Talia's POV 

The suite smelled of cedar, polished leather, and something faintly metallic - the scent of order, maybe. Even the air-conditioning hummed with precision.

I sat on the edge of a velvet chair that probably cost more than my car, my wrinkled wedding dress dragging over the marble floor, my sanity hanging by a bobby pin.

Across from me, Adrian Voss didn't move. Not a twitch. Not a fidget. Just stillness - calculated and predatory. He turned a page, the paper whispering against his fingertips like it was afraid to make a sound.

"You're quiet," he said, without looking up.

"I'm thinking," I answered, my voice sharp enough to hide the tremor underneath.

His pen paused midair. "Dangerous habit."

I scowled. "You asked me to marry you. I'm allowed a few thoughts before I join your... whatever this is."

He finally looked up, and the room shrank a little. There was no fire in his gaze - no anger, no warmth. Just precision. Analysis. Like he was deciding whether I was worth investing in... or dismantling.

"Correction," he said. "I didn't ask. I offered a deal."

Oh, perfect. The romance version of a corporate merger.

"You know," I said tightly, "most people pretend to be charming when they want something."

"I'm not most people."

"No kidding."

His eyes dropped back to the papers in front of him. His wrist flicked once - smooth, exact - and a thick document slid across the table toward me.

"You'll find the terms straightforward," he said. "Six months. Mutual benefit. Public appearances only. You'll live here. You'll be paid handsomely."

My hand hovered over the paper, then froze. "You're serious."

"I don't say things I don't mean."

He leaned back - not to relax, but to observe. His gaze tracked every small movement I made, not lustful, not kind... just studying me like I was data.

I flipped through the pages, pretending my hands weren't shaking. "Six months," I repeated softly. "And what happens after that?"

"You walk away with your name intact," he said. "And so do I."

My laugh came out brittle. "You realize this is insane, right?"

He didn't even blink. "Only if you're sentimental."

He said it like he hadn't just been engaged for all of five minutes.

"Why me?" I asked suddenly.

He tilted his head. "Excuse me?"

"You could've picked anyone. Someone made for magazine covers. Why a stranger with a ruined wedding and a bad sense of humor?"

Something shifted in his expression - not a smile, exactly, but something close. "Because you're inconvenient enough to be believable."

"Inconvenient?"

He nodded once. "You're not easy to control. The press will find that... fascinating."

"So I'm your chaos hire," I muttered. "How flattering."

He didn't deny it. "Exactly."

And you're about to say yes, aren't you, you glorious idiot, my subconscious whispered.

I stood abruptly, the need to breathe outweighing the need to appear composed. The air in the suite felt too structured, too deliberate. Even the silence had rules.

"This is ridiculous," I said. "You can't just-"

"I can." His voice was even. Quiet. And final. "You'll spend months dodging paparazzi if you walk out of here. They'll hound you for every tear you shed at that church. Or-" He nodded toward the papers. "You can take back control of the story."

I froze.

"Control," he repeated, softer this time - like he knew exactly which word would gut me.

My heartbeat thudded in my ears. "You're using me."

He shrugged, the faintest lift of his shoulders. "You're free to use me back."

God, I hated him. Hated him so much it was starting to sound suspiciously like interest.

I crossed my arms, refusing to give him the satisfaction of intimidation. "You don't even feel bad about any of this, do you?"

"Feelings," he said, tone flat, "are liabilities. I prefer precision."

I wanted to throw something at him - anything, just to see if he'd flinch. He wouldn't. He was too still, too composed. Even his pulse probably asked permission before beating.

"Pity looks good on no one," he added quietly. "But power? That's a different story."

The words landed like a punch.

Power.

The one thing I'd lost the second my ex-fiancé ran. The thing every headline would strip from me by morning.

And now here was Adrian Voss - offering it back, not kindly, not gently, but like a transaction. Cold. Calculated. Tempting.

That's when I realized this wasn't surrender.

It was strategy.

I wasn't signing to hide.

I was signing to fight back.

"Fine," I said finally, stepping forward. "Six months. But I'm not your puppet."

His gaze lifted - faint interest, maybe even amusement. "Don't test me, Talia."

The way he said my name was a warning - soft, sharp, final.

"Do we have a deal?" he asked.

My pulse jumped. "You'll regret this."

"I rarely do."

