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?

TALIA 

That evening, Maya called.

"So? What's it like living with Mr. Robot?"

I flopped onto the giant couch. "Like being trapped in a luxury hostage situation."

"Details."

"He leaves notes instead of talking. His idea of romance is not existing in the same time zone. And apparently, there's a rule about whiskey."

Maya laughed. "Honey, he doesn't need whiskey. He is whiskey - dark, expensive, and makes people make terrible decisions."

I groaned. "Don't make me laugh. I think the walls are recording my emotions."

"Have you at least seen him shirtless?"

"Maya!"

"What? I'm just trying to find the silver lining."

Before I could respond, the elevator chimed. I froze.

My stomach dropped.

"Oh crap."

I'd forgotten to tell Adrian that Dad was coming to dinner tomorrow.

I hung up on Maya mid-sentence and pushed myself off the couch.

The penthouse was quiet - the kind of quiet that hummed through marble floors and glass walls. I hesitated outside his study door, rehearsing a polite, non-murderable way to say please don't glare at my father like he's a financial liability.

Then I heard his voice.

"Have you found her?"

I froze.

It wasn't his usual voice - not the clipped, perfect one he used for meetings. This one was lower, rawer, like gravel under ice.

A pause. Someone on the other end murmured something I couldn't make out.

Adrian's reply came sharp. "Then do better."

The chill in his tone made my skin prickle, but underneath it... there was something else.

A crack.

A trace of exhaustion - or grief?

Another silence, longer this time. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped to something I'd never heard from him before.

"Just find her," he said quietly. "I don't care how long it takes."

I took a step back, heart hammering.

Her.

Who was her?

The girl from the photo? The one in that sunlit picture that didn't belong in this marble-and-glass life of his?

He ended the call. I barely had time to slip away before the door handle turned.

I hurried down the hall, pretending to be very interested in a painting I didn't understand until I heard the study door close again.

Only then did I let out the breath I'd been holding and retreat to my room.

I sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, still hearing his voice in my head.

Not the words  the way he'd said them. Calm crumbling into something almost human.

Before I could stop myself, I typed:

Me: We need to talk about tomorrow. My dad's coming to dinner.

I hovered... then, against all logic, I added:

P.S. You sounded... different earlier. Everything okay?

My thumb hovered over send.

I could practically see his face reading it - that unreadable stare, that cold silence that could turn any word into a weapon.

No.

Absolutely not.

If he ever found out I'd overheard him... he wouldn't shout, he wouldn't even threaten. He'd just erase me from his world - quiet, calculated, devastating.

I deleted the PS, leaving only the safe, simple text about dinner. Then I hit send.

The dots appeared for a second, then vanished.

No reply.

I tossed the phone aside and lay back, staring at the ceiling, my heart still running laps.

Whoever that girl in the photo was - whoever he was looking for - she'd made Adrian Voss sound almost human.

And that terrified me more than anything else.

I stood in the kitchen of Adrian Voss's penthouse the next evening, apron over my jeans, a wooden spoon in one hand and disaster in the other.

"Come on, sauce, don't betray me now," I muttered, tasting it. "Just pretend to be edible for two hours, please."

I wasn't nervous about cooking.

I was nervous because tonight, my worlds were colliding - the simple café warmth of Dad and the glass-and-steel chill of Adrian.

My father was coming to dinner.

Maya had texted five minutes ago:

Maya: Good luck, babe. Remember - men like him are charm-trained. Don't let him hypnotize your dad.

Me: If he does, I'm disowning both of them.

The elevator chimed.

"Breathe," I whispered, wiping my hands on the apron.

Dad stepped out first  tall, graying hair, kind eyes, and the warm smell of cinnamon and coffee that always clung to him from his café. Behind him came Adrian, perfectly tailored as always, the human embodiment of calm.

"Sweetheart!" Dad's face lit up. "You look radiant."

I hugged him tight. "You smell like muffins. I missed that."

He chuckled, patting my back. "Had to bring something for my new son-in-law."

Adrian's eyebrow twitched. "You didn't have to, Mr. Monroe."

"Please," Dad said with a grin, handing him a small paper bag. "Call me Robert. And yes, I did. These are my famous cinnamon scones. Family tradition."

Adrian accepted the bag with the caution of a man handling classified information. "Thank you."

Dad turned to me. "Now, where can I sit and embarrass you the most?"

"Anywhere," I sighed. "He's impossible to embarrass."

"Challenge accepted," Dad said cheerfully, taking a seat at the dining table.

Adrian sat opposite him, posture straight, hands folded neatly. If the table were a chessboard, he'd already be in checkmate position.

Dinner started innocently enough. Garlic pasta, wine, polite conversation.

"So, Adrian," Dad said, twirling his fork, "Talia tells me you're in business."

"Yes," Adrian replied, tone smooth but careful. "Investments, mergers, corporate development."

Dad nodded as though it were a language he understood. "And what exactly do you develop?"

"Control," I muttered under my breath.

Adrian shot me a look. "Value," he corrected. "I invest in potential and ensure it's realized."

Dad's smile widened. "Ah, a fixer."

I nearly choked. "A what?"

"He's the kind of man who walks into a mess and makes sense of it," Dad said proudly, sipping his wine. "We could use one of those at the café. The espresso machine's been leaking for years."

Adrian's lips twitched - not a smile, but close. "Perhaps I could take a look."

"You'd get grease on your cufflinks," I said.

"I own more cufflinks."

Dad laughed, delighted. "I like this one."

Excuse me?

It only got worse.

Dad leaned in, asking question after question, and Adrian - the man who normally rationed words like oxygen - actually answered.

He talked about his mother's art collection, his love for old architecture, and even admitted he used to sneak into his father's office as a child just to watch business meetings.

Dad was enthralled.

"So, you've always been driven," he said. "That's good. A man needs direction."

Adrian inclined his head. "I agree."

"And patience," Dad added. "Marriage takes patience."

"Tell me about it," I muttered.

Dad didn't hear. Adrian definitely did.

Dad chuckled. "You remind me of myself when I first met her mother. Serious. Sharp. The kind of man who plans his whole life."

There was a brief silence. Then Adrian said quietly, "She must've been extraordinary."

"She was," Dad said, eyes softening. "Talia gets her stubbornness from her."

"Stubbornness?" Adrian echoed, glancing at me. "I hadn't noticed."

I kicked him under the table.

He didn't even flinch.

By dessert, Dad was completely won over.

"These scones are wonderful," Adrian said, genuinely. "Thank you for bringing them."

Dad leaned back, beaming. "You're a good man, Adrian. I can tell."

I nearly dropped my fork. "Dad!"

"What? He's polite, grounded, and he clearly cares about you."

Adrian blinked. "I-"

I jumped in. "Dad, we've known each other for-"

"Long enough," Adrian finished smoothly, tone perfectly composed but his eyes glinting with quiet amusement.

Dad nodded approvingly. "That's right. Some people just fit."

I looked between them, horrified. "Fit? Are we talking about a marriage or a jigsaw puzzle?"

Dad chuckled and reached for his wine. "You two are adorable."

Adrian met my glare over the rim of his glass, a faint smirk ghosting at the corner of his mouth.

After dinner, Dad insisted on seeing the balcony view. Adrian led him out, pointing toward the skyline.

Hopefully he doesn't tell him my most embarrassing moments or something…