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.

The morning sun reflected harshly off the glass skyscrapers of Manhattan.

Evelyn rolled her wheelchair into the formal dining room.

Silas was already seated at the head of the long table, dressed in an immaculate navy suit.

He was reading the Wall Street Journal.

"Good morning," Evelyn said stiffly.

Silas lowered the newspaper. He gave her a brief nod.

The silence between them was suffocating.

Carson approached silently and placed a plate of Eggs Benedict and a cup of black coffee in front of Evelyn.

Silas reached into the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket.

He pulled out a heavy, matte-black card made of anodized titanium.

He slid the American Express Centurion Card across the polished mahogany table. It stopped right next to Evelyn's coffee cup.

"Our marriage was arranged too quickly," Silas said, his voice completely flat. "We didn't have time to purchase a wedding ring."

He looked at her, his expression unreadable.

"Take this. It has no limit. Buy whatever ring you want. Buy whatever else you want."

Evelyn stared at the black card.

She raised an eyebrow. She didn't push it back.

She reached out, her index finger tapping the metal surface once, before she picked it up.

"Thanks," she said coolly.

Silas checked his Patek Philippe watch. He stood up, buttoned his jacket, and walked out to his waiting car.

The moment the front door clicked shut, Evelyn pulled out her phone.

She dialed Harper's number.

"Get dressed," Evelyn said the second Harper answered. "We are going to slaughter Fifth Avenue today."

Harper screamed with delight through the speaker.

At 1:00 PM, the Thorne family Maybach dropped them off in front of the luxury boutiques.

Evelyn sat in her wheelchair, pushed by Harper. She radiated an aura of absolute authority.

They hit Chanel and Dior first.

Evelyn pointed at racks of haute couture. She didn't look at price tags.

She handed the black card to the stunned sales associates, who immediately began scrambling to assist her, without blinking.

Within an hour, two massive bodyguards were struggling to carry the mountain of shopping bags.

Finally, they arrived at the global flagship store of Harry Winston.

The doorman saw the bodyguards and the Maybach. He practically ripped the heavy glass doors open.

The boutique manager, a slick man named Mr. Davis, rushed forward.

"Mrs. Thorne! Welcome. Please, right this way to our VIP suite."

The VIP room was a sanctuary of velvet and gold.

Crystal flutes of vintage champagne and a silver tray of Beluga caviar were waiting for them.

Mr. Davis brought out a velvet tray carrying three massive diamond rings.

"These are our finest five-carat pieces, madam," he said proudly.

Evelyn picked up a cushion-cut diamond. She held it up to the specialized lighting.

She didn't smile.

"The table percentage is slightly off," Evelyn said, her voice clinical. "And there is a microscopic feather inclusion near the girdle. It disrupts the light return."

Mr. Davis started sweating immediately.

He realized instantly that the woman in the wheelchair was not an ignorant country girl. She was an apex connoisseur.

Evelyn tossed the multi-million dollar ring back onto the tray like it was a piece of plastic.

"These are mediocre," Evelyn stated. "Silas Thorne's wife will not wear something I can find in a mall. Go to your vault. Bring me something real."