He handed me a pen - heavy, gold, the kind used to sign history or ruin lives. I signed anyway.

When I slid the papers back, he didn't smile. Didn't thank me. Just tapped once on the signature line, checking my work like a teacher grading a test.

"Welcome to your new life," he said simply.

"Do I get a raise if I survive it?" I muttered.

He stood, buttoning his jacket. "Survival is its own reward."

By morning, my phone was a war zone.

Hundreds of notifications. Missed calls from Maya. And the headlines-

#VossWedding

London's Coldest Bachelor Secretly Marries Jilted Bride!

I was still staring at the screen when Adrian walked out of the ensuite - hair damp, shirt crisp, tie perfectly knotted, every inch of him composed.

"You did this," I said, stunned.

"I did," he replied simply. "The publicist released it at six. Right on schedule."

"Schedule?" My voice rose. "You planned this?"

"Of course." He adjusted his cufflinks without looking at me. "I don't improvise."

"You could've warned me!"

"You signed a contract, not a friendship."

My jaw dropped. "You're-"

He glanced up. "Efficient. You've said that."

Efficient. Manipulative. Emotionally frozen. Congratulations, Talia, you married an Excel spreadsheet.

"You're unbelievable," I muttered.

He stepped closer, and the air shifted - colder, heavier. His cologne hit me, cedar and something dark. The kind of scent that whispered money and danger in the same breath.

"And yet," he said, voice low, "you're standing here, wearing my name."

I straightened my shoulders. "You don't scare me."

He stopped a breath away, gaze steady, voice calm enough to freeze blood. "Good. Fear is unproductive."

Then, after a pause that stretched too long: "Obedience, however... that might save you."

My breath caught.

He picked up his briefcase, not sparing me another glance. "Seven o'clock," he said. "Don't be late."

"For what?"

"Our first public appearance."

"And if I don't show up?"

He didn't turn around. "Then I'll find a way to make you."

The door closed behind him, quiet as a gunshot.

I exhaled, half a laugh, half disbelief.

You married the devil, babe, my subconscious whispered. And he didn't even have to sell you your soul. You handed it over yourself.

 Talia's pov 

The first morning of my new "marriage" began with silence.

Not the calm, lazy Sunday kind.

This was the expensive, disciplined kind of silence - the kind that smelled faintly of espresso and power.

I woke in a bed that probably had a mortgage. The sheets were cold, smooth, and so white it felt like even sleep here had to pass inspection. Morning light sliced through the glass walls, too bright, too sharp.

The bedroom looked like something out of an architecture magazine  monochrome, minimalist, beautiful... and completely lifeless. No warmth. No clutter. No trace of its owner except for the faint scent of cedar and rain on the pillows.

If a control freak had a heartbeat, this would be it.

A knock at the door snapped me out of my thoughts.

"Good morning, Mrs. Voss," said an older woman with kind eyes and a crisp uniform. "I'm Mrs. Penrose. Breakfast is ready."

Mrs. Voss.

I nearly choked. "Oh, please don't call me that. Talia is fine."

Mrs. Penrose smiled, the polite kind that said she'd seen this before and knew it wouldn't last. "Of course, ma'am."

Ma'am. Wow, that escalated fast.

I followed her down a hallway so spotless it could double as a museum. Every step echoed. I half-expected Adrian to appear around a corner with a clipboard labeled Rules for Existing Near Me.

The dining table stretched the length of a runway. At the far end sat a note - his handwriting as rigid as his posture.

Gym - 6:00 a.m.

Meetings - All day.

Dinner - 7:00 p.m.

Don't speak to the press.

P.S. Don't touch the whiskey.

I blinked. "Did he really-?"

Mrs. Penrose nodded. "He has... systems."

"Systems?"

"Schedules. Protocols. He doesn't like improvisation."

"So... he left me a to-do list for my own existence," I said.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Great," I muttered. "I married a calendar."

By noon, I'd given myself a tour of the penthouse  or more accurately, I'd gotten lost in it twice.

Every room was a different shade of intimidation. Sleek black counters. Hidden doors. The faint hum of climate control keeping even the air obedient.

When I wandered into his study, I stopped.

It was the only room that felt alive.

Books lined the walls - thick, serious, expensive-looking. A few art pieces whispered wealth instead of shouting it. And on the desk sat a fountain pen - gold nib, perfectly aligned with the edge.

