The next morning, Cassidy woke up to an empty room. Her suitcase still hadn't been brought up. The butler had "forgotten" again.

She stood in the middle of the room in her pajamas, shivering. She couldn't go downstairs like this. She couldn't face the staff.

She walked to the dressing room door and pushed it open.

It was larger than her old apartment. Rows of suits, shoes, and ties were organized with military precision.

She hesitated, then reached for a white dress shirt hanging in the back. It was crisp, Egyptian cotton. She slipped it on.

It engulfed her. The hem hit her mid-thigh, the sleeves hanging past her hands. It smelled like him-clean, sharp, masculine. She buttoned it up, rolling the sleeves.

The door to the bedroom opened.

Kingsley walked in. He was sweaty, breathing hard from a run. His t-shirt clung to his chest.

He stopped dead.

His eyes swept over her-the bare legs, the oversized shirt, the messy hair. For a second, the mask slipped. His pupils dilated. His throat worked as he swallowed.

He didn't look like a CEO. He looked like a man starving.

"My luggage is missing," Cassidy stammered, pulling the collar tight.

Kingsley didn't speak. He walked toward her, slow and predatory. He backed her up until her calves hit the bench at the foot of the bed.

He placed a hand on the wall beside her head, trapping her. The heat radiating from his body was overwhelming.

"Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs. Osborn?" he murmured, his voice rough.

Cassidy's face burned. "It was force majeure. I had nothing to wear."

Kingsley reached out. His fingers grazed the collar of the shirt, brushing her skin. Her breath hitched. He leaned in, his gaze dropping to her lips. The air between them crackled with electricity.

"Please," Cassidy whispered, her hand coming up to push against his chest. "Don't. This is unprofessional."

The word was a bucket of ice water.

Kingsley froze. The heat in his eyes instantly crystallized into ice. He recoiled as if she had burned him.

"Don't you dare," he snarled, stepping back. "Don't you dare talk about professionalism while wearing my clothes and texting another man."

He ripped his running watch off his wrist and threw it onto the bench.

"Take it off," he commanded.

Cassidy blinked, confused. "What?"

"The shirt. Take it off. Now."

"Kingsley, I'm not wearing anything underneath-"

"I don't care," he yelled, his voice cracking with rage. "I don't want you wearing my clothes while you're thinking about him. It makes me sick."

Cassidy felt tears prick her eyes. The humiliation was absolute.

"Turn around," she whispered.

Kingsley turned his back, his shoulders heaving.

With shaking fingers, Cassidy undid the buttons. She let the shirt fall to the floor, standing there in her underwear, exposed and shivering. She grabbed her pajamas from the bed and scrambled into them.

"It's off," she choked out.

She ran past him into the bathroom and locked the door.

Outside, she heard a loud thud, as if a fist had just punched through a mahogany wardrobe door.

They didn't speak for the rest of the day.

That night, the bedroom was a war zone of silence. Kingsley pointed to the door.

"Get out," he said. "Sleep in the guest room. I can't look at you."

Cassidy didn't argue. She grabbed her pillow and marched toward the terrace door, intending to cut through to the hallway.

Kingsley's head snapped up. "Wait!"

He lunged across the room. Before Cassidy could react, he tackled her, wrapping his arms around her waist and dragging her down to the floor.

"What are you-"

"Shh!" His hand clamped over her mouth.

He pressed her into the carpet. Above them, through the sheer curtains, a red light blinked. A low buzzing sound hovered outside the glass.

"Drone," Kingsley whispered against her ear. "Elmore's paparazzi."

Cassidy went still. If they saw them apart, or fighting, the stock would tank.

Kingsley reached up and yanked the heavy blackout curtains shut. The room plunged into darkness.

He didn't move immediately. He was lying half on top of her, his heavy leg tangled with hers. She could feel his heart hammering against her ribs. For a moment, they weren't enemies. They were conspirators.

He pushed himself up, clearing his throat. "You can't leave. Long-lens photography. They're looking for any crack in the curtains, any sign of separate rooms."

He stood and offered her a hand. She ignored it and scrambled up.

"We have to sleep in the bed," he said, sounding like he was swallowing glass.

They climbed in. Cassidy grabbed two extra pillows and built a wall down the center of the mattress.

