Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Vivienne's Pov 

The private elevator doors slid open with a breathless, expensive hiss, depositing me directly into the penthouse.

I stepped off the plush carpet of the elevator and onto freezing black marble, my heels clicking sharply into the cavernous silence. The space was staggering. It spanned the entire top floor of the high-rise, encased in floor-to-ceiling glass that offered a dizzying, panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline. But despite the breathtaking luxury, the penthouse felt entirely devoid of life. It was monochromatic, sharp, and sterile. A meticulously curated museum.

A high-altitude tomb.

Julian was already there. He stood behind a massive, raw-edge marble kitchen island, his suit jacket discarded over the back of a stool, leaving him in a tailored slate waistcoat and a crisp white shirt. He was staring down at a glowing tablet, a glass of amber liquid resting near his knuckles.

He didn't look up when I entered. He didn't so much as blink.

Matteo stepped out of the elevator behind me, his heavy presence a suffocating weight. "She’s here, boss."

"Leave the bags in the foyer," Julian commanded. His voice was flat, bored, utterly dismissive. "And get out."

Matteo dropped my two hastily packed duffel bags onto the floor with a dull thud, shot me one last look of absolute disdain, and retreated into the elevator. The doors clicked shut, locking me in.

I stood in the center of the sprawling room, my heart hammering a frantic, exhausting rhythm against my ribs. I waited for Julian to speak. To offer a tour, to mock me, to do something. Instead, the silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. He simply turned a page on his tablet, treating me with the exact same regard he would a piece of unwanted furniture.

"Is this the part where I get a map, or do I just guess which corner of this mausoleum I’m allowed to breathe in?" I finally snapped, unable to bear the heavy silence a second longer.

Julian’s finger paused on the screen. Slowly, agonizingly, he lifted his head. The glacial blue of his eyes pinned her in place.

"Your quarters are the east wing," he said, his tone chillingly even. "A stylist has already stocked the closets with appropriate attire. You will find everything you need there. The housekeeper comes on Thursdays; you are not to interact with her. And the entire west wing is strictly off-limits. That is my private domain, and you will not cross the threshold."

He took a slow sip of his scotch, his eyes never leaving mine.

"You belong to me on paper, Vivienne. When I require a wife for a gala, a dinner, or the press, you will stand by my side and play the part to perfection. But inside these walls?" He set the glass down with a sharp clack. "You do not exist. Keep to your side of the penthouse. Do not touch my things. Do not make a sound. Stay out of my sight."

He lowered his eyes back to the tablet, dismissing me completely.

The utter coldness of his decree felt like a physical blow. He had ripped me from my life, forced me into this contract under the threat of my sister’s imprisonment, and now he intended to lock me in a white box and let me rot in isolation. He wanted to break my spirit through sheer neglect. He wanted me to feel small. Invisible.

A heavy, agonizing lump of grief rose in my throat for the life I had just lost, but I swallowed it down. Now wasn't the time for that, instead I let the grief curdle into something far more useful. Pure, unfiltered rage.

I picked up my duffel bags. "Understood," I murmured, my voice laced with venom.

I walked away from the kitchen, my heels striking the marble like gunfire. I reached the end of the main corridor. To the right was the east wing—my designated cage. To the left, the heavy oak doors of the west wing. His private domain.

Do not touch my things. Do not make a sound. Stay out of my sight.

I dropped my bags on the floor. I didn't turn right.

I turned left, pushed open the heavy oak doors, and walked straight into the lion's den.

The master suite was vast, shadowed, and smelled overwhelmingly of him—cedarwood, rain, and something inherently dangerous. I didn't pause to admire the sprawling king-sized bed or the dark velvet furnishings. I walked straight into the master bathroom, a massive expanse of dark slate and frosted glass.

I stripped off my clothes, letting them fall in a heap on his immaculate floor, and turned the heavy brass dials of the shower.

The water was scalding, but I didn't flinch. I stepped under the rainfall showerhead, letting the heat wash away the terrifying chill of the boardroom. But I wasn't just here to wash, I reached for the heavy, black glass bottle of his body wash. I lathered it over my skin, deliberately branding herself with the dark, spicy scent of cedar. If he wanted to ignore me, I was going to make it physically impossible.

When I stepped out, my skin was flushed and my pulse was racing with the sheer adrenaline of my rebellion. I bypassed my own clothes and walked directly into his sprawling, custom-built closet. I ran my fingers over rows of thousand-dollar suits before pulling a crisp, black dress shirt off its hanger.

I slipped it on. It swallowed my frame, the hem falling to my mid-thigh. I rolled the sleeves up to my elbows and left the top three buttons undone, the dark fabric a stark contrast against my pale skin.

Taking a deep breath to steady my shaking hands, I walked out of the suite and back down the corridor.

I walked right into the open living space, the soft pad of my bare feet masking my approach. Julian was still working at the island.

I walked over to his perfectly curated liquor cabinet. I picked up a heavy crystal decanter, the glass clinking sharply against the shelf.

Julian went entirely rigid. He didn't turn around immediately, but I saw the muscles in his broad back lock up tight. He inhaled slowly. From ten feet away, I knew he could smell the heavy cedar soap radiating off my warm skin.

Julian turned around. The dead, bored expression was gone. In its place was a look of such absolute, terrifying fury that my breath hitched in my throat. His eyes dropped from my face, taking in his own black shirt draped over my curves, the wet hair clinging to my collarbones, the bare legs exposed beneath the hem. The fury in his eyes instantly tangled with a dark, violent rush of heat.

"I told you," Julian said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding rough and jagged, "that the west wing was off-limits."

He started walking toward her. He didn't stalk this time; he advanced like a predator that had just been backed into a corner.

"I have a terrible memory," I replied, my voice trembling slightly, though I stubbornly raised my chin, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into a glass.

Julian reached me in three long strides. His large hands slammed down flat onto the liquor cabinet on either side of my hips, caging me against the cold wood. The sheer heat of his large body pressed against me, trapping me completely.

"You think you’re playing a game, Vivienne," he whispered, leaning down so his mouth was a fraction of an inch from mine. His gaze dropped to the exposed skin at my neckline, his breathing heavy and uneven. "You think provoking me proves you aren't afraid. It only proves you have absolutely no idea what kind of monster you just married."

My heart slammed against my ribs, the intoxicating scent of him making my head spin as I stared up into his lethal eyes.

"Then show me," I dared, whispering against his lips. "Show me the monster, Julian."

His eyes went pitch black, and his hand moved from the cabinet, his large, rough fingers wrapping possessively around the back of my neck.