Of course it was aligned. He probably calibrates his pencils by mood.

I picked it up. It was heavier than it looked. Solid. Deliberate. Just like him.

Then something caught my eye.

A photo frame, half-hidden behind a stack of files. Old. Out of place. Personal.

Inside was a boy - maybe eight - dark hair, amber eyes, and a smile so bright it hurt to look at. Beside him stood a girl his age, laughing, sunlight caught in her hair.

Something about her face tugged at me - familiar, though I couldn't place it.

It didn't fit. None of this did. Because the man in that picture - the one smiling like he'd never met silence - didn't exist anymore.

"Careful," a voice said behind me.

I jumped, the pen slipping from my fingers and clattering onto the desk.

Adrian stood in the doorway, a black coat still damp from the rain, hair perfectly in place - as if even the weather had been trained not to touch him.

"Oh, good," I said quickly, covering my panic. "The building's emotional support iceberg has arrived."

"I wasn't touching anything," I lied instantly.

His gaze flicked to the pen. "You were touching that."

"It's a pen, not a nuclear switch."

"It's a Montblanc Meisterstück," he said evenly. "Given to me after my first merger. Worth more than your rent, I assume."

I crossed my arms. "Wow. You really know how to make a girl feel at home."

He didn't bite. He just moved - silent, fluid, controlled - setting down his briefcase.

"You've explored enough for one day," he said.

"Is that an order?"

He looked at me then, and I swear the temperature dropped. "If it were, you'd already be obeying."

Something in his tone made my pulse stutter. Cold. Detached. Utterly certain.

I tried for nonchalance. "Your study's impressive. Very... sterile."

"Keep your curiosity on a leash, Mrs. Voss," he said softly, stepping closer. "In this house, boundaries aren't suggestions."

My eyes flicked toward the photo before I could stop myself. "Who's the girl?"

He followed my gaze, pausing just long enough for a crack to show - the smallest hesitation. Then, in a voice sharp enough to cut glass:

"No one you need to know."

He straightened the frame with surgical precision, jaw tight, then turned away as if erasing her from existence.

The air thickened.

He spoke again, quieter but colder. "I've arranged a team to help you prepare for the press conference. Stylists. Publicists. You'll do exactly as they tell you."

"What if I don't?"

He met my eyes - no heat, no anger, just quiet threat. "Then you'll make my first decision as a husband an unpleasant one."

A chill crawled down my spine.

He picked up a file, flipping through it like our conversation bored him. "Seven o'clock. Don't be late."

"For what?" I managed.

"Our debut," he said simply. "It's time the world saw perfection."

He didn't wait for a reply - just turned and left, the soft click of the door sounding louder than a slam.

I stared after him, heartbeat thundering, eyes drawn back to that photo on the desk.

The boy smiling in that frame didn't belong to the man who'd just walked out.

Whatever light he'd had back then... he'd buried it.

Deep.

And God help me, I had just agreed to live in the dark with him.

 Talia's pov

If hell had chandeliers and champagne, it would look exactly like Adrian Voss's press conference.

Cameras flashed like lightning. Voices overlapped. The air pulsed with the sweet, sharp scent of perfume, power, and too much money.

I stood beside my new husband - fake husband, contract husband, whatever the hell he was - and smiled like my entire life wasn't a walking press release.

Smile, breathe, and don't murder anyone, my inner voice muttered.

Adrian stood to my right - a wall of calm in a suit that probably cost someone's tuition. He didn't fidget or even blink. Every line of him screamed control.

When the reporters surged forward, he didn't move. Just lifted a hand - one quiet, elegant command - and the room obeyed.

The noise cut instantly.

My breath caught. That power wasn't loud. It was terrifyingly quiet.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, voice low, smooth, practiced. "My wife and I appreciate you joining us on short notice."

Wife.

The word slammed against my ribs. I smiled harder, like that could hold me together.

"Given recent events," Adrian continued, "there's been speculation. Allow me to clarify - my marriage to Talia Monroe was neither impulsive nor reactionary. It was a private ceremony planned well in advance."

He didn't look at me, but his hand brushed mine - just once.

Deliberate. Controlled.

The world saw affection.

I felt choreography.

Touch for the cameras. Hold for the lie.

Reporters shouted over one another.

"When did you meet?"

"How long have you been engaged?"

"Was this revenge on Vanessa King?"

