warm in my stomach. And a little peace in my head.
I glanced toward the kitchen, where he was still drinking his water close to the sink like he had all the time in the world. For a moment, I considered making conversation, maybe about the weather, maybe something stupid just to fill the silence, but nothing came to mind. It wasn't that kind of comfort between us yet. Maybe it never would be.
Then I remembered my brother.
Clearing my throat softly, I said, "How do I get the details about the hospital? I just want to stay informed about Peter's surgery."
He didn't turn around immediately. I saw his back stiffen slightly before he spoke.
"The surgery is scheduled for two days from now. I'll have my assistant forward you the hospital's name, the doctor's contact, and every other relevant detail by morning," he replied, his tone cool but efficient. "Your driver also resumes work tomorrow. He'll take you anywhere you need to go."
That caught me off guard.
"My driver?" I repeated, blinking. "No, thank you, but I'm fine. I don't need a driver or a car or… anything that wasn't part of the agreement."
He finally turned to face me, returning the remaining water in the bottle back to the fridge. His eyes met mine, expression unreadable at first, then it shifted, just slightly, to something between disbelief and mild irritation, like he was dealing with a defiant child.
"You don't own a car, Carrie," he said, his voice level but firm. "There is no version of this arrangement where my wife is jumping on buses or taking the train. Even if no one knows who you are yet, even if you are yet to use my last name, I still wouldn't accept that."
I opened my mouth to argue again but shut it just as quickly. There was no point. He wasn't offering; it was already decided, which somehow frustrates me. Then the way he said "wife" made something in me tighten. I didn't like it, how easily the word rolled off his tongue, as if it actually meant something. As if there were sentiment behind it. There wasn't. Not between us. This wasn't a love story. It was a deal sealed with ink and signatures, not emotions.
"Like you've already said," I snapped, folding my arms, "no one even knows me as your wife yet. So, no thanks. I'll manage."
His gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, eyes calm but unreadable. Then he responded with that infuriating coolness of his.
"No to that, too. You need a car, Carrie. And if you insist on rejecting the driver, then fine, I'll compromise. But only that. If you know how to drive, then you can take the car and drive yourself. That's the only deal I'm making."
He didn't wait for a response. He simply turned and walked out of the kitchen like the conversation was over, like he always had to have the final word.
I stared at the space he left behind, jaw clenched, my fingers digging into my arms. That word again. Wife.
Why did it bother me so much? Maybe because when he said it, it felt like he was reminding me of something I didn't want to be. Or maybe because he said it with that same cold authority he used to make business decisions, like I was part of his portfolio.
I sighed, but not in surrender. More like a promise to myself.
Next time we argue, I'm not letting him have the last word.
Not again.
After he left the kitchen, the silence lingered like a fog. I stared at the empty doorway for a moment, then exhaled slowly and turned back to my plate. The food was good, too good to ignore just because I was irritated.
I finished the rest of my meal in silence, chewing slowly, trying to keep my mind from spiraling into places I didn't want it to go. Every bite was just fuel to get through the rest of the day. That's all this was now, getting through.
When I was done, I rinsed my plate and placed it in the dishwasher. The kitchen felt too big, too clean, too impersonal, like everything else about this penthouse.
I didn't want to think anymore.
So I walked back to my floor, passed through the soft-lit hallway, and into my room, shutting the door gently behind me. The bed looked more inviting than it had earlier, now that my stomach wasn't twisting with nerves or hunger.
I crawled under the covers, pulled the blanket over myself, and let my eyes drift shut.
Maybe sleep would give me the peace this place didn't.
Maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will be easier.