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Rhys stood in front of me, coat unbuttoned, eyes darker than usual like the night pressed into them.
He didn't sit.
He didn't come closer.
He just stood there looking at me like he was trying to read every thought burning behind my ribs.
"You walked out fast," he said.
"I needed space."
"I know."
He said it like he meant it.
Like he understood.
Like he remembered being seventeen on a rainy street with me crying in front of him and how much space he created when he left.
His eyes flicked to my hands, still gripping the bench.
"You're cold," he said softly.
"I'm fine."
"You're shaking."
I looked down.
Damn it.
I unclenched my hands.
"Rhys," I murmured, "I don't need you to fix everything."
"I'm not trying to fix everything."
He paused.
"Just... something."
His voice cracked at the last word, so lightly that I almost thought I imagined it.
He finally sat beside me, leaving a careful space between us as if the air itself was fragile.
For a moment, we just breathed.
Quietly.
Cautiously.
Then he said it:
"You didn't sign because you wanted to."
"No," I agreed. "I didn't."
"You signed because of the debt."
I didn't answer.
He continued anyway.
"And because you think I owe you."
My chest tightened; I turned to him sharply.
"I never said that."
"You didn't have to."
His words were calm.
Too calm.
Like he'd already rehearsed them in his head before saying them out loud.
He looked out at the street instead of at me.
"Reece... you think I left because I wanted to."
He breathed in slowly, jaw tight.
"But the truth is more complicated than that."
There it was.
The edge of the secret.
The one he never explained.
The one that lived under my anger and grief like a splinter.
My heart pounded.
"Then tell me," I whispered. "Tell me why you left."
His hands tightened on his knees.
"Not tonight."
My chest dropped.
"Rhys, "
"Not tonight," he repeated, voice thick with something like guilt. "Because once I tell you, everything changes."
The words hit like a blade.
Because part of me already knew.
Already feared.
Already felt the shape of the truth, even if I had never touched it.
He turned to me then.
Finally.
Eyes open.
Unguarded.
And the look he gave me stole the air from my lungs.
"Reece... you're not ready for that history."
A bitter laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
"I survived the version where you walked away," I said. "How much worse could the truth possibly be?"
His silence answered for him.
Much worse.
Infinitely worse.
I stood abruptly, the weight of his unspoken confession pressing hot and heavy against my spine.
"I agreed to the marriage," I said, voice tight but steady. "Because I had no choice. Because my family needs me. Because your board needs a solution. But don't mistake that for trust."
He flinched.
Actually flinched.
"I don't trust you," I whispered.
His throat bobbed.
"I know."
"Then don't expect me to wait forever for answers that should've come years ago."
His eyes dropped.
"I'll tell you," he whispered. "When it's time."
"When it's time," I repeated, swallowing the frustration rising in my chest. "Or when the truth is convenient?"
His jaw clenched.
I immediately regretted the words, because I saw pain flash through his eyes before he hid it again.
I sighed.
"This marriage, this contract, this year... I'm doing it because I have to."
He nodded once.
"And I'm doing it," he said quietly, "because I owe you the truth."
His voice shook just enough for me to hear what he didn't say:
And I owe you more than that.
I stepped back.
"I need to go home."
He rose with me.
"I'll take you."
"No."
He froze.
I forced a breath.
"I need space tonight," I said. "And honesty tomorrow."
He didn't argue.
He just nodded.
Slowly.
Thoughtfully.
Like he was imprinting my words on his skin.
"Tomorrow, then."
I turned away.
But as I walked toward the street, his voice reached me, quiet, raw, almost broken.
"Reece."
I paused.
"Whatever you think happened," he said, "the truth is worse for me than it ever was for you."
I swallowed hard.
But I didn't look back.
I couldn't.
Because if I had turned around in that moment,
I would've seen the man I used to love.
Not the man I was forced to marry.
And that was history I wasn't ready to face.
Not yet.
Not tonight.
Not when his unspoken truth still lived like a storm on the horizon.
There is a moment, right after a life-altering choice, when the world goes perfectly, horrifyingly still.
No noise.
No movement.
Just the echo of the decision you can't take back.
