Cassie stood in the living room, staring at Garrison's rigid back.

She took a slow breath, letting the air fill her lungs to calm her racing heart. She could not let this first attempt at breaking the ice fail. If she let him ignore her now, the pattern would be set forever.

She slipped off her designer jacket and tossed it casually over the back of a cream-colored sofa.

She walked forward. She made sure her footsteps were audible, not trying to sneak up on him. She stopped just two feet behind him-close enough to smell the sharp, clean scent of his cedarwood cologne, but far enough to respect his physical boundaries.

In the reflection of the massive glass window, Cassie saw Garrison's jaw tighten.

His fingers tightened around his whiskey glass. His knuckles turned white. His body was physically rejecting her proximity.

Cassie cleared her throat.

"Are you exhausted from the flight?" Cassie asked, keeping her tone light and breezy. "Do you want to have dinner together tonight?"

The words dropped into the silent room like a live grenade.

Over in the open-concept kitchen, Marta, the head housekeeper, dropped a silver spoon. It clattered loudly against the granite countertop.

Marta gasped and stared at Cassie with wide, terrified eyes.

In this house, the husband and wife eating together was strictly forbidden. They ate at separate times, in separate rooms. That was the rule.

Garrison slowly turned his head.

He looked over his shoulder at Cassie. His blue eyes were wide with genuine shock. He scanned her face, his gaze piercing, trying to find the hidden agenda behind her invitation.

Cassie didn't flinch. She met his intense stare head-on.

She tilted her head slightly to the side and gave him a soft, innocent smile. She looked completely relaxed, as if asking her estranged husband to dinner was the most normal thing in the world.

Garrison stared at her for five full seconds. The silence was so heavy it made Cassie's ears ring.

Finally, Garrison gave a single, microscopic dip of his chin.

He agreed.

Cassie's stomach did a little flip of victory. Order secured.

She kept her smile perfectly composed. She turned away from him and looked toward the kitchen.

"Marta," Cassie called out smoothly. "Please set the table for two tonight."

Marta looked like she was going to faint. She blinked rapidly, then nodded her head so fast it looked painful. She immediately started rushing around the kitchen, pulling out extra plates.

Half an hour later, Cassie and Garrison sat at the massive mahogany dining table.

Seeing the two place settings at opposite ends of the vast table, Cassie paused. Then, without a word, she picked up her plate and cutlery, walked the length of the table, and placed her setting directly to the right of Garrison's chair. She sat down, completely ignoring Marta's horrified gasp from the kitchen.

The dining room was dead silent. The only sound was the faint, metallic scrape of Garrison's knife cutting into his steak.

The air in the room felt thick and oppressive. It was hard to breathe.

Garrison kept his eyes glued to his plate. His movements were precise, elegant, and completely mechanical. He had zero intention of interacting with her.

Cassie chewed on a piece of lettuce from her salad. It tasted like cardboard.

Eating like this felt like attending a funeral. She couldn't stand it. She had to break the silence.

Cassie put her fork down. She picked up her crystal wine glass and swirled the red liquid gently.

"The steak looks perfect today," Cassie said, her voice cutting through the quiet. "Marta really outdid herself with the sear."

Garrison stopped chewing.

He slowly lifted his head and looked down the length of the table at her. His eyes were dark and full of warning. The look clearly said: Do not speak while eating.

Cassie pretended she didn't understand the threat.

"The weather in Manhattan was actually decent today," Cassie continued, taking a small sip of her wine. "Though the traffic on Lexington was an absolute nightmare. I ended up taking a Citi Bike home."

In the corner of the dining room, Marta stood frozen. She was gripping her white apron so tightly her knuckles were pale. She looked terrified, waiting for Garrison to explode and walk out.

Garrison put his knife and fork down on his plate.

He picked up his crisp white linen napkin and wiped the corner of his mouth. His movements were slow and deliberate.

He rested his forearms on the table and stared directly at Cassie.

Cassie felt a cold sweat break out on the back of her neck under his intense gaze. But she forced herself to keep going.

"How was the weather in Frankfurt?" Cassie asked, offering him a polite smile.

