The partition in the limousine was up. The driver was a silhouette behind smoked glass.

Alessandra sat alone in the back. The leather seats were vast, swallowing her whole. She felt like a package being delivered.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out. A message from Chloe.

Enjoy my leftovers, mute. Try not to bore him to death.

Alessandra turned the phone off. She looked out the window as the city of San Francisco blurred past. The fog was rolling in, swallowing the Golden Gate Bridge. She wasn't going to a home. She was just moving from a Victorian prison to a modern one.

The car stopped in front of a black monolith of a building. The Obsidian.

The elevator ride was smooth and silent. When the doors opened directly into the penthouse, Alessandra blinked.

It was stunning. And it was freezing.

The apartment was a study in brutalism. Concrete walls, floor-to-ceiling glass, black metal fixtures. There were no photos. No rugs. No color. It looked like a museum for people who hated people.

She stepped out of the elevator. She took a step toward the massive window overlooking the bay.

Beep-beep-beep.

A red light pulsed from a panel on the wall. A synthetic voice, far more advanced than her tablet's, spoke.

"Unauthorized access. Zone restricted."

Alessandra jumped back. She clutched her coat tighter.

She moved toward the kitchen.

"Unauthorized access."

She moved toward the hallway.

"Unauthorized access."

She retreated to the grey sofa in the center of the living room. It was the only place the house didn't yell at her. She sat there as the sun went down, and the apartment plunged into darkness. She didn't know how to turn on the lights.

Hours later, the front door lock clicked.

Florian walked in. He looked exhausted. His tie was undone, hanging loose around his neck. He smelled of whiskey and ozone.

He stopped when he saw the dark lump on his sofa. He frowned, reaching for a wall panel.

"Lights. Fifty percent."

The room bathed in a soft, warm glow.

He looked at her. "Why are you sitting in the dark?"

Alessandra stood up quickly. Her legs were stiff. She opened her mouth, but the familiar clamp was there. The silence. She pointed to the panel on the wall.

Florian stared at her. Then, a cruel smirk touched his lips.

"Oh," he said. "Right. Voice command."

He walked past her, throwing his jacket onto a chair. "The whole house is integrated. Lights, temperature, locks, kitchen appliances. All voice-activated. And it's keyed to my biometric voiceprint only. So don't bother trying that little robot of yours."

He loosened his cuffs. He didn't look at her, but she could feel his satisfaction.

"There are no servants here," he said, pouring himself a glass of water from a tap that responded to his command. "I value my privacy. If you're hungry, figure it out. If you try to leave, the security system will flag you as an intruder and break your legs."

Alessandra felt a flash of heat in her chest. Anger. Pure, white-hot anger.

She grabbed a notepad from the coffee table. She scribbled furiously.

I need a room.

She shoved the paper at his chest.

Florian glanced at it. He didn't take it. He just gestured vaguely down a hallway.

"Second door on the left. Don't come out."

He turned his back on her and took a drink.

Alessandra marched down the hall. She found the door. She opened it.

It was a guest room. It had a bed frame.

But there was no mattress. No sheets. No pillows. Just wooden slats and concrete floor.

She stood in the doorway, staring at the empty frame. She heard Florian's footsteps retreating to the master suite on the other side of the apartment.

She walked in and closed the door. She curled up on the hard wooden slats, pulling her coat over her head.

Hunger woke her up.

It was a sharp, twisting pain in her stomach. The morning sun was assaulting the room through the curtainless windows. Alessandra sat up, her body aching from the wooden slats.

She walked out into the main living area. It was empty. Florian was gone.

The silence in the apartment was heavy.

She walked to the kitchen. It was a chef's kitchen, gleaming with stainless steel. She found the refrigerator. It was a massive, industrial-sized unit.

She pulled the heavy door open.

Light flooded out. And illuminated... nothing.

Rows and rows of Evian water in glass bottles. Six bottles of Dom Perignon. A jar of olives.

That was it.

Alessandra stared. It was a joke. It had to be a joke.

She closed the fridge. Her stomach growled, a loud, embarrassing sound in the quiet room.

She saw a touchscreen on the wall labeled Delivery. Hope surged. She tapped it.

Please enter Administrator Password.

She tried 1-2-3-4.

Access Denied.

She tried 0-0-0-0.

Access Denied. System Locked.

She slammed her hand against the screen. The glass didn't break, but her palm stung. She slid down the wall, sitting on the cold marble floor. She was a billionaire's wife, and she was starving to death.

The elevator chimed.

Alessandra didn't move. She didn't have the energy.

Cohen walked in, balancing a tray of coffees and a stack of binders. He was talking into a headset.

"Yes, the merger documents are-"

He stopped. He saw Alessandra slumped on the kitchen floor, looking like a discarded rag doll.

His phone slipped from his hand and clattered onto the floor.

"Holy sh-" Cohen rushed over. "Mrs. Mercado? Are you... are you alive?"

Alessandra lifted her head. She looked at him with hollow eyes. She pointed a shaking finger at the fridge. Then she pointed to her open mouth.

