CHAPTER 2

The penthouse elevator chimed—a soft, polite sound that signaled Avery’s official entry into purgatory.

The doors slid open to reveal a massive, split-level living room walled in floor-to-ceiling glass. Below, the Manhattan skyline stretched out like a scattered tray of diamonds, but Avery was too exhausted to care. She dragged her suitcase across the polished herringbone floors, the wheels clicking loudly in the cavernous, quiet space.

"Your things were delivered three hours ago," Vivian said, stepping out of the elevator behind her.

Unlike Avery, who had spent the day sweating in jeans and an oversized sweater, Vivian looked like she had just stepped off a magazine cover. She wore a tailored beige trench coat over a crisp white shirt, carrying nothing but a slim, matte-black leather briefcase.

"I notice you left my boxes in the entryway," Avery said, gesturing to the neat stack of cardboard sitting like an ugly fortress near the coat closet.

"I don't touch property that isn't mine," Vivian replied smoothly, shedding her coat and hanging it up with practiced precision. "And I prefer to keep the communal spaces clutter-free. Let's get the logistics out of the way."

Vivian walked over to the monolithic marble kitchen island, unzipped her briefcase, and laid out two identical copies of a stapled document. Beside them, she placed a sleek black fountain pen.

Avery left her suitcase by the door and approached the island, crossing her arms defensively. "We haven't even had dinner, and you're already hitting me with legal paperwork?"

"It’s a domestic cohabitation addendum," Vivian said, tapping the pages with a manicured finger. "We already signed the marriage certificate this morning at city hall. This ensures we survive living under the same roof without killing each other."

Avery picked up a copy, skimming the text. "Section One: Spatial Division. The penthouse is split equally. Avery takes the east wing bedroom and studio. Vivian takes the west wing suite and home office. The kitchen and living room are shared spaces but must remain neutral territory." She looked up, her eyebrows raised. "Neutral territory? What is this, the Demilitarized Zone?"

"Given our history, yes," Vivian said without a hint of humor. "Keep reading."

"Section Two: Schedules. Vivian uses the kitchen from 6:00 AM to 7:00 AM. Avery has it after 7:00 AM. Section Three: Social Conduct. No unannounced guests. No romantic partners brought to the premises. Public appearances as a couple must be cleared forty-eight hours in advance." Avery tossed the papers back onto the marble. "You really are a robot, aren't you?"

"I am pragmatic," Vivian countered, her emerald eyes locking onto Avery's with a heavy, sudden intensity. "You value your freedom. I value my routine. This contract protects both. Sign it so we can establish the baseline."

Avery grabbed the fountain pen. She signed her name in bold, looping cursive that practically screamed defiance. Vivian took the pen and signed hers in a tiny, perfectly straight, unreadable script.

"Excellent," Vivian said, filing her copy back into her briefcase. "Now that the business is concluded, I am going to my quarters. Do not disturb me."

"Wait," Avery said, her stomach letting out a loud, traitorous growl right on cue.

Vivian paused, her hand hovering over her briefcase. She looked at Avery’s stomach, then up to her face, a single dark eyebrow twitching upward. "Did you not eat?"

"I’ve been packing and moving since dawn," Avery muttered, a sudden flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck. "My kitchen stuff is still in boxes. I was going to order a pizza, but I doubt delivery drivers can even get past your high-tech security lobby."

Vivian stared at her for a long, silent moment. Avery braced herself for a lecture on time management or dietary efficiency. Instead, Vivian let out a soft sigh, walked over to the sub-zero refrigerator, and pulled out a glass container of gourmet, pre-prepared pasta.

"The security team downstairs handles all deliveries," Vivian said, setting the container on the counter. She reached into a drawer, pulled out a fork, and slid it toward Avery. "But this takes two minutes in the microwave. Eat. You look like you're about to faint, and a medical emergency on night one complicates my schedule."

Avery stared at the pasta, then at Vivian, suspicious of the sudden gesture. "Is this a trap? Is it poisoned?"

"I don't waste expensive truffles on people I dislike," Vivian said dryly. She picked up her briefcase and turned toward the west hallway. "Goodnight, Avery."

"Goodnight, Thorne," Avery called out to the retreating figure.

As the door to the west wing clicked shut, Avery collapsed onto a barstool. She heated the food, watching the countdown on the microwave as the rich scent of garlic and truffle filled the cold, sterile kitchen. It was, infuriatingly, the best pasta she had ever tasted.

Looking out at the glittering, lonely city, Avery realized the battle lines had been drawn. Vivian Thorne was cold, calculating, and entirely frustrating—but as Avery looked at the neat signature on the contract, she realized her new wife was also entirely unpredictable.