That silence stayed with me long after I walked away from Rhys in the park.
Long after my anger cooled into something quieter.
Long after I realized that everything had already changed, whether I was ready or not.
And the next morning, that silence followed me right back into Sterling Tower.
Because today, the ink would dry.
And once it did, nothing fear, not regret, not unspoken history, could undo what we'd signed.
Sterling Tower, 9:02 a.m.
The elevator opened to the executive floor with a soft chime that sounded entirely too calm for the way my heart raced.
I'd barely stepped out into the marble hallway when I saw him.
Rhys.
Standing at the glass wall with his back to me, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone loosely at his side. His posture was straight, controlled, every inch of him composed like someone who knew how to command a room without speaking a word.
But the tension in his shoulders?
That wasn't business.
That was us.
As if sensing me, he turned.
His eyes found mine immediately, sharp, dark, unreadable, and for a moment neither of us moved.
Not until he slipped his phone away and said, quietly:
"Reece."
"Morning," I managed.
We stood facing each other in the wide hallway, sunlight stretching between us like a thin, fragile line.
He studied me, slowly, carefully, as if checking whether I'd slept, whether I'd eaten, whether I was still in one piece after last night's conversation.
I wasn't.
But I was standing, so that counted.
He nodded toward the conference room.
"They're waiting."
They.
The lawyers.
The notary.
The witnesses.
The people who would turn our signatures into a legally binding marriage arrangement.
A shiver crawled down my spine.
Not from fear.
From finality.
Inside the Conference Room
The room looked different today.
Or maybe I was different.
The long table was set with two thick packets, our copies of the fully executed contract. Several pens arranged neatly. A notary with a neutral expression. Two lawyers waiting with clipped professionalism.
Rhys pulled a chair out for me.
I hesitated.
Just for a heartbeat.
Then I sat.
He lowered into the seat beside me, closer than yesterday, but still leaving a polite distance between us. A distance that felt too wide and too narrow all at once.
The notary cleared her throat.
"We'll begin with verification of identity and signatures. Once complete, both parties will initial each page. After that, the agreement becomes legally binding."
My stomach tightened.
Each page.
Every line.
Every clause Rhys insisted on.
Separate rooms.
No intimacy.
Boundaries thick enough to choke on.
Public affection that wasn't real.
Ink and paper were about to make all of it irreversible.
The notary passed me the pen first.
A black fountain pen, heavy and expensive, cool against my fingers.
My name sat at the bottom of the first page.
REECE KAY.
In my handwriting.
In my decision.
My throat tightened as I touched the pen to the paper.
The soft scratch of ink felt louder than thunder.
When I finished the first initial, I inhaled shakily.
One down.
Dozens to go.
I moved through the pages slowly. Carefully. Each initial felt like attaching bricks to my ribs.
Beside me, Rhys was silent.
But I could feel his attention like heat.
Not hovering.
Just... there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Bearing witness.
When I reached the page outlining the bedroom arrangement, separate rooms, locked doors, no shared spaces after midnight, I paused.
My hand trembled.
Not because of him.
Because this page was the clearest reminder of everything we once were, and everything we'd never be again.
Rhys noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His voice dropped low, meant only for me.
"If you want to renegotiate that clause, we can."
"I don't."
He exhaled through his nose.
"Reece,"
"I signed it," I whispered. "I'll live it."
The lawyer glanced up at us curiously.
Rhys went still.
Very still.
Then he said nothing.
Because there was nothing left to say that wouldn't expose us.
Halfway Through
My fingers began to ache around the pen.
The notary kept her expression blank, but she didn't miss the tremor in my hand. No one did.
Except maybe the lawyers.
They looked at us without seeing anything.
Rhys saw everything.
When I paused to stretch my fingers, he slid a glass of water toward me without a word.
A simple gesture.
But it was the most intimate thing allowed between us.
I took a sip.
He watched my hands, not my face.
Like he knew touching me wasn't allowed, but helping me was.
"Thank you," I murmured.
He nodded once, jaw tight.
It wasn't gratitude he reacted to.
It was the softness.
Softness that wasn't supposed to exist anymore.
The Final Page
The last page nearly undid me.
Not because of the words.
