“Excuse me?”
He sets down his pen. “You’re distracted. You have been all day. If something is bothering you, I’d rather you tell me than let it affect your work.”
The audacity of this man. “Maybe what’s bothering me is being forced into a marriage I didn’t want and having to sit in an office with my so-called husband pretending everything is normal.”
“Fair point.” He doesn’t seem offended. “But I don’t think that’s it. You’ve been handling that situation remarkably well.”
“Have I?”
“You have. You’re angry, but you’re professional. You do your job, keep your head down, and don’t let your personal feelings interfere with your performance.” He tilts his head. “So what’s different today?”
I don’t have an answer. Or rather, I have one, but I’d rather die than say it out loud.
The truth is, I’m distracted because of him. Because the more time I spend with him, the harder it becomes to maintainmy fury. Because I’m starting to see him as a person instead of a villain.
And that terrifies me.
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Just tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.”
It’s not entirely a lie. The guest bed is comfortable enough, but my brain refuses to shut off. I lie awake for hours replaying conversations, analyzing every interaction, and trying to figure out what game he’s playing.
Menlow nods. “I can have a different mattress delivered if the current one isn’t working.”
“The mattress is fine.”
“Then what’s keeping you up?”
You, I think. This whole insane situation. The fact that I’m married to a stranger who’s somehow both my captor and my protector.
“Nothing.” I turn back to my screen. “Can we please just get back to work?”
He studies me a moment longer, then returns to his laptop. “As you wish.”
The rest of the day passes in silence. I manage to focus by refusing to look in his direction. By five-thirty, I’ve cleared my inbox and reviewed every file on my desk.
“I’m heading out.” I gather my things.
“I’ll be another hour. Marcus will drive you home.”
Marcus is one of the bodyguards. He’s quiet, has kind eyes, and hands the size of dinner plates. I’ve gotten used to his presence over the past week, even if needing a bodyguard still feels surreal.
The drive to the penthouse takes twenty minutes. I spend it staring out the window, watching the city roll past. When we arrive, Marcus walks me to the private elevator and waits until the doors close.
The penthouse is quiet and empty. Menlow won’t be back for at least an hour.
I should enjoy this. I could take a long bath, read a book, and decompress.
Instead, I pace. I wander from room to room, unable to settle. The guest bedroom feels too small. The living room feels too big. Everything about this place reminds me that I don’t belong here.
I find myself in the kitchen, opening cabinets I’ve never explored. The pantry is stocked with things I’ve never heard of. Imported crackers. Fancy oils. A collection of teas that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget used to be.
My monthly grocery budget. Past tense. Because I don’t have a budget anymore. I don’t have bills or rent or any of the normal concerns that used to define my life.
I close the cabinet and move to the windows instead. The sun is sinking below the skyline, painting the clouds in shades of orange and pink. It really is a beautiful view.
I hate that I’m starting to appreciate it.
The elevator doors open behind me.
