Eight

Chapter 8

KIARA’S POV

Moving day felt less like a romantic transition and more like a hostile takeover of a very boring, very grey museum. I stood in the center of Silva’s living room, clutching my designer handbag like a shield, and stared at the "minimalist" disaster before me. The penthouse was all glass, steel, and shades of slate that made me wonder if he’d ever actually seen a color in his life. It was hyper-modern, hyper-clean, and irritably sterile—just like the man who owned it.

"Where is the furniture?" I asked, my voice echoing off the polished concrete floors. "Did you forget to buy things, or do you just enjoy living in a high-end refrigerator?"

Silva didn't even look up from his tablet. He was leaning against a kitchen island that was basically a giant slab of white marble. "It’s called intentionality, Kiara. I don't believe in cluttering my workspace or my living space with useless trinkets."

"I call it depression," I shot back.

The chaos truly began when my movers arrived. It was a clash of civilizations. On one side of the room, Silva’s severe, minimalist decor sat like silent judges. On the other side, my life was being unloaded in a flurry of velvet, gold leaf, and vibrant silks. My flamboyant, classic collection looked like a riot breaking out in his grayscale world.

"That cannot stay here," Silva said, pointing a finger at a set of emerald green tufted chairs. "They look like they belong in a nineteenth-century bordello."

"And that couch looks like it was carved out of an iceberg," I countered, gesturing to his low-profile, light-grey sectional. "It’s a wonder your soul hasn't frozen solid yet."

We spent the next three hours in a comedic battleground. Every time I tried to place a piece of art, he moved it six inches to the left to align with some invisible "grid" he had in his head. Every time he tried to tuck my favorite hand-woven rugs into a closet, I dragged them back out and draped them over his precious concrete floors.

The core conflict, the one that nearly ended the marriage before the first night, was the Vanity Mirror.

It was a vintage, oversized gold-leaf masterpiece. It was heavy, it was loud, and it was beautiful. I had two movers haul it toward the main corridor, right where anyone entering the penthouse would be forced to acknowledge its glory.

"Stop right there," Silva’s voice rang out, cold and commanding.

I turned, resting a hand on the ornate frame. "It goes here. This hallway is too dark. It needs the reflection."

"No," he said, walking over with a look of genuine physical pain. "This corridor is a transition space designed for clean lines. Putting that... that gilded monstrosity there ruins the architectural flow of the entire wing."

"I don't care about your architectural flow, Silva! I need a place to check my hair before I leave the house, and I am not doing it in one of your tiny, hidden bathroom mirrors that make me look like a ghost."

"You are not drilling holes into my walls for that thing," he gritted his teeth, stepping into my personal space.

"I am the one carrying your child," I hissed, leaning in until I could see the flecks of green in his eyes. "If I want a mirror on this wall, I will put a mirror on this wall. You don't get to control the literal walls of my life."

"This is my home," he reminded me, his voice dropping to a dangerous level.

"It’s our home now. That was the deal, remember? Or do you want me to move back to my 'security nightmare' mansion?"

We were chest to chest, sparks flying, and I was about five seconds away from either screaming or throwing a vase when a cough sounded from the doorway.

A man stood there, looking like he’d aged ten years in the last hour. He was holding a stack of folders and looked incredibly weary. This was Ben, Silva’s right-hand man and apparently the only person in the city allowed to witness the CEO of Blackwood Industries arguing about a mirror.

"Sir, Ma'am," Ben said, his voice a flat, practiced monotone. "The movers are asking if they should leave the velvet ottoman in the elevator or just throw it off the balcony."

Silva rubbed his temples. "Ben, tell her the mirror is a violation of the aesthetic code."

"Ben," I interjected, "tell him that if he doesn't let me hang this mirror, I will paint the nursery neon orange."

Ben looked between us, his eyes darting from Silva’s clenched jaw to my defiant stance. He let out a long, slow sigh and adjusted his glasses.

"How about," Ben suggested, "we place the mirror on a floor stand in the corridor? No holes in the walls, but it stays in the hallway. A compromise."

