Chapter 12: The Rules Of Our Marriage

POV: IVY

Before we reached his mansion, Michael had already made it clear that being his wife did not give me the right to expect anything from him.

The heavy silence inside the sleek black Maybach had been shattered the moment he took Melanie’s call. As the rain streaked across the tinted windows, Michael’s tone transformed. The icy, unyielding edge he had used with me all day softened into something quiet, steady, and dangerously close to tenderness.

“I’ll drop by the gallery tomorrow afternoon,” he murmured into the receiver, his thumb tracing the leather armrest between us. “Don't worry about the press coverage. My PR team has already handled the headlines... Yes, Melanie. Get some sleep.”

He disconnected the call with a deliberate tap of his thumb and slid the phone back into his tailored jacket. He didn't offer a single word of explanation, nor did he glance my way to gauge my reaction. To him, I wasn't even a distraction worth acknowledging.

Instead, Michael turned his head slightly toward the window on his side, his profile sharp against the passing streetlights. When he spoke, his voice was flat, clinical, and completely devoid of warmth.

“Since the formal ceremony is over, we need to establish the ground rules of this arrangement,” Michael began, his stormy gray eyes reflecting the dim glow of the dashboard. “I expect absolute discretion from you at all times.”

I kept my spine straight, folding my gloved hands in my lap, doing my best to project Gemma’s haughty composure even as my heart hammered against my ribs. “Discretion regarding what, exactly?”

“Regarding everything,” he replied coldly. “Our public appearances will be fully coordinated through my media team. You will accompany me to mandatory galas, board events, and family functions when required. Outside of those obligations, you will live your life, and I will live mine.”

He turned his head to look at me then, his sharp gaze sweeping over Gemma’s white lace gown and the diamond choker wrapped around my neck.

“You will not pry into my personal affairs, nor will you question my schedule,” Michael continued, his voice dropping an octave into a low, uncompromising thread. “My relationship with Melanie will continue exactly as it did before today. You will not attempt to interfere, and you will certainly not stage any emotional scenes in front of the press or my family.”

A bitter, ironic laugh threatened to bubble up in my throat. He was warning me not to act like a jealous wife, completely unaware that the woman sitting beside him didn't want his heart, she only wanted to keep her grandmother breathing and survive three years without ending up in a prison cell.

“You don't have to worry about me making demands, Michael,” I said, keeping my voice smooth, cool, and detached. “I have zero intention of playing the tragic, desperate wife. As long as our business terms are met, your private life is entirely your own.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed slightly, a microscopic glint of calculation passing through his gray irises. He seemed momentarily taken aback by the lack of bite or drama in my response, perhaps expecting the high-strung, demanding temper my twin sister was famous for. But he merely gave a single, curt nod.

“Good. Then we understand each other.”

The Maybach turned onto a winding, private estate road, passing through heavy iron gates before bringing us to a halt in front of a sprawling, modern architectural mansion built of dark stone, steel, and glass.

The driver hurried to open the door, holding a wide black umbrella over us as we stepped out into the crisp night air. We walked into the grand foyer, where marble floors reflected warm ambient light and high ceilings created a vast, echoing quiet.

An elderly housekeeper in a sharp dark uniform stepped forward immediately, taking Michael’s coat with a respectful bow.

“Welcome home, Mr. Sterling,” she said softly, before turning to me with a polite smile. “Welcome, Mrs. Sterling. I have prepared the master suite upstairs on the west wing for you both, as requested…”

“No, Mrs. Gable,” Michael interrupted, his voice cutting through the quiet foyer with absolute authority.

The housekeeper paused, looking up in surprise.

“Prepare the guest suite at the end of the east corridor for her,” Michael commanded, without looking in my direction. “Mrs. Sterling will be occupying separate quarters.”

Mrs. Gable’s eyes flickered with a brief flash of hesitation, but years of professional training took over instantly. She bowed her head lower. “Of course, sir. Right away. Please follow me, ma'am.”

I gathered the heavy train of Gemma’s wedding gown, turning away from Michael without saying another word. He was already walking toward his private study, his long strides taking him down the opposite hallway without so much as a backward glance.

Mrs. Gable led me up a grand floating staircase and down a quiet, carpeted hallway lined with minimalist artwork. The guest suite at the end of the corridor was spacious and elegantly furnished in neutral tones of cream, charcoal, and warm oak. It featured a massive king-sized bed, a private balcony overlooking the misty grounds, and an adjoining master bathroom.

“If you need anything else tonight, ma'am, please press the call button beside the bed,” Mrs. Gable said gently, her tone containing a subtle hint of sympathy that made my chest ache.

“Thank you, Mrs. Gable,” I replied warmly. “This is perfect.”

Once the heavy door clicked shut, I let out a long, shuddering breath. I reached behind my neck with trembling fingers, unfastening the heavy diamond choker. The cold metal dropped onto the marble vanity, revealing the pale, crescent-shaped birthmark beneath my left collarbone.

I reached for the zipper of Gemma’s wedding dress, maneuvering out of the suffocating white silk and lace until I was standing in my slip. I pulled a simple cotton nightgown from my luggage, slipping into something soft and familiar, and unpinned the heavy veil from my hair.

I walked over to the vanity, picking up a cotton pad and facial cleanser. One by one, I scrubbed away the thick layers of high-fashion makeup, the heavy contouring, and the sharp eyeliner until my own face looked back at me in the mirror, pale, exhausted, but distinctly Ivy.

I sat on the edge of the large, quiet bed, pulling my knees to my chest. The mansion was dead silent, save for the faint patter of rain against the balcony glass.

Just as I reached out to switch off the bedside lamp and rest my burning eyes, a sharp, firm knock echoed against the bedroom door.

My pulse spiked instantly. I threw on a light robe, tying the belt tightly around my waist, and walked across the room.

I opened the door.

Michael stood in the dimly lit hallway. He had stripped off his tuxedo jacket and black tie, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He towered over me in the doorway, his stormy gray eyes searching my bare face.

For a split second, his eyes lingered on my features, catching the subtle absence of makeup and the small crescent birthmark now resting openly near my throat. A flicker of quiet confusion crossed his brow, but his expression hardened almost instantly back into iron.

“There is one more rule you need to understand,” Michael said, his low voice carrying a dangerous, razor-sharp edge into the quiet hall. “Never enter my bedroom without permission.”