Chapter 5

The silence in the penthouse was different now. For four years, it had been a sterile, hollow quiet. But tonight, the air felt thick, vibrating with the presence of someone who didn't want to be here.

​I stood in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water I didn't plan on drinking. I listened to the sound of Ellie’s heels clicking across the hardwood in the foyer.

​"The bags are in the guest suite," I said, not turning around.

​The clicking stopped. I could feel her standing at the edge of the kitchen, her presence a low-frequency hum against my back.

​"The guest suite?" her voice was flat.

​"As per the contract, Ellie. Separate bedrooms," I replied. "I keep the primary suite. You have the east wing. It has its own terrace and a view of the park. I thought you’d appreciate the light for your sketches."

​I finally turned. She was still wearing the midnight blue dress from the press conference, but she had kicked off her heels. She looked smaller without them, standing there with her shoes dangling from one hand and her laptop bag gripped in the other.

​"You thought of the light," she repeated.

​"I remember how you used to complain about the shadows in your old apartment," I said.

​She flinched. It was a tiny movement, a quick dip of her chin, but I saw it. I saw everything when it came to her.

​"Habit," I added, my voice hardening. "Nothing more."

​"Habits are hard to break, Damien. I would have thought you’d replaced mine with something more efficient by now."

​She walked past me, heading toward the east wing. As she passed, the scent of her—that clean, floral soap—cut through the expensive cedar air of the penthouse.

​"Dinner will be delivered at eight," I called out after her.

​"I'm not hungry."

​"Eat anyway. You looked like you were going to faint during the interview with the Times."

​She didn't answer. A moment later, I heard the heavy thud of the guest suite door closing.

​I walked toward the east wing, my footsteps silent on the rugs. I stopped outside her door. I didn't knock. I just stood there, listening. I heard the rustle of clothes, the snap of a suitcase latch, and then a long, shaky exhale.

​Inside that room, sitting right on the nightstand where she couldn't miss it, was the leather-bound sketchbook she had left behind four years ago. The edges were worn, and the final page still held the charcoal portrait she had started of me but never finished. I had kept it in my safe for forty-eight months.

​Suddenly, the guest suite door swung open.

​I didn't have time to step back. Ellie stood in the doorway, the sketchbook gripped tightly in both hands. Her knuckles were white. Her eyes were wide, glittering with a mix of shock and sudden, raw vulnerability.

​"Why do you have this?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "I thought it was thrown away. I thought the cleaning staff cleared everything out when I left."

​"I kept it," I said, my voice dropping.

​"You kept it in a safe for four years, Damien?" She stepped closer, her chest heaving. "The final page... it's still there. The charcoal hasn't even smudged."

​"I didn't let anyone touch it."

​Ellie let out a breath that sounded like a sob, but she forced it down. She reached into the pocket of her oversized sweatpants and pulled something out. She held her palm open between us.

​Resting against her skin was a heavy, silver cufflink engraved with the Calder family crest. It was the one I had lost the night of our final, devastating argument four years ago.

​"You think you're the only one who didn't move on?" Ellie’s voice broke, a single tear spilling over her lashes. "I carried this in the zipper pocket of my purse for forty-eight months, Damien. Every single day. I told myself it was just a piece of metal, a stray piece of garbage I forgot to return. But I couldn't throw it away. I couldn't let it go."

My heart slammed against my ribs. Forty-eight months.

​"Ellie," I breathed, stepping toward her.

​"Don't," she said, though she didn't step back. She lowered her hand, her fingers curling tightly around the silver cufflink. "Don't pretend this changes the contract. We're here for a job."

​She bypassed me, heading toward the kitchen. I followed her, my ears tuned to the frantic rhythm of her breathing. She stopped at the counter, staring at a small box sitting next to the kettle.

​"I didn't think you’d still have this brand," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

​"The housekeeper keeps the pantry stocked," I lied.

​"The housekeeper knows I like tea from a bodega on 4th Street?" She finally turned, the box of tea in her hand, her eyes searching mine for a crack in the armor. "Damien, why is this here?"

​"It’s a common brand, Ellie. Don't read into it."

​"It’s not common. They don't sell this at Whole Foods. You have to go to a specific neighborhood to find this." The cardboard of the tea box bent slightly under her tight grip. "Why are you doing this? The contract is signed. You don't have to pretend to care about my tea preferences."

​"I told you, it’s a habit."

​"No," she said, stepping closer, her jaw flexing. "Habits are things you do without thinking. This was a choice. This was a detail."

​I felt the familiar heat rising in my blood. The frustration, the longing, the sheer, exhausting weight of wanting someone who had spent four years trying to forget I existed.

​"You want to know why it’s here?" I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous growl. I stepped into the kitchen, closing the distance between us. "It’s here because every time I see that box, I remember the way you looked in my kitchen four years ago. I remember the way you tasted after you’d had a cup. I remember that for one brief, delusional moment, I thought I was enough for you."

​She froze, her eyes widening. The air between us was electric, the tension so thick it felt like it could snap.

​"You were enough," she breathed. "The world wasn't. Your world wasn't."

​"My world is where you are now, Ellie. That's the reality we're both stuck with."

​I reached out, my fingers hovering just inches from her cheek. I wanted to touch her so badly it was an ache in my bones. I wanted to pull her against me and remind her of exactly what she’d walked away from.

​But I didn't. I pulled my hand back and curled it into a fist at my side.

​"The merger will be finalized in six months," I said, my voice cold and professional again. "Until then, we play the part. If that means I have to stock your favorite tea to keep you from looking miserable in front of the staff, I’ll do it."

​I turned and walked away before she could see the lie in my eyes.

​I went to my room and closed the door. I sat on the edge of the bed, the silence of the primary suite weighing down on me. I could hear her moving in the kitchen, the soft clink of a spoon against a mug.

​She was back. She was under my roof. She was wearing my blue silk for the world, her own soft cotton for me, and carrying my missing piece in her pocket.

​Suddenly, my phone vibrated violently against the wood of the nightstand. I picked it up, expecting a routine update from Marcus about the press conference. Instead, a text message from an unknown number flashed across the screen.

​It was an image.

​My blood turned to ice as I stared at the photo. It was a crystal-clear, high-resolution shot of the signed marriage contract sitting on my desk from earlier today, with the signature lines perfectly visible. Beneath the picture, a single line of text appeared:

​Arthur sends his regards. The board meeting is tomorrow morning, Damien. Let's see how much your little fake bride is really worth.