"I'll be careful," I say quietly. "I promise."
Something in his expression eases. Just slightly.
"Good." He releases my wrist. "Then let's go inside. Her things are everywhere—photos, artwork, that god-awful stuffed unicorn she's had since she was three. This is her space. We're just... living in it."
We run through the last of the rain.
Inside, I freeze.
Because this isn't what I expected at all.
Hardwood floors covered in bright rugs. Crayon drawings taped to the fridge—stick figures labeled "Papa" and "me" and one that might be a dragon. School photos in mismatched frames. A puzzle half-finished on the coffee table. Books scattered like someone actually reads them.
And underneath the warmth—I see it now. The reinforced frames on the windows. The too-solid front door with its hidden deadbolts. The small camera dome in the corner of the ceiling, painted to match the plaster.
Steel bones wrapped in suburban prettiness.
Just like the man who built it.
"It's nice," I manage. Understatement of the century.
"She needs soft edges." His slate eyes pin me in place. "A place that doesn't remind her who I used to be. What I'm capable of."
Nothing like my penthouse—all glass and marble and designer emptiness. This is a home. The kind where people exist instead of just staying.
"Quick tour," he says, shaking rain from his hair. Water droplets catch in the silver. Track down his neck. Disappear under his collar in a way that makes my brain temporarily malfunction.
Focus, Isabelle.
"Kitchen's through there. Living room, you're standing in it. Bathroom's down the hall. Upstairs—Mila's room, my office, and the bedroom."
"Where's my room?"
He stops. Turns. Rain still glistening on his shoulders.
The space between us goes taut.
"You're my wife." Slow. Deliberate. "My bed."
My legs go weak.
"What?"
"Courts check living arrangements. Social workers do home visits. Elena's lawyers will look for any excuse to claim this marriage is a sham." His arms cross. Shoulders strain against wet fabric. "If you're in a guest room, if there's any sign we're not actually together, our entire story falls apart."
Sharing a bed. With Sergei. Every night.
The man I fucked against my windows less than a week ago. The man whose hands I can still feel, whose mouth I can still taste, whose?—
"Mila's not here until Sunday," I hear myself say. "No one's checking tonight."
"No. But you need to be comfortable with this before she gets back. Before she sees us together and notices something's off." He moves closer. Each step calculated. Predatory. "Kids see everything, Isabelle. If you flinch when I touch you, if we're awkward around each other, she'll know something's wrong. And she'll tell her mother."
He's right. I hate that he's right.
"This is business," I say, though my voice comes out breathless.
"Is it?" He’s close enough now that I have to tilt my head back. Close enough that I can see the darker flecks in those grey eyes. "Because business arrangements don't usually end with both parties naked thirty-eight floors above Manhattan."
