The ballroom at The Pierre was a golden cage. Crystal chandeliers, thousands of white roses, and enough champagne to drown a navy.

Blaire stood in the bridal suite bathroom, staring at herself.

Her mother, Eleanor, stood behind her. She wasn't hugging her. She was fixing a stray curl on her head.

"You look pale," she criticized. "Pinch your cheeks. We need color."

"Mom," Blaire said, her voice flat. "Jeffery left me."

"And Declan saved us," her mother snapped. "Do you have any idea how lucky we are? The Singleton capital injection is already pending. Your father is breathing for the first time in months."

"I'm not a business asset, Mom. I'm your daughter."

Eleanor paused. For a second, Blaire thought she might soften.

"You are an English," her mother said firmly. "Act like it. Now go out there and make your husband happy."

She turned and left.

Blaire let out a shaky breath. She grabbed her red lipstick-her war paint-and applied a fresh coat. She looked like a killer. Good.

She walked back out. Declan was waiting near the entrance. He was surrounded by board members, holding a tumbler of scotch. He looked relaxed. Powerful.

Blaire walked toward him.

Before she reached him, a woman intercepted him.

Fiona Witt.

She was wearing a silver dress that was barely legal. She was beautiful, rich, and had been trying to claw her way into Declan's bed for three years.

She placed a hand on Declan's forearm. She leaned in close, her chest brushing his arm.

"Declan," she purred. "What a... surprise today was. You, playing the hero? It's so unlike you."

Blaire stopped. A knot of jealousy tightened in her stomach. Not because she wanted Declan, but because Fiona was disrespecting her. Disrespecting her position.

She started to turn away. She didn't want to deal with this.

Declan's hand shot out.

He didn't look at her, but he caught her wrist as she tried to pass. His grip was iron.

He yanked her to his side. His arm went around her waist, clamping her against his hip.

"Fiona," Declan said, his voice bored. He used his free hand to peel Fiona's fingers off his sleeve like she was a piece of lint. "Have you met my wife?"

Fiona's smile faltered.

"Blaire," she said, her tone dripping with acid. "Congrats. Though I hear second choices are... disappointing."

"Careful," Declan said. His voice dropped. It wasn't loud, but it was lethal. "You are speaking to Mrs. Singleton. If you disrespect her, you disrespect me. And you know what happens to people who disrespect me."

Fiona went pale. She swallowed hard, took a step back, and disappeared into the crowd.

Blaire looked up at Declan, shocked.

He looked down at her. "Don't wander off," he muttered. "You're my shield against these vultures."

"Is that all I am?" she asked.

"For now."

The DJ's voice boomed. "Ladies and gentlemen, please clear the floor for Mr. and Mrs. Singleton's first dance!"

Declan took her glass of champagne and set it on a passing tray.

"Showtime," he said.

He led her to the center of the floor. He placed one hand on her waist and took her other hand.

The music started. A classic waltz.

Declan moved with surprising grace. He led her effortlessly, his body guiding hers.

His hand on her back was hot. His fingers splayed wide, touching bare skin. Every time he pulled her closer, she felt the hardness of his chest.

"You're tense," he murmured.

"I'm dancing with the enemy," she replied.

"I'm not your enemy, Blaire. I'm your savior."

"You're an opportunist."

"Same thing."

She tried to step out of rhythm, just to annoy him. To prove she had some control.

He corrected her instantly. He spun her out and yanked her back in, dipping her low.

Her hair swept the floor. His face was inches from hers.

"In the boardroom, you can argue," he whispered, his eyes locked on her lips. "In the bedroom, you can fight. But on the dance floor? You follow me."

Her breath hitched. The double entendre hung in the air, heavy and thick.

He pulled her upright.

Barrett appeared at the edge of the dance floor as the song ended. He looked anxious.

"Declan," Barrett started. "About the restructuring of the Asian division..."

Declan didn't even look at him.

"Not tonight, Barrett," Declan said coldly. "It's my wedding night. I'm not discussing business."

"But-"

"Go away," Declan said.

Barrett retreated.

Blaire stared at Declan. He had just dismissed her brother-the CEO-like a servant. And strangely... she liked it. Barrett had been weak today. Declan was strong.

"Let's go," Declan said abruptly.

"The cake hasn't been cut," she said.

