The autumn wind whipped across the manicured lawns of the Long Island private country club.

Evelyn sat on a wrought-iron bench near the grand entrance.

She pulled her thin cardigan tighter around her shoulders, shivering slightly.

She had just finished a highly classified, two-hour meeting with a senior medical researcher regarding a new targeted therapy drug for her own rapidly expanding biotech venture.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket.

She pulled it out. An unknown number flashed on the screen.

Evelyn's stomach tightened.

She knew exactly who it was. Arthur Vance never gave up easily.

A cold sneer formed on her lips. She pressed the volume button, muting the call, and tossed the phone into her purse.

Tires crunched against the gravel driveway.

A massive, armored black Maybach glided smoothly to a stop right in front of her.

Evelyn expected the driver to step out.

Instead, the heavy rear door swung open.

Silas Thorne stepped out into the biting wind.

The valets and club staff standing nearby instantly stiffened, holding their breath at the sight of the financial titan.

Silas strode toward her. His dark brows were pulled together in a tight frown.

He stopped right in front of her.

His eyes dropped to her trembling shoulders.

Without a single word, Silas shrugged off his bespoke suit jacket.

He leaned forward and draped the heavy, warm fabric over Evelyn's shoulders.

The sudden heat enveloped her.

The jacket smelled intensely of him-a masculine blend of sharp cedarwood, dark tobacco, and a hint of expensive cologne.

Evelyn's breath hitched. She looked up at him, startled by the sudden proximity.

Silas's gaze shifted downward, landing on her legs.

He remembered the society whispers. The rumors that the Vance girl was crippled, struggling to walk after a severe accident.

Before Evelyn could open her mouth to say she was perfectly fine to walk, Silas moved.

He bent down.

One of his massive arms slid smoothly behind her knees. His other arm wrapped firmly around her back.

"Oh!" Evelyn let out a sharp, breathless gasp as her feet left the ground.

She was suddenly airborne.

Instinct took over. Her hands shot up, not to grab his shirt in a panic, but to brace against his shoulders, her palms flat and steady, instantly finding a point of perfect balance.

Beneath the thin cotton, she felt the rock-hard tension of his chest muscles.

He was incredibly strong. He held her weight effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing at all.

Silas carried her toward the open door of the Maybach.

Evelyn's heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

She was pressed so tightly against him that she could feel the steady, powerful thud of his own heartbeat.

Silas lowered her gently into the cavernous back seat of the car.

His hands lingered on her waist for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he pulled away.

He walked around the back of the car and slid into the seat beside her.

The heavy door slammed shut, sealing them inside.

The spacious cabin suddenly felt suffocatingly small.

The air crackled with a heavy, unspoken tension.

Evelyn smoothed down her skirt, her fingers slightly unsteady.

"Thank you," she said, her voice lower than usual.

Silas stared straight ahead at the privacy partition.

"It is my duty as your husband to ensure you aren't struggling," he said. His voice was rough, like gravel scraping against stone.

The Maybach accelerated, heading back toward Manhattan.

The streetlights from the highway flickered across their faces in alternating flashes of gold and shadow.

Evelyn rested her hands on her lap.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Silas's gaze darting toward her hands.

He was watching her.

To test him, Evelyn slowly pulled her hands back, sliding them into the dark shadows of her lap.

Silas's jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked visibly in his cheek.

He immediately tore his eyes away and stared out the window into the dark night.

The silence between them grew heavier, thick with a strange, confusing heat.

The Maybach descended into the private, brightly lit underground garage of the Tribeca penthouse.

The car rolled to a smooth stop in the VIP parking bay.

The driver instantly killed the engine and rushed out to open the rear door.

Silas stepped out first.

He turned, bent down, and reached into the cabin.

This time, Evelyn didn't gasp.

When his arms slid under her knees and behind her back, she naturally leaned her head against his solid shoulder.

Silas's chest expanded as he took a sharp, quiet breath.

He carried her toward the private elevator.

The doors slid open, and he carried her inside. The ride up to the top floor was completely silent.

The elevator doors chimed and parted, revealing a massive, ultra-modern penthouse.

Carson, an older British man in a pristine butler's uniform, stood waiting in the foyer.

He bowed deeply. "Welcome home, sir. Welcome, madam."

Silas walked past Carson and gently deposited Evelyn onto a sprawling, custom-made Italian leather sofa in the center of the living room.

He stood up tall and immediately adjusted his left cufflink, his signature gesture when he needed to regain control.

"Carson," Silas said, his voice clipped and authoritative. "Show my wife around the apartment. Make sure she has dinner."

Evelyn looked up at him. She caught the subtle dismissal in his tone.

"Are you not staying for dinner?" she asked, her voice perfectly neutral.

Silas looked down at her. His eyes were unreadable.

"I have an emergency merger meeting with the London office," he said coldly.

He didn't wait for her response.

He turned on his heel and walked straight back into the elevator.

The metal doors slid shut, cutting off his towering figure.

The massive, multi-million-dollar penthouse suddenly felt incredibly empty.

Carson stepped forward, pushing a custom-built, ultra-lightweight indoor wheelchair.

