Elana splashed cold water on her face. She gripped the edges of the porcelain sink and stared at her reflection. Her eyes were red. Her skin looked sickly. She took a deep breath, trying to force the acid in her stomach to settle.

She dried her face with a towel and opened the bathroom door.

The bright hallway light made her squint. Atlas was leaning against the wall opposite the door. His arms were crossed over his chest. He looked like a statue carved from ice.

"You heard what he said," Atlas stated. It was not a question. He was accusing her. He believed she had told Conrad about the vasectomy to force this outcome.

"I didn't say anything to him," Elana said. Her voice was exhausted.

Atlas's eyes narrowed. He didn't believe a word.

Footsteps approached. Mr. Finch appeared at the end of the hall, followed by two maids. They were carrying Elana's suitcases. They were already executing Conrad's orders.

Elana watched her luggage being wheeled toward the master suite. It was a room she had never been allowed to enter. It was his sanctuary.

Atlas pushed off the wall. He walked to the heavy oak doors of the master suite and pushed them open. "Don't touch my things. Don't take up my side of the bed."

He walked in, grabbed his laptop from the sofa, and sat down in the leather armchair by the window.

Elana stepped over the threshold. The room was massive. It was decorated in dark grays and navy blues. It was completely devoid of warmth. There were no pictures. No flowers.

She looked at the nightstand on the right side of the bed. There was a small alarm clock and a paperback book left open, face down.

She walked closer. It was Ernest Hemingway's A Moveable Feast. The page was dog-eared. Before she could read the text, Atlas stood up, walked over, and snapped the book shut. He shoved it into the drawer.

Maria, the maid, began unpacking Elana's clothes. She hung Elana's light-colored dresses next to Atlas's row of dark, identical suits. The contrast was jarring. It looked wrong.

The maids finished and walked out.

Click.

The sound of the heavy deadbolt turning echoed in the room.

Atlas's head snapped toward the door. He dropped his laptop on the chair and strode across the room. He grabbed the brass handle and twisted it. It didn't move. He slammed his fist against the solid wood.

"Mr. Sterling," Mr. Finch's voice came through the thick wood. "Mr. Conrad instructed me to lock the door from the outside. It will be opened at seven tomorrow morning."

Atlas pressed his forehead against the door. The veins in his neck bulged. He was trapped.

Elana sat on the edge of the massive king-size bed. She watched him. He looked like a caged animal.

Atlas turned around. His chest heaved once. "Don't think this is a victory for you."

"I never thought it was," Elana said quietly.

Atlas walked back to his chair. He opened his laptop. The blue light washed over his face. He began typing aggressively. He ignored her completely.

Elana took her pajamas from the closet and went into the en-suite bathroom. She stripped off the heavy black gown. She looked at herself in the mirror. She was finally in his room, but she was a prisoner, not a wife.

When she walked out, Atlas was still typing. He didn't look up.

She walked to the left side of the bed. The side furthest from him. She pulled back the heavy duvet and slipped underneath. The sheets smelled like him. Cedarwood and a faint hint of tobacco. Her stomach fluttered. She hated her body for reacting to him.

She reached out and clicked off her bedside lamp. The room went dark, save for the glow of his screen. She turned her back to the center of the bed and curled her knees to her chest.

Hours passed. The silence was heavy. At 1:00 AM, she heard the soft click of the laptop closing.

The mattress dipped. Atlas got into bed. He stayed on the extreme right edge. There was at least four feet of empty space between them. A physical wasteland.

Elana held her breath. She could feel the heat radiating from his body across the mattress. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"If you think his little game changes anything, you are wrong," Atlas's voice cut through the dark. It was devoid of emotion.

Elana bit her lip so hard she tasted copper. She didn't answer.

Another hour passed. Elana thought he was asleep. She slowly rolled onto her back. The moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains, illuminating his profile. His brow was furrowed, even in sleep. He was guarding himself against her.

Her hand moved across the sheets. Her fingers hovered an inch above his bare forearm. She wanted to touch him. She wanted to comfort him. But she pulled her hand back and pressed it against her own chest.

She remembered the Hemingway book. A Moveable Feast. It was a book about Paris. About memories that never leave you. Arabella. He was still reading about Arabella.

Exhaustion finally pulled Elana under. Around 3:00 AM, she fell into a restless sleep. Her body, seeking warmth in the cold room, unconsciously drifted toward the center of the bed.

In her sleep, her hand reached out. Her fingers brushed against his arm and settled there.

Atlas's eyes snapped open in the dark. His body went completely rigid. He looked down at the small, pale hand resting on his skin. Her fingers were cold.

He should have shoved her away. He should have woken her up and yelled at her. But he didn't. He stared at the ceiling, his jaw locked tight.

Elana shifted in her sleep. She mumbled a word. A single, soft sound.

"Atlas."

His breath hitched. He looked at her face. She looked so fragile.

Slowly, carefully, he reached down. He picked up her hand by the wrist. He moved it off his arm and placed it back on her side of the bed. Then, he got up, walked into the bathroom, and turned on the cold water.