But because the space for my signature waited directly above Rhys's.
Two names.
One last act binding us together.
For one year.
For stability.
For survival.
For everything except love.
My chest rose and fell too fast.
The pen felt heavier than it should.
My breath hitched before I touched ink to paper.
This was it.
The end of freedom.
The beginning of something else entirely.
I signed.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Fully.
The moment the ink settled, something inside me shifted, like a door creaking shut behind me.
I wasn't sure whether I'd stepped into a cage or a sanctuary.
Maybe both.
The notary turned the document to Rhys.
His pen rested between his fingers, steady, controlled, annoyingly confident.
But his eyes?
They weren't steady at all.
He looked at my signature for a long moment.
Too long.
As if he was memorizing it.
As if part of him still couldn't believe it was there.
Then he signed beneath mine.
RHYS STERLING LAWSON.
His handwriting was sharp, deliberate, unmistakable.
And when the pen lifted,
when the loop of the last letter dried,
a quiet crackle filled the air.
A shift.
A current.
Electric.
Undeniable.
Not seen.
But felt.
It pulsed between us, through us, like something ancient waking up under the weight of ink.
The notary smiled professionally.
"Congratulations. The agreement is officially binding."
Congratulations.
As if we'd just won something.
Rhys didn't look away from the page.
Neither did I.
Because that paper wasn't just a contract.
It was a burial.
A rebirth.
A battlefield.
And somewhere deep beneath my ribs, a truth throbbed:
This wasn't the end of anything.
It was the beginning of a story neither of us were ready to tell.
Afterward
Everyone stood.
Chairs scraping. Papers shuffling. Lawyers packing up their briefcases.
But Rhys and I remained seated.
Frozen at the same moment.
The ink between us is cooling like molten metal.
He finally lifted his gaze to mine.
His voice came out low and hoarse:
"It's done."
I nodded.
"Yes."
"Reece..."
My heart stumbled.
Not because of the word.
Because of the way he said it.
Soft.
Raw.
Like the name meant something again.
He swallowed tightly.
"Are you alright?"
I should've lied.
I should've said I was fine.
But the contract didn't just bind us.
It took honesty with it.
"No," I whispered. "Not really."
His jaw clenched.
The kind of clench that meant he wanted to reach for me but knew he couldn't.
The distance between us suddenly felt unbearable.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Like everything I'd ever wanted from him was sitting on the tip of a knife we weren't allowed to touch.
Then he said something I didn't expect.
"Neither am I."
The words were quiet.
Unsteady.
Almost broken.
I inhaled sharply.
The lawyer opened the door.
"We can escort you both downstairs,"
Rhys held up a hand.
"Give us a moment."
The lawyers stepped out.
Silence filled the room again.
Thick. Heavy. Charged.
I looked down at my hands.
He looked at me.
And for one terrifying second, I felt it:
The contract might've ruled out intimacy...
...but it didn't kill what lived between us.
It only buried it under rules.
Rules that were already shaking.
Already cracking.
Already struggling to contain everything we weren't saying.
Rhys exhaled slowly.
Quietly.
Then he whispered, almost to himself:
"The ink is dry."
He wasn't talking about the paper.
He was talking about us.
About the finality.
About the year ahead.
About the past we were both still drowning in.
I stood before I lost the ability to.
"We should go."
He rose too.
But he didn't walk ahead of me.
Or behind me.
He walked beside me.
As if we were already married.
As if the contract wasn't made of distance.
As if ink had the power to change everything,
and maybe it already has.
I kept my eyes forward.
Because if I looked at him,
if I let myself feel anything beyond survival,
I knew exactly what would happen,
and what could never happen again.
The ink was dry.
But nothing else was.
Not us.
Not our history.
Not the storm waiting between the lines we signed.
And the worst part?
Somewhere deep in my chest...
a small, reckless part of me whispered that I wasn't afraid of the storm.
I was afraid of what it might uncover.
I never realized how small my apartment was until the moment I unlocked the door and stepped inside with the weight of a signed marriage contract pressing between my shoulder blades.
Maybe it wasn't the space that felt small.
Maybe it was me.