Garrison didn't reach into his jacket pocket. He didn't pull out the digital writing tablet he usually used to communicate with the staff.

He just sat there, staring at her like she was an alien species that had just landed on his dining table.

Cassie realized she was pushing too hard. He wasn't going to use his tablet. He was shutting down.

She quickly pivoted.

"You know what, you don't have to answer," Cassie said softly, her tone dropping into something much more gentle. "I know you're exhausted from the trip. Just eat. I'll do the talking."

Garrison's eyes flickered.

The hard, defensive line of his shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. He looked surprised that she was backing off, that she recognized his boundary and respected it.

He picked up his water glass and took a slow sip. He didn't look away from her.

Cassie noticed the subtle relaxation in his jaw. The boiling frog strategy was working.

For the rest of the dinner, Cassie didn't ask him any more direct questions.

Instead, she provided a steady stream of light, meaningless chatter. She talked about a funny dog she saw in Central Park. She talked about a new coffee shop opening downstairs.

She created a comfortable blanket of white noise.

To her absolute shock, Garrison didn't leave.

Usually, the second he finished his last bite of food, he would stand up and vanish into his study.

Tonight, he finished his steak. He finished his water. And he stayed in his chair.

He sat there in silence, watching her as she slowly finished her dessert.

When Cassie finally put her spoon down, Garrison stood up. He buttoned his suit jacket with one smooth motion, preparing to head to his study.

Cassie sat in her chair and watched him walk away.

A triumphant smile spread across her face. Phase one of desensitization therapy was a massive success.

Marta and another maid rushed forward the second Garrison stepped away from the table.

They cleared the china plates with terrifying speed. Their movements were so careful and practiced that the porcelain didn't make a single clinking sound. They were terrified of shattering the fragile peace.

Garrison walked down the long, dimly lit hallway toward his study.

His long legs ate up the distance. His back was stiff. He radiated a cold, unapproachable energy that usually kept everyone in the penthouse at least ten feet away.

Cassie pulled her napkin off her lap and tossed it onto the table.

"Garrison. Wait."

Cassie's voice rang out clearly.

The maids froze in terror. Marta squeezed her eyes shut, looking like she was praying. The Madam has lost her mind, Marta thought.

Halfway down the hall, Garrison's footsteps stopped abruptly.

His tall frame went completely rigid. He stood frozen under the warm glow of a wall sconce.

Very slowly, he turned around.

He looked at Cassie across the distance of the hallway. His deep blue eyes were narrowed, assessing her. He was waiting to see if she had a legitimate emergency, or if she was just trying to annoy him.

Cassie didn't hesitate. She walked briskly toward him.

She stopped about three feet away-close enough to talk without raising her voice, but far enough to keep him from feeling trapped.

Garrison stared down at her. He reached into the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket.

He pulled out a sleek, ultra-thin digital writing tablet and a stylus. He held it at waist level, waiting for her to speak.

Cassie let out a quiet breath of relief.

He pulled out the tablet. That meant he was willing to engage. He wasn't shutting her out completely.

"I just wanted to let you know about my schedule tomorrow," Cassie said, her tone casual and professional. "I'm heading to the Broadcasting Network headquarters. We have a massive pitch meeting for a new reality show."

Garrison's eyebrows pulled together in a deep frown.

He looked genuinely baffled. In the entire history of their arranged marriage, she had never once informed him of her daily whereabouts.

"I might have to work late," Cassie continued, ignoring his confusion. "I just wanted to tell you so Marta doesn't waste expensive ingredients making dinner for two if I'm not here."

Garrison's fingers tightened around the stylus.

He stared at her face, trying to process this incredibly mundane, domestic piece of information.

He looked down at his tablet. The stylus hit the screen.

He wrote quickly, his hand moving in sharp, aggressive strokes. He flipped the tablet around and held it up for her to read.

His handwriting was a jagged, angry scrawl.

Acknowledged. Is there anything else?

Cassie looked at the cold words on the glowing screen. The tone was harsh, but the fact that he responded at all made her heart leap with confidence.

Cassie shook her head. She gave him a soft, genuine smile.