"I don't care about the cake."

He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the exit. The crowd cheered, thinking they were eager lovers rushing off to consummate the marriage.

They reached the elevators.

Declan didn't wait. He swept her up into his arms, bridal style.

"Declan!" she shrieked, grabbing his neck instinctively.

"Shut up," he grunted, carrying her into the elevator.

The doors closed. The noise of the party vanished.

It was just them. In a small metal box.

She could feel his heart beating against her side. It was steady. Slow.

"Put me down," she said.

"Save your energy," he said, looking straight ahead at the floor numbers. "It's going to be a long night."

Her stomach did a flip.

"What does that mean?" she whispered.

He didn't answer.

The elevator opened to the private garage. His driver was waiting.

They got in. The car pulled out, heading toward Central Park West. Toward his fortress. Toward the unknown.

The elevator opened directly into the penthouse.

It was vast. That was the first thing Blaire noticed. The ceilings were twenty feet high. The walls were glass, offering a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline that cost more than her life.

But it was cold.

Everything was gray, black, or white. Minimalist. Sharp edges. No photos. No flowers. It looked like a museum, not a home.

An older woman in a crisp uniform was waiting by the foyer.

"Good evening, Mr. Singleton," she said. She looked at Blaire, her eyes widening slightly. "And... Mrs. Singleton."

"Mrs. Higgins," Declan said, shrugging off his tuxedo jacket. He handed it to her. "This is Blaire."

"Welcome, madam," she said politely.

"Where is the guest room?" Blaire asked, clutching her clutch like a shield. "I'd like to unpack."

Mrs. Higgins paused. She looked at Declan, confused.

"The other bedrooms are part of my private wing," Declan said. He was unbuttoning his cuffs. "They are not for guests. You will sleep in the master suite."

"This place is eight thousand square feet," Blaire said, looking around. "Don't tell me there's only one bed."

"There are three bedrooms," Declan said calmly. "But Mrs. Higgins, put her bags in the master suite."

"Yes, sir." Mrs. Higgins grabbed Blaire's luggage and scurried away.

"Declan!" Blaire snapped.

He turned to her. He walked closer, forcing her to back up until her heels hit the wall of the foyer.

He placed one hand on the wall next to her head. He leaned in.

"We are married, Blaire," he said. "The Singleton family does not do separate bedrooms. It implies dysfunction."

"This is dysfunction!" she argued. "It's a business deal!"

"I spent two billion dollars to merge our companies," he said, his voice low. "Do you think I did that to have a roommate?"

Blaire stared at him. "You... you expect..."

"I expect a wife," he said. "Go shower. You smell like fear and hairspray."

He pushed off the wall and walked toward the bar.

Blaire stood there, shaking.

She turned and followed Mrs. Higgins.

The master bedroom was enormous. And right in the center was a bed. A massive, California King bed with black silk sheets. It looked like an altar to sin.

Her clothes were already hanging in the closet. Her bright, colorful dresses looked ridiculous next to his row of severe black suits.

She went into the bathroom. It was all marble and glass.

She saw his razor. His cologne. His toothbrush.

She felt like an intruder.

She locked the door. She turned on the shower, making it scalding hot. She scrubbed her skin until it was pink, trying to wash away the day.

She stayed in there for forty minutes.

Finally, the water turned cold. She turned it off.

She reached for a towel and dried off. Then she realized she had forgotten her pajamas. They were in the suitcase in the bedroom.

"Damn it," she whispered.

She looked around. There was a black robe hanging on the back of the door.

She had no choice.

She put it on. It was huge. The sleeves hung past her hands. It smelled like him-that intoxicating mix of cedar and spice. Being wrapped in it felt like being hugged by him.

She took a deep breath. He's probably asleep. Or downstairs.

She unlocked the door and stepped out.

The room was dim.

Declan was sitting in a leather armchair by the window. He had a glass of whiskey in his hand. He had taken off his shirt.

Her breath caught.

He was... sculpted. Layers of hard muscle shifted under his skin as he raised the glass to his lips. A dusting of dark hair covered his chest, trailing down his flat stomach and disappearing into his dress pants.

He looked at her.

His eyes swept over her wet hair, down the oversized robe, to her bare feet.

He didn't say a word. He just stared. The air in the room grew heavy. Charged.