Maybe it was everything I had been holding together with thin thread, fear, duty, resentment, memories, and now that the ink was dry, I didn't know where to put any of it.
The door clicked shut behind me.
My choice.
My freedom.
My life before Rhys Sterling re-entered it like a storm that didn't ask for permission.
I dropped my keys into the ceramic bowl by the door and exhaled shakily.
"Okay," I whispered to myself. "Focus."
Pack.
Sort.
Prepare.
Because tomorrow, I will move into his world.
And tonight, I would say goodbye to mine.
I walked into the bedroom and pulled out the old suitcase from under my bed, its wheels squeaking in protest. I unzipped it and began folding clothes mechanically, stacking them in neat piles that looked far more organized than I felt.
Shirt.
Jeans.
Sweater.
Breath.
Breathe, Reece.
You signed the contract.
You can handle the fallout.
I shoved another shirt into the suitcase, ignoring the way my fingers shook.
But I wasn't ready for the knock.
Soft.
Low.
Two controlled taps.
Not a neighbor.
Not a delivery.
Not someone who didn't know me.
My heart slammed into my ribs.
No.
Not here.
Not now.
But my feet already knew the truth, moving me toward the door even before my mind caught up.
I opened it.
Rhys stood there.
Tall. Composed. Still wearing his suit from the signing, jacket unbuttoned, tie slightly loosened as if he'd been pulling at it.
His eyes dragged over me, my messy hair, my bare feet, the half-packed suitcase behind me.
And the muscles in his jaw tightened.
"Reece."
My voice barely made it out.
"What are you doing here?"
He didn't enter.
Didn't assume.
He simply held my gaze, the hallway lighting turning his eyes darker than usual.
"You left quickly," he said quietly.
"I needed air."
"And I needed to know you were okay."
Something inside me twisted.
"That's not part of the contract," I said softly.
His expression changed, pain, barely there, swiftly masked.
"No," he murmured. "It's not."
The silence between us stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the muffled hum of distant elevators.
For a moment I thought he'd leave.
But then his eyes shifted past me, landing on the open suitcase.
"You're packing."
"Obviously."
"Let me help."
"No."
He blinked. "Why not?"
"Because I don't want you in this space," I said, the truth cutting through me. "Not yet. This is my past. My life before all... this."
"And you want to evict it alone?" he asked quietly.
"It's not your burden."
He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, something he only did when he was trying very hard to look calm.
"Reece, you signed a contract tying your life to mine for a year. If you think I'm going to let you carry every difficult part alone,"
"You don't get to do that," I snapped.
"Do what?"
"Sound like you care."
His inhale was sharp.
I regretted the words instantly.
But I didn't take them back.
Because they were true.
He closed his eyes for a second, as if steadying himself.
When he opened them again, something raw flickered there.
"May I come in?" he asked, voice softer.
The question surprised me.
The politeness.
The patience.
Rhys Sterling, waiting for permission.
I stepped aside.
He entered slowly, eyes sweeping over the apartment the way you look at a museum piece, careful, quiet, almost reverent.
"This is... very you," he said.
"Small?"
"Warm," he corrected.
Warm.
My chest tightened.
"This part of your life mattered," he added. "You don't have to pretend it didn't."
I didn't know what to say.
He walked to the suitcase but didn't touch it. Instead, he looked at the bookshelf, the messy stack of books beside it, the candle burned halfway down, the chipped coffee mug I'd used as a pen holder.
"I didn't know you liked thrillers," he murmured, fingers hovering near a spine but not touching.
"You didn't know a lot of things."
He turned.
Our eyes collided.
And suddenly the room felt too small, too quiet, too charged with all the things we couldn't say.
I swallowed. "Why did you come here, Rhys?"
"To help," he said.
"No. The truth."
He inhaled deeply.
"I didn't like how we left things."
"You mean the part where we signed a contract declaring emotional distance?"
His jaw tightened.
"Reece..."
"No." I stepped closer. "Say it."
Something inside him cracked, just slightly.
"I didn't like seeing you walk away as if you were preparing for a sentence instead of a partnership."
The words punched the air out of me.
We stood close now.
Too close.
I could feel his breath on my cheek.
