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.

At two in the morning, the penthouse was dead silent.

Evelyn tossed and turned in the center of the massive bed.

The humiliation of Silas's rejection burned in her chest, making her throat feel dry and scratchy.

She needed water.

She threw off the heavy duvet and turned sharply to reach for the crystal carafe on the nightstand.

Her hand misjudged the distance in the dark.

Her knuckles clipped the heavy glass tumbler filled with ice water.

Crash.

The sound of shattering glass was deafening in the quiet room.

Ice cubes and water splashed across the expensive Persian rug. Sharp shards of crystal exploded in every direction.

Evelyn groaned in frustration. She sat up, reaching for the bedside lamp to call for Carson.

Before her fingers touched the switch, heavy, frantic footsteps pounded down the hallway.

The bedroom door was thrown open with violent force.

Silas stood in the doorway, breathing hard. He was wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants, his broad chest bare.

He had clearly been awake.

His wild eyes scanned the room and locked onto the shattered glass on the floor near her feet.

"Don't move!" Silas barked. His voice was sharp with genuine panic.

Evelyn froze, her bare foot hovering inches above a jagged piece of crystal.

Silas turned and vanished down the hall.

A moment later, she heard a closet door being thrown open with frantic force, followed by the heavy clatter of cleaning supplies being shoved aside. He returned almost instantly, carrying a broom, a dustpan, and a handheld vacuum.

Evelyn watched in stunned silence.

The ruthless titan of Wall Street, a man who commanded thousands of employees, dropped to his knees on the wet rug.

He meticulously swept up the large shards of glass.

Then, he turned on the vacuum, running it over the rug repeatedly to ensure not a single microscopic splinter remained.

He was terrified she would cut her feet.

Once the floor was completely clear, Silas stood up.

He went into the master bathroom and returned with a fresh plastic cup filled with warm water.

He handed it to her.

As Evelyn reached for the cup, her fingertips brushed against the back of his large, warm hand.

A jolt of electricity shot up her arm.

They both yanked their hands back instantly, as if burned.

Silas looked down at her. Her hair was a wild, tangled mess around her shoulders. Her sleeping posture was careless.

He remembered the cruel gossip from the country club-that Arthur Vance had raised a wild, uncultured girl in the countryside.

Silas frowned. He wanted to protect her, to teach her how to survive in this vicious city.

"You need to be more careful," Silas said. His tone was heavy, sounding like a disappointed elder reprimanding a clumsy child.

Evelyn's grip on the plastic cup tightened.

Her bias filter caught his words and twisted them.

She heard disgust. She heard him judging her for being clumsy, for lacking the refined grace of a high-society lady.

She felt the sting of the so-called 'cultural gap' between them.

"Got it," Evelyn said. Her voice was pure ice.

She set the cup down, lay back, and pulled the covers completely over her head, shutting him out.

Silas stood by the bed, staring at the lump under the blankets.

A heavy ache settled in his chest. He had said the wrong thing again.

He picked up the cleaning supplies and quietly left the room.

He walked into his study and poured a glass of scotch.

He clipped the end off a Cuban cigar and lit it.

The thick, bitter smoke filled the room.

Silas sat in the dark leather chair, staring at the city lights.

He stayed awake the entire night, his mind agonizing over how to bridge the massive chasm between him and his wife.