Cohen looked at the fridge. He opened it. He saw the water and the champagne.

"Oh my god," he whispered. "He didn't leave you food."

He looked back at her. "You haven't eaten?"

Alessandra shook her head.

"Boss locked the delivery system?"

She nodded.

Cohen swore under his breath. He dropped his bag and dug through it. He pulled out a protein bar-chocolate and peanut butter.

"Here." He tore the wrapper open.

Alessandra didn't care about dignity. She took it and ate. It was dry and chalky, but it tasted like salvation.

Cohen picked up his phone. He dialed a number. His face was grim.

In the boardroom of Mercado Group, Florian was tearing a product manager apart.

"The latency is unacceptable," Florian said, his voice ice. "Fix it or you're fired."

His phone buzzed on the table. Cohen.

Florian frowned. Cohen knew never to interrupt a meeting. He picked it up.

"This better be good."

"Boss," Cohen's voice was shaky but firm. "Your wife is on the kitchen floor. She's hypoglycemic. And... she doesn't know how to use the coffee machine because it requires voice authentication."

Florian paused. He blinked.

He had forgotten.

He had genuinely, completely forgotten that there was a human being in his apartment. He treated the marriage like a file he had stored in a cabinet.

"She's hungry?" Florian asked, the concept seeming foreign to him.

"She's starving, Florian," Cohen snapped, dropping the formal title. "If she passes out, it's negligence. The press will eat you alive before the merger even starts."

Florian felt a prick of annoyance. Not guilt. Just annoyance that his asset required maintenance.

"Order her food," Florian said. "Get her whatever she wants."

"I can't," Cohen said. "I don't have admin privileges for the house. Only you do."

Florian pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked at the room full of terrified executives.

"Meeting adjourned," he said.

He grabbed his jacket. He had to go home and feed his wife.

Florian walked into the apartment and stopped dead.

The kitchen looked like a war zone of passive aggression.

Alessandra was sitting cross-legged on the multi-million dollar marble island. She was surrounded by yellow Post-it notes.

They were everywhere.

On the fridge: EMPTY.

On the stove: MUTE.

On the pantry: LOCKED.

On the coffee maker: I HATE YOU.

And right in the center of the island, stuck to a bottle of Evian, was a larger note: I AM YOUR WIFE, NOT YOUR HOUSEPLANT.

Florian stared at the sea of yellow paper. A laugh bubbled up in his chest-a dark, surprised sound.

"Creative," he said, peeling the note off the water bottle.

Alessandra looked at him. Her eyes were defiant. Then, her stomach let out a traitorous, loud growl.

Florian sighed. The annoyance faded, replaced by a strange resignation. He took off his suit jacket and draped it over a stool. He rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, exposing his forearms.

Alessandra watched him. He looked... human.

He walked to the pantry. "System, unlock pantry."

The lock clicked. He opened it. It was mostly empty, remnants of his bachelor days. He found a bag of spaghetti and a bulb of garlic.

"Garlic and oil," he muttered. "It'll have to do."

Alessandra watched in shock as the tyrant of Silicon Valley grabbed a knife. He smashed the garlic cloves with the flat of the blade, peeling them with practiced ease.

He turned on the stove. "Burner on. Medium."

Soon, the smell of sizzling garlic and olive oil filled the sterile air. It was a warm, pungent scent. It smelled like a home.

Alessandra didn't move from the island. She watched his hands. They were precise. Capable.

Florian tossed the pasta in the oil. He plated it. Two bowls.

He slammed one down in front of her. No garnish. No cheese. Just pasta.

"Eat," he ordered.

Alessandra picked up a fork. She took a bite. It was simple, spicy, and perfectly cooked. It was better than the cold purees the Winters' cook made for her.

She ate quickly. Florian ate standing up, leaning against the counter, watching her.

When the bowl was empty, Alessandra wiped her mouth. She pulled her tablet from her pocket. She typed.

We need rules.

The mechanical voice cut through the smell of garlic.

Florian raised an eyebrow. "Do we?"

I want a secret marriage, she typed. No wedding. No public announcement. No press.

Florian paused. This was actually what he wanted. He didn't want the volatility of a public union affecting his stock price yet. But he didn't like being dictated to.

"Why?" he asked.

Alessandra looked him in the eye. She tapped the screen.

Because I don't want the world to know I married a man who can't even fill a refrigerator.

Florian's eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, invading her personal space. He placed his hands on the island, trapping her legs between his arms.

"Careful, Winters," he murmured. "You have a sharp tongue for someone who doesn't speak."

He leaned in. "Deal. We keep it quiet. But in this house, you follow my lead."

Alessandra didn't flinch. She nodded once.

Deal.

Just then, Florian's phone rang. He pulled it out. The screen lit up: Chloe Gutierrez.

Alessandra saw the name. Her blood ran cold.

Florian answered. His voice changed instantly. It became smooth, charming. "Chloe. Yes, I received the proposal. It's interesting."

He turned away from Alessandra, walking toward the window.

Alessandra looked at her empty bowl. The warmth of the pasta faded, replaced by the chill of the room.