Feel the heat radiating between us.
Feel the tether that never really broke, even when everything else did.
He lifted a hand, slowly, toward my face.
He didn't touch me.
He hovered.
Barely an inch away from my skin.
"Are you afraid of me?" he whispered.
"Yes."
His breath hitched.
"Why?"
"Because you make me remember," I said. "And I'm trying so hard to forget."
His hand trembled.
Very slightly.
And then,
He stepped closer.
The gap between us was a breath.
"Reece," he said, voice low, wrecked. "I remember too."
The air thickened.
My pulse roared.
His forehead nearly brushed mine, so close we shared the same breath.
If either of us leaned in, even half an inch,
The contract would shatter.
We would shatter.
Everything would change.
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
My heartbeat lurched painfully.
"Don't," I whispered.
He swallowed. "I'm not touching you."
"You want to."
"Yes."
The admission stole my breath.
His hand dropped from the air between us, curling into a fist at his side as if he physically fought the urge to reach for me.
The tension snapped like a live wire.
I stepped back first.
Because if I didn't, I wouldn't step back at all.
He exhaled shakily, the sound rough, defeated.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For what?"
"For almost crossing the line. For wanting to."
I didn't tell him I wanted to too.
I didn't tell him my knees felt weak.
I didn't tell him I felt the same magnetic pull I'd sworn to bury forever.
Instead, I pointed to the suitcase.
"You came to help? Then help me pack."
The tension didn't go away.
It simmered under every word, every breath, every small brush of proximity as we moved around the room.
He folded my sweaters with military precision.
I shoved my socks into a corner to avoid looking at him.
He handed me my charger.
Our fingers almost touched.
Almost.
It was torture.
Beautiful.
Excruciating.
Unavoidable.
And when we finished, he closed the suitcase with a quiet click.
Finished.
Except nothing felt finished.
He lifted the suitcase effortlessly with one hand, then turned back to me.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
"No," I admitted. "But I'm going anyway."
He nodded.
"Then I'll walk with you."
"Why?"
"Because," he said softly, "you don't have to evict your past alone."
I stared at him.
At the man I wasn't supposed to trust.
Wasn't supposed to want.
Wasn't supposed to feel anything for.
But the contract didn't say anything about wanting.
And that was the most dangerous clause of all.
We stepped out of the apartment together.
Side by side.
Close enough to touch.
Far enough not to.
And yet,
Every step felt like the beginning of something neither ink nor law could control.
By the time the car slid into the underground entrance of Sterling Tower, my pulse had settled into a steady, stubborn thrum, it was bracing for impact.
Rhys parked in a private section marked with polished silver numbers. Clean. Precise. Controlled. Everything in his life seemed to obey those rules.
I wasn't sure I ever had.
He stepped out first, lifting my suitcase from the back seat before I could reach for it. He didn't ask. Didn't comment. Just did it with that same effortless strength that made me both irritated and, God help me, aware.
The elevator was waiting for us, doors already open as if summoned.
Private.
Of course.
Rhys pressed his palm against a sensor, and a soft chime sounded.
"Penthouse level," an automated voice announced.
My stomach dropped as the doors closed and we began ascending.
The higher we rose, the quieter the world became. The kind of quiet that felt unnatural, like the silence after a slammed door or before a confession.
Rhys stood on my right, close but not touching, his posture immaculate. His tie was still loosened, the top button undone. It shouldn't have been distracting.
It was.
He watched the floor numbers tick upward. I watched him watch them. And for a moment, I wondered if he was as tense as I was.
Probably not.
He was too good at hiding.
The elevator slowed.
Then stopped.
Then opened into another world.
The penthouse was huge.
Not just big. Not just luxurious.
Vast.
Cold..
Beautiful in the way glaciers are beautiful.
A space that looked like no one lived in it.
A space where warmth didn't stand a chance.
"This is..." I exhaled, unable to finish.
Mine?
His?
Ours?
None of those words felt real.
Rhys set my suitcase down and watched my reaction, arms loose at his sides, expression unreadable.
"Too big?" he asked softly.
"Too something," I murmured.
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth, so faint I would've missed it if I blinked.
"You'll get used to it."