"If you please, madam," Carson said kindly.

Evelyn suppressed a sigh. She transferred herself into the wheelchair and let Carson give her the tour.

The penthouse was stunning, but it felt like a museum. Cold, hard lines, dark marble, and glass.

It was a physical manifestation of Silas Thorne's personality.

Carson wheeled her into the master bedroom.

Evelyn's eyes widened slightly when she saw the walk-in closet.

It was massive, and half of it was completely filled with brand new, current-season haute couture women's clothing.

She reached out and checked the tag on a Chanel tweed jacket.

It was exactly her size.

The Thorne family efficiency was terrifying. Or perhaps, Silas was more attentive than he pretended to be.

Night fell over Manhattan.

Evelyn sat alone at the end of a dining table meant for twenty people, eating a perfectly cooked piece of salmon.

By midnight, she had showered and changed into a silk nightgown.

She lay in the center of the massive king-sized bed, staring at the dark ceiling.

At exactly 1:00 AM, the soft beep of the biometric lock echoed from the front door.

Heavy, exhausted footsteps moved down the hallway.

The bedroom door opened quietly.

Silas walked in. The cold air of the city clung to his suit.

He stopped at the foot of the bed.

Evelyn kept her breathing slow and even, her eyes closed. She feigned sleep.

She felt the heavy, physical weight of his gaze on her.

He stood there for a long time, perfectly still.

Finally, he turned and walked into the master bathroom.

The sound of the shower turning on filled the room.

Evelyn opened her eyes.

She stared at the frosted glass door of the bathroom.

Through the blurred glass, she could see the dark, broad silhouette of her husband standing under the water.

She pulled the heavy duvet up to her chin, her mind racing with questions.

The afternoon sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse sunroom.

Evelyn sat at a small glass table, pouring tea for her best friend, Harper Sinclair.

Harper took a bite of a Ladurée macaron and looked around the luxurious space.

"This view is insane, Evie," Harper said. Then, she leaned in, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "So? How was the wedding night? Did the Ice King melt?"

Evelyn took a slow sip of her Earl Grey tea.

"We slept in the same bed. We didn't touch," Evelyn said flatly.

Harper's jaw dropped. She nearly choked on her macaron.

"Are you kidding me?" Harper shrieked. "Silas Thorne is a healthy, red-blooded man. You are gorgeous. There is no way he is immune to you."

"He seems to be," Evelyn replied, staring at her teacup.

"Test him," Harper urged, tapping her manicured nail against the glass table. "Make the first move. See where his breaking point is."

Evelyn thought the idea was ridiculous at first.

But after Harper left, a stubborn seed of curiosity took root in her mind.

She wanted to know if her husband truly found her repulsive.

At nine o'clock, Evelyn asked the maid to light several expensive rose-scented candles in the master bedroom.

She went into the closet and selected a black, French lace nightgown. It clung to her curves and left her shoulders completely bare.

At exactly ten o'clock, she heard the front door open.

Evelyn sat up in bed, a book resting on her lap.

Silas walked into the bedroom.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

The heavy scent of roses filled the air. The dim candlelight flickered across Evelyn's pale skin and the dark lace of her nightgown.

Silas's eyes locked onto her.

His throat worked visibly as he swallowed hard.

Evelyn set her book aside. She looked up at him, her dark eyes soft and inviting.

"Silas," she said softly. "Since we are married... shouldn't we fulfill our obligations to each other?"

The air in the room instantly thickened. It felt hard to breathe.

Silas's eyes turned pitch black. They were wild, hungry, and dangerous.

He took half a step toward the bed.

Evelyn's heart slammed against her ribs.

But then, Silas stopped.

He violently tore his gaze away from her body and stared at the wall.

"No," he said. His voice was a harsh, grating sound.

Evelyn flinched as if he had slapped her.

"Your soft tissue injury hasn't fully healed," Silas said, his tone turning to absolute ice. "You are in no condition for strenuous physical activity."

Evelyn stared at him in shock.

A hot flush of deep humiliation crawled up her neck. Soft tissue injury? The pathetic, clinical excuse was almost laughable coming from a layman. She was a top-tier medical mind; she knew exactly what a healed leg felt like. The utter condescension in his tone stung far more than the physical rejection itself. She bit her lower lip hard to stop it from trembling, suddenly feeling utterly foolish for even trying.

Silas didn't look at her again.

He walked stiffly to the closet, grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.

"I will sleep in the guest room tonight," he said to the wall.

He walked out of the bedroom and shut the door firmly behind him.

Evelyn sat alone in the massive bed. She let out a dry, bitter laugh.

He couldn't even stand to be in the same room as her.

Outside in the hallway, Silas leaned his back heavily against the closed door.

He let out a ragged, shaking breath.

He closed his eyes, his hands balling into tight fists at his sides. His knuckles were stark white.

His chest he heave as he fought down the violent, consuming urge to tear that lace off her and claim her.

He wanted her so badly it physically hurt his bones.

But he knew if he touched her now, with his control hanging by a thread, he would lose his mind. He would hurt her.

And he would rather die than cause her pain.