I stop breathing for a second.
Fake dating. He wants to fake an engagement.
"You want to parade me around your family," I say, my brain struggling to catch up with the sheer audacity of the plan. "Simon will lose his mind. He hates losing things, even things he threw away."
"Exactly." A dark, dangerous smirk touches the corner of Malcolm’s mouth. "He will unravel. He will make mistakes. And when he does, I will dismantle his real estate portfolio piece by piece."
It’s brilliant. It’s petty, vicious, and absolutely brilliant.
But I am not an idiot. I spent four years dealing with contractors and corporate landlords. I know how to read the fine print.
I flip to page four. Section 4, Paragraph 2.
Residential Requirement.
I read the paragraph twice. A hot flush of anger creeps up my neck. I drop the contract onto the coffee table and glare at him.
"Absolutely not," I say, my voice hard.
Malcolm doesn't blink. "Is there a problem with the terms?"
"You want me to move into your penthouse?" I point at the paper. "Today? Are you out of your mind? I’m not living with you."
"We are announcing an engagement, Audrey. The media will be watching. My father will be watching. If we maintain separate residences, the narrative falls apart in forty-eight hours."
"I don't know you!" I throw my hands up, the frustration finally breaking through my defensive sarcasm. "You tracked my car like a serial killer, you broke into my friend's apartment—"
"I knocked," he interrupts calmly.
"—and now you expect me to pack my bags and move into the lair of the Devil of Chicago? No. Dealbreaker. I'll fake the smiles. I'll wear the ring. But I need my own space."
Malcolm goes completely still.
The relaxed, indifferent posture vanishes. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The physical distance between us shrinks, and I am sharply aware of how large he is. How much power is coiled beneath the expensive fabric of his suit.
"Let me explain how this works," he says, his voice so quiet it’s almost a whisper. "My father, Preston Vance, is not a fool. He employs a team of private investigators to vet anyone who enters our family circle. If you live in this apartment, he will find a way to intimidate you. He will send people to follow you. He will make your life a living hell until you break."
He tilts his head, his dark eyes stripping away my defenses layer by layer.
"But if you are in my penthouse," he continues, "you are behind my security doors. You are under my protection. No one in myfamily will dare to approach you without my permission. Not my father. And certainly not Simon."
I bite the inside of my cheek. The metallic taste of fear and adrenaline coats my tongue.
He’s right. I know he’s right. Simon locked me out of my office using a loophole in a contract I didn't read carefully enough. The Vance family plays dirty, and I don't have the armor to survive them on my own.
But moving in with Malcolm Vance feels like trading a cage for a tighter, more dangerous one.
"I have conditions," I say stubbornly, lifting my chin.
Malcolm’s eyes gleam with something that looks dangerously like amusement. "Name them."
I grab a cheap plastic pen from the coffee table. "First. No non-compete clause. If I want to take on freelance design clients while we do this, you don't own my professional time." I cross out a line on page six with a sharp scratch of ink.
He nods slowly. "Acceptable."
"Second." I flip back to the residential clause. "I get my own bedroom. A lock on the door. And if you ever try to use this fake relationship to leverage me into... anything physical, I walk away, and I keep the money."
Malcolm’s gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second. It’s so fast I almost miss it, but my stomach tightens involuntarily.
