The marriage contract was signed on Tuesday.

The wedding took place on Friday.

By Sunday, Seraphina Vale was living in Adrian Volkov’s penthouse — a place with more marble than emotion, more glass than warmth, and a silence so sharp it could cut skin.

The space was breathtaking.

The man who owned it was terrifying.

She stood inside the apartment for the first time, overnight bag hanging from her shoulder, feeling like she’d been dropped into someone else’s life.

Adrian didn’t look at her when he entered behind her. He didn’t have to. His presence pressed against her spine like a warning.

“Your things have been moved to the east wing,” he said. His voice was smooth ice. “Bedroom, closet, bathroom—all yours.”

“You sound prepared,” she replied.

He finally looked at her. “I’m always prepared.”

Of course he was.

She forced a breath. “And where do you sleep?”

A beat passed before he answered.

“The master suite. West wing.”

“So we’re on opposite sides of the planet under the same roof.”

His jaw tightened, but his face didn’t change.

“Exactly.”

Her chest hurt even though she expected nothing else.

No affection.

No warmth.

No love.

A contract. A deal. A truce.

She walked deeper into the apartment, pretending her heart wasn’t in her throat. He followed her with his eyes—he always did—but he stayed distant.

“Dinner is at eight,” he said. “My household runs on routine. You’ll need to adjust.”

She turned sharply. “Adjust? Adrian, this isn’t a dictatorship.”

“Technically—” he stepped closer, voice low, “—it is.”

Because he had the power. The resources. The control.

And she hated that a part of her still felt safe around him.

“I don’t need a schedule,” she argued.

“You do if you plan to survive this world.”

There it was—the softness he tried to hide, buried inside the cruelty.

She exhaled. “Are you warning me or threatening me?”

“That depends on how well you listen.”

His eyes locked on hers, unreadable but burning.

Dinner was quiet.

Too quiet.

Adrian ate like he lived—controlled movements, perfect posture, eyes that gave nothing away. Seraphina pushed her food around her plate, stomach in knots from fighting a man she didn’t understand.

“So,” she said finally, “do we just pretend to be strangers forever?”

“We are not strangers.”

“Really? What are we then?”

Adrian didn’t blink.

He didn’t look away.

He didn’t soften.

“Married.”

The room froze around the single word.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. “That’s not an answer. That’s a legal status.”

“It’s the only one that matters.”

“You really believe that, don’t you? That feelings ruin things.”

He didn’t flinch, but his voice changed. “Feelings ruin people.”

And suddenly, she understood something—something that made her chest ache.

Adrian wasn’t cold because he couldn’t feel.

He was cold because he felt too much.

And strong emotions in a man like him were dangerous.

He set down his fork. “You don’t need to care about me. You don’t need to understand me. Just play your part and you can walk away in a year with your career intact.”

“And if I don’t want to walk away?” The question slipped out without permission.

Adrian froze.

For the first time since she met him… he looked shaken.

Something raw flashed in his eyes—fear, longing, anger, all fused.

“You will,” he said quietly. “Because I won’t let myself give you anything worth staying for.”

The words stung more than she expected.

She stood abruptly. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

She left the dining room without waiting for permission—her first act of rebellion inside his world.

And Adrian didn’t stop her.

But the moment she disappeared down the hall, he gripped the table so hard his knuckles went white.

Because he already knew the truth he refused to say out loud:

She would walk away in a year.

But he wouldn’t.

He was already losing the war with himself.

And he had no idea how to stop it.