"No, that's it," Cassie said gently. "I just wanted to share my day with you. We are husband and wife, after all."

At the word "wife", a flicker of something unreadable crossed Garrison's eyes.

His hand holding the stylus tightened for a fraction of a second, the only outward sign that her words had breached his defenses.

He abruptly turned his head and looked away from her face, staring hard at the wall over her shoulder.

He didn't write another word.

He shoved the tablet back into his jacket pocket. He turned around and practically marched toward his study. His footsteps were noticeably faster than before. He was fleeing.

Cassie stood in the hallway, watching him run away.

She didn't feel rejected. She felt a bubble of laughter rise in her throat. The terrifying, ruthless Wall Street billionaire was actually flustered. It was incredibly cute.

Garrison reached the end of the hall. He grabbed the heavy brass handle of the solid oak study door.

He stepped inside his sanctuary. He pushed the door closed behind him.

But right before the latch clicked into place, his hand stopped.

For some inexplicable reason, he didn't pull the door completely shut. He left it open. Just a tiny crack. A two-inch gap between the door and the frame.

Cassie stood perfectly still in the hallway. Her eyes locked onto that narrow sliver of darkness.

A massive, victorious smile broke across her face.

Marta scurried up behind Cassie. The housekeeper kept her voice to a terrified whisper.

"Mrs. Harvey, please," Marta pleaded. "Mr. Harvey hates being disturbed when he is in his study. You should go to your room."

Cassie turned and patted Marta gently on the shoulder.

"Don't worry, Marta," Cassie whispered back, her eyes sparkling. "I know exactly what I'm doing."

Cassie turned and walked toward her own bedroom, her steps light and bouncy.

Inside the study, Garrison sat down heavily in his massive leather desk chair.

His desk was covered in thick files for a multi-billion dollar corporate merger. But he wasn't looking at the papers.

He was staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the two-inch gap in the doorway.

The warm yellow light from the hallway spilled through the crack, painting a bright, thin line across his dark Persian rug.

Garrison lifted a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a dull ache building in his temples.

He was furious with himself. Why didn't he shut the door? Why did he leave it open for her?

In her bedroom, Cassie kicked off her slippers. She threw herself onto the massive, soft mattress.

She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, replaying every second of the night in her head.

She clenched her fists in excitement. Garrison's icy exterior was full of cracks. He wasn't a machine. He was a man with a severe trauma response, and she was going to carefully, methodically break down his walls.

The trust fund was as good as hers.

Cassie tossed and turned on the massive silk sheets.

She looked at the digital clock on her nightstand. It was 10:00 PM. Her mind was buzzing with too much energy to sleep.

Her throat felt dry. She decided to go to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Cassie slipped out of bed. She was wearing a simple, thin silk slip dress that fell to her mid-thigh. She didn't bother putting on a robe. The penthouse was always kept at a perfectly climate-controlled seventy-two degrees.

She walked barefoot out of her bedroom and padded softly down the hallway.

As she approached the kitchen, she had to pass Garrison's study.

She slowed her steps. She looked at the heavy oak door.

The two-inch gap was still there.

A sliver of pale light from his desk lamp spilled out into the dark hallway.

Cassie stood outside the door, holding her empty glass. She debated with herself for three seconds. Should she push her luck?

Her survival instinct said yes. Strike while the iron is hot.

Cassie reached out and pushed the heavy door.

The brass hinges let out a tiny, almost inaudible squeak.

Behind the desk, Garrison's head snapped up instantly. His eyes were sharp and alert, like a predator sensing movement in the brush.

Cassie leaned casually against the wooden doorframe. She held her water glass loosely against her chest. Her posture was completely relaxed, a stark contrast to the stiff, formal woman she had been at dinner.

Garrison's eyes swept over her.

He took in her bare shoulders, the thin silk of her nightgown, and her bare legs.

Cassie saw his throat move as he swallowed hard. He immediately jerked his gaze away from her body and stared fiercely at the financial documents on his desk.

Cassie pretended not to notice his panic.

"I couldn't sleep," Cassie said softly, her voice echoing slightly in the large, book-lined room. "I thought I'd come bother you for a minute."

