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.

At 6:30 PM, Blaire walked into Declan's study.

She was wearing an emerald green gown. She held a stack of papers in her hand.

Declan was at his desk, signing documents. He looked up. His eyes swept over the dress, lingering on the slit up her thigh.

"Nice dress," he said.

"I have a contract," Blaire said, slamming the papers on his mahogany desk.

He raised an eyebrow. "Another one?"

"A Marital Agreement," she said. "Since you insist on this charade. Clause one: No unnecessary physical contact in private. Clause two: No entering the bathroom while occupied. Clause three: All public appearances must be scheduled and approved by both parties forty-eight hours in advance. Clause four: Outside of these appearances and necessary cohabitation, our private lives will remain separate."

Declan picked up the papers. He read the first page.

He laughed. A dark, rich sound.

"Appearances?" he asked.

"Yes."

He stood up. He held the papers in both hands.

Then, he ripped them in half.

Blaire gasped. "What are you doing?"

He stacked the halves and ripped them again. Then he dropped the confetti into the wastebasket.

"I don't sign contracts I don't intend to keep," he said.

He walked around the desk. He backed her against the bookshelf.

"I am a dictator, Blaire. Not a democrat. You don't get to set terms."

"You can't just-"

"I can. I own the mortgage. I own the company. And on paper, I own you."

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed her jaw.

"You want to hate me? Fine. Hate me. But don't try to manage me."

Suddenly, his phone rang on the desk.

He glanced at it. His expression darkened.

He pressed the speaker button.

"What," Declan barked.

"Declan?" A voice came through. Slurred. Weepy.

Jeffery.

Blaire's blood ran cold.

"I... I made a mistake, man," Jeffery sobbed. "Cathi... she's crazy. She's not who I thought she was. She just wanted the money."

Blaire covered her mouth.

"You're pathetic," Declan said coldly.

"Is Blaire there?" Jeffery asked. "Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her I'm coming back. I can fix this."

Declan looked at Blaire. He saw the tears welling in her eyes. He saw the shaking.

His jaw tightened.

"You're not coming back," Declan said. His voice was ice. "You abandoned her. You humiliated her. If you step foot in New York, I will destroy you. Stay where you are, Jeffery. Rot there."

He hung up.

The room was silent.

"He wants to come back," Blaire whispered.

"He's a fool," Declan said. "Are you still in love with him?"

She looked up. "I hate him. I hate him for leaving. I hate him for making me feel like I wasn't enough."

Declan nodded. He seemed pleased by that.

He stepped closer. He cupped her face in his hands. His thumbs wiped away a stray tear.

"Good," he said. "Use that hate. Tonight, we are going to walk into that gala, and you are going to look so happy, so radiant, that Jeffery will see the photos and wish he was dead."

"Revenge?" she asked.

"Revenge," he agreed. "Let me make you the envy of the city, Blaire. Let me show them what they lost."

Blaire looked into his eyes. For the first time, she didn't see a shark. She saw an ally. A dangerous, violent ally.

"Okay," she whispered.

"Okay."

He offered his arm.

They walked to the elevator. She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. She squeezed.

He looked down at her hand, then at her. He smiled. A real smile.

"That's it, Queen," he murmured. "Let's go to war."