Chapter Two

The penthouse did not feel like a home.

Seraphina realized that the moment the elevator doors slid open into a private foyer that looked more like a hotel lobby than a place meant for living. Marble floors gleamed beneath soft recessed lighting. Abstract art hung on the walls—beautiful, expensive, and emotionally distant. The air smelled faintly of cedar and something sharper. Control.

Lucien stepped out first, removing his jacket with practiced ease and handing it to a waiting staff member without a word. Everything about this place ran on silent efficiency, as if noise itself was discouraged.

“This is temporary,” Seraphina said, more to herself than to him.

Lucien glanced back. “Everything is.”

She followed him deeper into the penthouse, her heels clicking too loudly in the stillness. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the city spread beneath them, glowing and alive. From up here, New York looked unreal—like something curated rather than lived in.

“You’ll have the east wing,” Lucien said. “Bedroom, private sitting room, bathroom. My space is on the west side.”

Her shoulders loosened slightly. “So we won’t—”

“Share a bed?” he finished. “No.”

Relief rushed through her, sharp and unexpected.

“For now,” he added.

She stopped walking.

Lucien turned to face her, his expression unreadable. “We’ll ease the transition. The public expects intimacy. Photographs, appearances. But there’s no need to rush what is… inevitable.”

Her pulse skidded. “You speak as if it’s already decided.”

“It is,” he said calmly. “Just not tonight.”

Tonight.

The word echoed too loudly in her mind.

A woman appeared then—mid-forties, elegant, eyes assessing but kind. “Mrs. Blackwood,” she said warmly. “I’m Helena. I oversee the household.”

Mrs. Blackwood.

The title wrapped around Seraphina’s throat, unfamiliar and heavy.

“Your things have already been brought in,” Helena continued. “If there’s anything you need—clothing adjustments, dietary preferences—”

“I’ll manage,” Seraphina said quickly.

Lucien’s gaze flicked to her, something unreadable passing through his eyes.

“Dinner will be served in one hour,” Helena said, then disappeared as quietly as she had arrived.

Seraphina exhaled slowly.

Lucien checked his watch. “You should rest. Tomorrow will be… busy.”

She nodded. “And tonight?”

“Tonight,” he said, after a beat, “we play our roles.”

Her bedroom was larger than the apartment she had grown up in.

The bed alone looked capable of swallowing her whole, draped in silk sheets the color of storm clouds. A walk-in closet held dresses already arranged by color and designer, their price tags removed as if ownership had been decided without her consent.

She sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tightly in her lap.

This was real.

She had signed away eighteen months of her life to a man who looked at love like a business liability. She had agreed to wear his name, live under his roof, and let the world believe a lie crafted from desperation.

A soft knock sounded.

“Yes?” she called.

Lucien entered, no jacket now, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The sight of bare skin—subtle, controlled—did something unsettling to her focus.

“Dinner,” he said.

She stood, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her dress. “Do we… sit far apart? Or—”

Lucien’s lips twitched. “Come here.”

She hesitated, then stepped closer.

Without touching her skin, he adjusted the fall of her hair over one shoulder, his fingers hovering just above her collarbone. The closeness made her breath hitch.

“Cameras,” he murmured. “They read distance. Lean slightly toward me.”

Her body reacted before her mind did, angling closer. His hand settled at the small of her back, firm, possessive. Heat bloomed where he touched her.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” she lied.

His thumb pressed lightly against her spine, a reminder. “You’re rigid.”

She swallowed. “This isn’t exactly natural.”

“No,” he agreed. “But you’ll learn.”

Dinner passed in a blur of polite conversation and subtle choreography. Lucien spoke when needed, touching her hand at the right moments, leaning in close enough to sell intimacy without crossing lines.

To anyone watching, they looked perfect.

To Seraphina, it felt like standing on the edge of something sharp.

When the staff finally withdrew and the doors closed behind them, the silence returned—thicker now, charged.

Lucien loosened his cufflinks. “You did well.”

“Thank you,” she said, unsure whether it was praise or evaluation.

He studied her for a long moment. “Are you afraid?”

She considered lying. Instead, she met his gaze. “Yes.”

“Of me?”

“Of losing myself.”

Something shifted in his expression—brief, almost imperceptible. Then it was gone.

“You won’t,” he said. “As long as you remember why you’re here.”

She folded her arms. “And why is that?”

“To serve a purpose,” he said. “Not to feel.”

The words should have hurt more than they did.

“Goodnight, Seraphina,” Lucien said, turning away.

She watched him leave, the door closing softly behind him.

Only then did she allow herself to sink onto the couch, heart pounding.

Sleep did not come easily.

The penthouse was too quiet, the bed too large, the future too uncertain. Her thoughts circled endlessly—her mother’s hospital room, the weight of Lucien’s hand at her back, the way his eyes had lingered a second too long.

A soft sound startled her.

Footsteps.

Her door opened slowly.

She sat up, pulse racing, as Lucien stepped inside. He looked different now—shirt unbuttoned at the collar, tension evident in the way his jaw was set.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

He stopped several feet away. “Yes.”

Her stomach clenched. “What?”

“You,” he said. “And me. And this.”

She swung her legs off the bed, standing despite the instinct to retreat. “Then don’t come into my room.”

“I needed to be certain,” he said quietly.

“Certain of what?”

“That you understand the boundaries,” Lucien replied. “This arrangement does not include emotions. You don’t ask for affection. You don’t expect tenderness.”

She lifted her chin. “And you?”

“I don’t offer them.”

The air between them tightened.

“Then why are you here?” she asked.

His gaze dropped to her lips, just for a second.

“Because,” he said hoarsely, “control is easier when I face temptation head-on.”

Her breath caught.

Lucien took one step closer—then stopped himself, hands clenching at his sides.

“Lock your door,” he said suddenly. “Every night.”

And then he turned and left.

Seraphina stood frozen long after the door closed.

Her heart raced—not with fear.

With awareness.

She locked the door.

But sleep still did not come.

Because somewhere across the penthouse, Lucien Blackwood was awake too—discovering that the woman he had hired as a solution was already becoming his greatest risk.