Silva and I glared at each other for another long moment.

"Fine," Silva snapped, turning on his heel. "On a stand. But if I trip over it once, it’s going in the trash."

"You trip over it and I’ll make sure your next board meeting is held in a bouncy castle," I yelled after him.

Ben watched Silva disappear into the study and then turned back to me. He looked at the mirror, then at me, and then checked his watch.

"You’re doing great, Mrs. Blackwood," Ben muttered, though he looked like he was contemplating his life choices.

I caught a glimpse of his phone screen as he turned away. He was typing something into a group chat. I’m almost certain it was a betting pool. He was definitely betting on me snapping first, but he didn't know me very well. I didn't snap. I conquered.

I looked at my gold-leaf mirror, standing tall against the grey wall. It was a start. A small, shiny victory in a house made of ice.

SILVA’S POV

I had faced hostile takeovers, market crashes, and international litigations, but nothing had prepared me for the sheer, unadulterated chaos of Kiara Monroe’s furniture.

My penthouse was my sanctuary. It was a place of logic, order, and precision. Now, it looked like a high-end thrift store had exploded inside it. There were pillows everywhere. Why did one woman need so many pillows? They served no structural purpose. They were just... soft obstacles.

I retreated to my study, slamming the door to drown out the sound of her voice barking orders at the movers. My blood was still simmering from the argument over the mirror. It wasn't just about the gold leaf; it was about the principle. She was moving into my space, my life, and she was trying to rewrite the rules with every velvet chair she dragged through the door.

Ben knocked and entered, looking exhausted. He placed a stack of papers on my desk—actual work that I was falling behind on because I was too busy defending my walls.

"The mirror is on a stand, Silva," Ben said, sinking into the chair opposite me. "For now."

"She’s impossible," I said, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. "She’s loud, she’s colorful, and she has no respect for the grid."

"She’s pregnant, Silva. And she’s Kiara Monroe. Did you really expect her to fold herself into a drawer and be quiet?"

"I expected a level of professional decorum."

Ben actually chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. "You married a hurricane and you’re upset that the house is windy. I’ve got five-to-one odds that the kitchen is repainted by Tuesday."

"Who are you betting with?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

"The security team," Ben replied shamelessly. "Marcus thinks you’ll cave by the weekend. I told him he’s underestimating your stubbornness, but overestimating your patience. I give it two weeks before one of you tries to evict the other."

"I’m not caving," I said, picking up a pen and gripping it tight. "She can bring her trinkets, but she will not change the core of this environment. I need order for the child. A child needs structure, not... tufted emerald velvet."

"A child needs a mother who isn't in a constant state of war with their father," Ben pointed out, ever the voice of unwanted logic.

"We aren't a family, Ben. We are a contract. This is a temporary arrangement for the protection of an asset."

"Keep telling yourself that," Ben muttered as he stood up to leave. "But just so you know, the movers just brought in a crate labeled 'Indoor Water Feature.' You might want to get out there before she installs a fountain in the foyer."

I groaned, burying my face in my hands. The peace and quiet of my life were officially dead. I could hear her laughing in the hallway—a bright, sharp sound that cut right through the walls. She was winning. She knew she was winning.

I stood up, adjusting my cuffs. I had to go back out there. Not because I wanted to see her, but because if I didn't, I’d probably find a chandelier hanging from my bedroom ceiling by dinner time.

The move was a disaster. The marriage was a sham. And my penthouse was no longer a sanctuary. It was a battlefield, and I was currently losing territory to a woman in four-inch blue heels.

I opened the door and walked back into the fray. Kiara was standing by the mirror, adjusting her hair and looking entirely too pleased with herself.

"Silva!" she called out, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "What do you think about putting a disco ball in the dining room? Just for the 'aesthetic'?"

"Don't you dare," I growled.

She just grinned. And for a split second, amidst the mess and the gold and the chaos, I realized this was going to be the longest months of my life.

I looked at Ben, who was standing in the corner, discreetly typing into his phone again.

Yeah, the betting pool was definitely growing.