Garrison's brow furrowed aggressively.

He reached out and grabbed his digital tablet from the corner of the desk. He gripped the stylus, ready to write a harsh dismissal to send her back to bed.

Cassie didn't give him the chance.

She completely ignored his defensive posture and just started talking.

"When I was a kid living in Brooklyn, I used to have terrible insomnia," Cassie said, her voice light and conversational. "My mom used to make me count the sirens going past our window. It never worked. It just made me anxious."

Garrison's hand froze in mid-air. The stylus hovered an inch above the screen.

He tried to force his eyes back to the merger documents. He tried to read the complex legal jargon. But the words blurred together.

Cassie's voice filled the room. It wasn't loud, but it was vibrant. It carried a strange, soothing rhythm that cut through the oppressive silence he usually demanded.

"One time, I tried counting the rats in the alley instead," Cassie continued, a bright smile breaking across her face. She let out a sudden, clear laugh. "I got to twelve before I realized how disgusting that was."

Her laughter bounced off the mahogany bookshelves. It was a sound that had never existed in this room before.

Garrison took a sharp, deep breath.

He dropped the stylus. He lifted his head and glared at her. He poured all of his cold, intimidating CEO energy into that stare. It was a look that usually made grown men on Wall Street sweat and stutter.

Cassie's laughter faded.

She met his gaze. She didn't look away, but she saw the intense conflict burning behind his blue eyes. He was frustrated, but he wasn't angry. He was overwhelmed.

Cassie stood up straight, pushing off the doorframe. Her playful demeanor vanished, replaced by a quiet sincerity.

"I know I talk a lot," Cassie said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. She watched his face carefully. "Am I annoying you? Do you want me to leave?"

The air in the study grew heavy.

Garrison stared at her. He saw the genuine hesitation in her eyes. She was giving him an out. She was giving him the power to banish her back to the silence.

His chest tightened painfully. His instinct screamed at him to push her away, to protect his quiet isolation.

He looked down at the tablet. He picked up the stylus.

He held the pen over the screen for a long, agonizing moment. His knuckles were white. The internal war between his trauma and his sudden, terrifying craving for her presence raged inside him.

Cassie watched his hesitation. Her heart sank.

She had pushed too far. She had triggered his defenses.

"I'm sorry," Cassie whispered, looking down at her bare feet. "I'll go."

She turned around, ready to walk back to her cold, empty bedroom.

SCREECH.

A harsh, grating sound ripped through the room.

Cassie gasped and spun around.

Garrison had shoved the digital tablet violently across the polished wood of his desk. It stopped right at the edge, facing her.

Cassie walked slowly toward the desk. She looked down at the glowing screen.

There were only two words written on it. The handwriting was messy, rushed, and completely out of character for his usual precise strokes.

It's fine.

Cassie stared at the words. A massive wave of relief crashed over her.

She looked up at Garrison. He was refusing to look at her, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. He was embarrassed by his own concession.

Cassie broke into a blindingly bright smile. It was the smile of a woman who had just won a war.

She raised her empty water glass in the air, offering him a mock toast.

"Goodnight, Garrison," Cassie said cheerfully.

She turned and walked out of the study, her bare feet making soft padding sounds against the floor.

Before she left, she reached out and grabbed the heavy oak door. She pulled it shut.

Click.

The door closed completely, sealing him back into his silent world.

Garrison sat frozen in his chair. He stared at the closed door.

He listened to the faint sound of her footsteps fading down the hallway. As the silence rushed back into the room, his rigid posture finally collapsed. His shoulders slumped forward.

He looked down at the tablet. He stared at his own messy handwriting. It's fine.

It was a lie. It wasn't fine. Her presence was chaotic and loud and terrifying.

He reached out and hit the delete button. The screen went black.

Garrison leaned his head back against the leather chair and closed his eyes. But the darkness didn't help. All he could see was the image of her standing in his doorway, laughing.

Down the hall, Cassie practically dove into her bed.

She rolled around in the silk sheets, kicking her legs in the air. She had secured the bag. The ice king had compromised.

The trust fund was safe.