"Pathetic," Kingsley muttered, turning his back to her. "I have zero interest in you."

"Good," Cassidy snapped. "Because the feeling is mutual."

They lay in the dark, the silence loud.

Around 2 AM, the storm broke.

Thunder shook the house. A crack of lightning split the sky, loud enough to penetrate the heavy curtains.

Cassidy flinched violently, curling into a ball. Another boom. She whimpered, an involuntary sound from childhood trauma she never outgrew. She buried her face in the pillow, shaking.

Kingsley shifted.

He lay there for a long moment, listening to her ragged breathing.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, a hand reached over the pillow wall.

It landed awkwardly on her shoulder. It was heavy and warm. He patted her, a stiff, rhythmic motion. Thump. Thump.

It wasn't romantic. It was barely comforting. But it was an acknowledgment. I know you're scared. I'm here.

Cassidy froze. Her shaking subsided. She lay perfectly still under his hand, her heart doing a strange flip.

She turned her head, trying to see him in the dark.

Kingsley snatched his hand back as if he'd touched fire. He rolled over, pulling the duvet up to his ear.

"Go to sleep," he grumbled.

The wall of pillows was still there, but the air on either side felt a little less cold.

The Maybach glided through Manhattan traffic. The partition was up.

"Drop me off at the corner," Cassidy said, breaking the silence.

Kingsley looked up from his phone. "Why?"

"I'm your Crisis Consultant. If I walk in holding your hand, no one will respect me. They'll think I'm just the wife."

Kingsley smirked. "To them, you are just the wife. The assumption will be that you slept your way into this position."

"I signed my way into the job," she corrected. "Stop the car."

Kingsley knocked on the glass. The driver pulled over.

"Don't be late for lunch," he warned as she got out.

Cassidy walked the last block, her heels clicking on the pavement. She entered the Osborn Tower, blending in with the morning rush.

She met Mercer in the lobby.

"Low profile," Mercer whispered. "Mr. Osborn is... territorial. Don't get too friendly with the male staff."

Cassidy rolled her eyes and went to the PR department. The gossip was already flying.

"Have you seen the wife?" a junior associate whispered near the coffee machine. "I heard she's a Russian model."

"No, she's a senator's daughter," another said. "Political alliance."

Cassidy stirred her coffee. "Sounds intense," she muttered, blending in.

At noon, Kingsley's secretary summoned her to the top floor.

Cassidy walked in to find a white tablecloth spread over the coffee table. Lobster salad and sparkling water.

"Sit," Kingsley commanded. "We have to maintain the image of a functioning couple. My nutritionist tracks my intake."

"You're eating lobster for your image?" Cassidy sat down.

They ate in silence, but it was less hostile than dinner. The office felt like neutral ground.

A sharp knock on the door.

"Come in!" Kingsley called out.

Cassidy's eyes widened. She looked for an escape route, a place to hide, but there was none. Panic gave way to professionalism. Her training took over.

In a split-second, she straightened her spine, picked up a financial report from the coffee table, and stood, adopting the posture of an advisor ready to present.

Kingsley looked over at her, an eyebrow raised. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He was amused by her quick thinking.

The Sales Director walked in. "Mr. Osborn, the Q3 projections..." His eyes flickered to Cassidy.

"This is Ms. Steele," Kingsley said smoothly, gesturing with his fork. "A new consultant on the brand initiative. She's... thorough."

Cassidy nodded curtly at the Director, her expression a perfect mask of professional detachment. The Director, accepting the explanation, launched into his report.

The meeting dragged on. Cassidy stood by the window, pretending to study the skyline, acutely aware of Kingsley's gaze on her. The air was thick with their shared secret. He was impressed, and that fact was more dangerous than his anger.

The Director finished his report. "Sir? Anything else?"

"Fine," Kingsley said, his eyes still on Cassidy. "Leave the report. Get out."

The door closed.

Cassidy let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. She placed the report back on the table.

"Not bad, Miss Steele," Kingsley said, his voice a low rumble.

"It's Mrs. Osborn," she corrected, dusting off her skirt. "And I'm not hiding under your desk. Ever."

For the first time, the name didn't sound like an insult. It sounded like a challenge.