Blaire pulled the lapels of the robe tighter.

"I... I'm going to sleep on the sofa," she stammered.

Declan set the glass down. The sound of crystal hitting the coaster was sharp.

He stood up.

He walked toward her. Slow. Predatory.

"The bed is big enough, Blaire," he said. "Don't make me carry you."

She looked at the bed. Then at him.

She knew he would do it.

"Fine," she whispered.

She walked to the far side of the bed. She dropped the robe and scrambled under the covers before he could see anything. She lay on the very edge, her back to the room.

The mattress dipped.

Declan got in.

He was hot. Like a furnace. She could feel his body heat radiating across the six inches of space between them.

She held her breath, waiting for him to touch her. To demand his "rights."

"Goodnight, Blaire," he said.

His voice was right behind her ear.

Then, the light clicked off.

She lay there in the dark, eyes wide open, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing.

Blaire woke up warm.

It was a heavy, comfortable warmth. She was wrapped around something solid. Her leg was thrown over a thick thigh. Her hand was resting on a hard, rhythmic chest.

She snuggled closer, burying her face in the crook of a neck that smelled like soap and man.

Wait.

Her eyes flew open.

She was draped over Declan like a starfish.

She gasped and scrambled backward, nearly falling off the mattress.

Declan was awake. He was lying on his back, one arm behind his head. He was watching her with amusement.

"Sleep well?" he drawled. His voice was rough with sleep. It sent a shiver down her spine.

"I... the bed is too small," she lied, her face burning.

"It's a California King, Blaire. You could land a plane on it."

He threw the covers back.

He was wearing boxer briefs. Just boxer briefs.

Blaire squeezed her eyes shut. "Put some clothes on!"

"It's my room," he said. She heard his footsteps moving toward the bathroom. "You have ten minutes. Breakfast is at eight."

Blaire waited until the bathroom door closed before she exhaled.

She got dressed in record time. A high-necked blouse and trousers. Armor.

She went out to the dining area.

Declan was sitting at the head of the table, reading the Wall Street Journal. He was dressed in a suit now, looking like the shark he was.

A plate of eggs and fruit was waiting for her.

She sat down.

"We need to talk," she said. "About boundaries."

Declan lowered the paper. He took a sip of black coffee.

"Go on."

"I want a separate room," she said. "And privacy. We don't need to... cohabitate like this."

"Blaire," he said, setting the cup down. "You need to understand the concept of 'joint assets'."

"I am not an asset."

"To the board, you are. And right now, the board is nervous. Jeffery's stunt made us look unstable. They want reassurance."

"What kind of reassurance?"

"An heir," he said simply.

Blaire choked on her water. "Excuse me?"

"Not immediately," he added, waving a hand. "But they need to believe we are a real couple. That we are... trying. If we sleep in separate rooms, the staff will talk. If the staff talks, the press talks. If the press talks, the stock drops."

"So I have to sleep in your bed to save the stock price?"

"Essentially."

He stood up and walked around the table. He stopped behind her chair. He placed his hands on the back of it, leaning down. She could feel his breath on her neck.

"Also," he whispered, "I solved your liquidity problem. The debt on the English Tower? I paid it off this morning."

Blaire stiffened. That debt had been drowning them.

"You... you did?"

"Consider it a wedding gift."

She felt a confusing mix of gratitude and resentment. He was buying her. Piece by piece.

"Fine," she said, her voice tight. "I'll stay in the room. But you don't touch me. Unless there are people watching."

Declan smirked. She could hear the smile in his voice.

"Deal. But remember, in this house, Mrs. Higgins counts as 'people'."

"What?"

Before Blaire could react, Mrs. Higgins walked in with the coffee pot.

Declan leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. It lingered. His lips were warm.

"Good morning, darling," he said loudly.

Blaire froze. Mrs. Higgins beamed at them.

"You're a jerk," she whispered.

"I'm a devoted husband," he corrected. He grabbed his briefcase. "We have a charity gala tonight. Be ready at seven. Wear something... accessible."

He walked out.

Blaire stabbed her eggs with a fork.

Her phone buzzed. It was her father's secretary.

The debt is gone, Ms. English. It's a miracle.

Blaire looked at the door Declan had just walked through.

He was a devil. But he was a devil who kept his word.