I wasn't convinced.
I stepped farther inside, my heels clicking against marble that echoed in ways my small apartment never did.
No photographs.
No clutter.
No softness.
Everything arranged but nothing personal.
A home built like a fortress.
I wondered if he preferred it this way.
Or if he simply didn't know how else to live.
"Your room is upstairs," he said, nodding toward a floating staircase made of glass and steel.
"Your room," I repeated, because the contract, and the ache in my chest, demanded it.
"Yes."
"And mine is... somewhere far away?"
"Far enough."
A flicker of something, regret? relief?, crossed his face before he looked away.
I swallowed and followed him toward the stairs.
The second floor was quieter.
Soft gray carpeting replaced marble. The lighting dimmed to a warm glow. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling windows showing the city from dizzying angles.
"This is your space," Rhys said, pushing open a door.
I inhaled sharply.
The room was stunning, spacious, airy, a massive bed framed by sheer drapes, a reading nook overlooking the skyline, a walk-in closet bigger than my old bedroom.
It was perfect.
It felt nothing like me.
"Rhys..." I murmured, stepping inside. "This is too much."
"It's not."
"It is."
"It's standard."
"For royalty?"
"For you," he said simply.
My heart stuttered.
He didn't meet my eyes.
"You'll be comfortable here," he added, tone shifting back into something safer. "There's a private bathroom attached. If you need anything changed, we can do that."
"Changed?"
"Colors. Layout. Furniture. Whatever makes it feel like yours."
Mine.
The word felt foreign in this space.
A space that looked like it had never been touched.
"Thank you," I whispered.
He nodded once and turned away, like staying any longer would be dangerous.
But something inside me resisted the distance.
"Rhys?"
He paused in the doorway.
I didn't know what I wanted to say.
What I wanted him to do.
What I wanted this moment to become.
Maybe I just wanted him to stay long enough for the panic settling in my chest to ease.
"This feels..." I hesitated. "Final."
"It isn't."
"It feels like I'm stepping into a story I don't belong in."
His eyes softened.
"You belong," he said quietly. "More than you think."
The words hit me harder than they should have.
He looked like he wanted to say something else, but he didn't. Instead, he added:
"Come downstairs when you're ready. I'll make dinner."
That startled me.
"Make?"
His lips twitched.
"I cook."
"You... cook?"
"On occasion."
I blinked at him.
He huffed a breath, almost a laugh.
"I'm not completely unbearable."
"Debatable," I murmured.
And there
For a flicker of a heartbeat
He smiled.
A real one.
Small.
Quiet.
Devastating.
Then he disappeared down the stairs.
Leaving me alone with a room that looked like it belonged to someone braver than I was.
I unpacked slowly.
Folded clothes.
Organized drawers.
Tried not to panic.
Because every time I opened a drawer, the reality pressed harder:
I lived here now.
In a penthouse with a man I once loved.
A man I wasn't allowed to touch.
A man who almost kissed me last night.
A man who was trying
and not trying
and trying too much.
The air grew heavy with the memory of his breath against mine.
I forced myself downstairs.
The kitchen was, predictably, immaculate.
Stainless steel.
Dark cabinetry.
Not a single item out of place.
Rhys stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, stirring something that smelled far too good for a corporate shark.
He glanced over his shoulder as I entered.
"Hungry?"
"Confused," I corrected.
"About?"
"You."
He stilled.
"Reece..."
"No, don't smooth it over. You showed up at my apartment last night. You almost. " I cut myself off. "Then today you bring me here and act like this is normal."
His grip tightened on the wooden spoon.
"It's not normal," he said quietly. "None of this is."
"Then what is it?"
He turned to face me fully.
The city lights behind him, the soft kitchen glow on his features
He looked dangerously human.
"It's me," he said. "Trying."
The words struck something deep.
Something raw.
Something I wasn't ready to name.
I moved closer without meaning to.
He swallowed hard.
"Dinner will be ready soon," he murmured.
"Rhys..."
He looked at me then.
Not with anger.
Not with distance.
With something that made my breath catch.
"Reece, if you come any closer, I'm not going to be able to pretend this is simple."
My heart pounded.
