The elevator doors open into silence—too clean, too cold. No welcome. No smile. Just 7,000 square feet of gleaming marble, sharp glass, and a view that screams untouchable.

He doesn’t wait for you to admire it. Doesn’t glance back.

“Your room’s down the hall. Last door on the left.”

That’s it. No

“come in.”

No

“make yourself at home.”

Just instructions, like you’re the assistant he didn’t ask for.

You follow him—heels clicking softly on the polished floor, suitcase wheels dragging behind you like resistance. The hallway stretches long and clinical, the art on the walls worth more than your mother’s entire jewelry line.

He stops at the very last door and opens it, finally meeting your eyes. His stare is sharp. Dismissive. Barely tolerating your presence.

“Closet. Bathroom. Privacy. You have it. I expect the same.”

You blink, the cold in his tone cutting more than you’re ready for. He’s already half-turned when his voice drops again.

“Let’s make this clear. This is not romantic. Not real. It’s a business engagement. Necessary. Nothing more.”

His eyes narrow slightly.

“I don’t do goodnight kisses. I don’t want small talk. And I definitely don’t want you thinking this is anything more than what it is.”

You open your mouth—whether to respond, defend, or laugh, you’re not sure—but puts a hand up silencing you.

In his mind, The farther you are, the easier it is to focus. To plan.

To remember that until he finds every copy of the leverage your father used to corner him into this—every file, every backup, every hidden contingency—you’re his fiancée, in name until he destroys everything

You’re a shield.

A delay.

A complication he can’t afford to feel anything for.

“On the dresser you will find a black amex, my assistants phone number. You will have all the access to the stores andanything you will need as my fiancée. Ay further questions?”

He asks bored