That last name hit him like shrapnel. His jaw flexed - the only break in his perfect armor.

"Mr. Voss?" someone pressed. "Wasn't Miss Monroe jilted by another man just hours before your wedding?"

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

My stomach dropped. Here we go.

Adrian didn't even glance at me. Instead, he placed a hand on the small of my back - light, firm, lethal.

The warmth of his palm cut straight through my skin, my chest tightening with something sharp and uninvited. His touch wasn't gentle; it was a warning, a claim, a silent message that said breathe, or I'll make you.

Then he spoke.

"Everyone in this room has been misinformed," he said evenly. "My wife was never left by anyone. She was waiting for me."

The room fell completely silent.

The words hit like thunder.

A murmur rippled through the press, but no one dared challenge him again.

I turned slightly, whispering, "What was that?"

"Damage control," he murmured, lips barely moving.

"You just rewrote my entire life."

"You're welcome."

I wanted to elbow him. Hard. Preferably on live television.

When the last reporter finally left, I exhaled. "You can drop the act now."

Adrian handed a folder to his assistant without looking at me. "This is me dropping the act."

"You just lied to the entire press corps!"

"I redirected the narrative."

"You gaslighted London!"

He gave me that cool, surgical stare. "Welcome to corporate communication, Mrs. Voss."

He said my name like a verdict.

I paced, heat crawling up my neck. "You didn't even ask me before you said all that."

"Would it have changed anything?"

"Yes!"

"No."

"You are infuriating!"

"I'm efficient."

I groaned. "Stop saying that word like it's foreplay!"

He turned. Slowly. The kind of slow that made air heavy.

Oh God. Why did I say that out loud?

A silence stretched, sharp enough to bleed on. Then - to my horror - one corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile.

"Foreplay, Mrs. Voss?" he said softly. "Is that what this feels like to you?"

My cheeks burned. "You know what I meant!"

"Do I?"

He took a step forward. Just one. Enough to blur the space between us.

I could feel his breath - clean, cold, faintly cedar - brushing my skin.

"I'm beginning to think you enjoy arguing with me," he said.

"I enjoy proving you wrong," I shot back.

He leaned close enough for his words to slide straight into my pulse. "Careful. You might start enjoying me instead."

My breath hitched. The world tilted.

Abort mission. Don't blush. Don't react. Don't feel.

I stepped back, crossing my arms tight. "You're unbelievable."

"I know."

"Arrogant."

"Accurate."

"You think you can control everyone, don't you?"

He picked up his phone, thumbs gliding, utterly calm. "No. Just you."

The words hit harder than they should have.

On the ride back, city lights blurred against the tinted glass. I sat rigid beside him, trying to ignore how close his shoulder was... or how my pulse still hadn't recovered.

I expected silence, but after a while he said, "You handled yourself well today."

I blinked. "Was that... a compliment?"

"An observation," he said without looking up from his phone.

"Well, I'm honored to be observed."

He didn't smile, but his gaze flicked sideways. "You're not as fragile as people think."

"Gee, thanks. You almost sound impressed."

"I don't get impressed."

"Of course not," I muttered. "That would be inefficient."

He exhaled - quietly, but it was there. Almost like a laugh.

Did Adrian Voss just laugh? Someone alert NASA.

The car turned toward the penthouse. I caught our reflection in the window - me in white silk, him in black suit. Two strangers playing at forever.

It was all performance. But somewhere between the flashes and his hand on my back, something real had started humming underneath.

Something that scared me more than the cameras ever could.

When we got home, he opened my door - not like a gentleman, but like a man who wanted control over when I stepped out. Everything he did was a statement.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Voss," he said.

"Goodnight, Mr. Efficiency."

He paused, that almost-smile threatening his composure. "You're impossible."

"Thank you," I said sweetly. "I try."

He turned to leave, then stopped. "Stay out of trouble."

"Define trouble."

His eyes met mine - calm, cold, unblinking. "You'll know when I find you in it."

He walked away, and I stood there in the echo of his footsteps, my pulse still misbehaving.

I should've been furious. I should've hated every inch of him.

Instead, my mind kept wandering back to that photo on his desk. The boy with the too-bright smile.

The girl beside him - the one who looked familiar in a way I couldn't explain.

Who was she?

And why did I get the feeling that knowing her name would change everything?