"I didn't ask for simple."
His jaw clenched.
"And I can't offer anything else."
The air between us thickened.
Charged.
Alive.
I was the one who stepped back.
Because if I didn't
We both knew exactly what would happen next.
Rhys exhaled shakily and returned to the stove, silently battling whatever storm lived behind his ribs.
I sank into one of the bar stools, pulse still racing.
This penthouse wasn't sterile.
It wasn't empty.
It wasn't cold.
It was full of landmines.
And the most dangerous one was standing at the stove, sleeves rolled up, trying not to look at me like he was remembering everything we once were.
And everything we weren't allowed to be now.
The next morning, the penthouse felt different.
Last night it had been overwhelming, cold, glossy, enormous. Today it was quiet in a way that pressed on my skin, like the whole space was waiting to see what I would do next.
Rhys was already awake.
Of course he was.
I heard him moving somewhere on the other side of the penthouse, the soft rustle of cloth, the muted tap of polished shoes across marble. The sounds were distant enough to remind me how large this place was.
Large enough to get lost in.
Large enough to hide in.
Large enough to never have to see each other unless we chose to.
Maybe that was the point.
I splashed water on my face, took one deep breath, then another, then forced myself to open my bedroom door.
He was standing at the railing overlooking the lower floor, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly damp from a shower. He looked like someone who had already lived an entire day before breakfast.
When he heard my footsteps, he turned, and paused.
His eyes swept over me, not lingering, just... taking inventory.
"You slept?" he asked.
"A little."
He nodded once, like that was all the answer he expected.
"All right. Let me show you the rest of the place."
It wasn't phrased as an offer.
It wasn't phrased like a command either.
Just... something he assumed would happen.
I followed him down the floating staircase, my fingers brushing the cool glass railing to keep myself balanced.
For a man who lived in a space this stunning, he moved through it like it barely existed, like it was just another office floor to power-walk through.
"This is the main living area," he said.
His voice echoed against marble.
He gestured across the room.
Minimalist couch.
Minimalist rug.
Minimalist art that looked expensive and emotionless.
No photographs.
Not a single one.
I wondered if that was intentional.
I wondered if he ever let memory take up physical space.
"And here," he continued, "is the dining area we'll use when we eat at home."
"When?" I repeated, eyebrows lifting. "You mean you actually eat here?"
He shot me a dry look.
"Contrary to popular belief, I do not photosynthesize."
It startled a breath, almost a laugh, from my chest.
He continued before I could say anything else.
"There's a private gym down that hallway."
"And the office is behind the glass partition on the left."
"There's a guest suite on this floor, if you ever prefer it."
I turned my head sharply.
"What do you mean if I prefer it?"
He didn't hesitate.
"You're not confined to the master suite upstairs. You can stay wherever you feel... comfortable."
My steps slowed.
He didn't look at me when he said it.
Which made the words feel even heavier.
"Is that your way of saying you want distance?"
"No."
He stopped walking.
"No, Reece. It's my way of saying you get to choose distance if you want it."
Something tugged at the center of my chest, something unwelcome and too warm.
He kept moving.
"This floor has a media room," he said, nodding toward a darkened doorway. "And a terrace that wraps around the north and east sides."
"A terrace?" I echoed.
He slid open a tall pane of glass.
Cold morning air rushed in. I stepped outside, breath catching as the city unfolded beneath us, endless glass, steel, and motion.
The wind whipped my hair around my face.
Below, cars crawled like ants.
From up here, everything felt far away, unreal.
"You can come out here anytime," he said.
"Do you?"
He hesitated.
"Sometimes."
It sounded like no.
He slid the door closed again, sealing out the wind, sealing us back inside his glacier of a home.
"Come on," he said quietly. "There's one more thing you need to see."
I followed him up the stairs again, but this time we turned left at the landing, toward a hallway I hadn't noticed last night.
He stopped in front of a wide double door.
"These are the master suites."
"Suite...S?" I repeated.
"Plural, yes."
"You have two master bedrooms?"
"Yes."
"And neither of them is supposed to be mine."
He exhaled slowly, measured, controlled.
"Right."
I crossed my arms.
.