Chapter 4 - Separate Kingdoms

Mara POV

The limo ride to Cross Manor feels like a long ride. Lucien sits across from me in the back seat, scrolling through his phone. He hasn't spoken since we left the reception. Hasn't looked at me. The wedding ring on my finger catches the streetlights, flashing like a warning beacon.

I stare out the window, watching Ravenstone City blur past. We leave the downtown high-rises behind, climbing into the hills where the real money lives. Each mile takes me farther from everything I know.

The limo turns onto a private drive lined with trees. Security gates slide open automatically.

Then I see it.

Cross Manor rises from perfectly manicured grounds like something out of a magazine. All glass and steel and modern architecture. Floor-to-ceiling windows that reveal lit interiors. The whole structure seems to glow against the night sky.

It's stunning but cold. It's a fortress.

"Home sweet home," Lucien says flatly, pocketing his phone.

The limo stops at the front entrance. A valet opens my door. I step out onto cobblestones, still wearing my wedding dress, feeling like I'm arriving at my own execution.

Lucien walks ahead without waiting. I follow him through massive front doors into a foyer that echoes.

Everything is marble. There's not a single family photo. No personal touches, no warmth.

"I'll give you the tour." Lucien shrugs off his tux jacket, draping it over a minimalist console table. "Though there's not much you need to know."

He leads me through rooms that feel like museum galleries. The formal living room with furniture no one's supposed to sit on. The dining room with a table that seats twenty. The chef's kitchen that looks unused. His home office—locked, he notes. Off limits.

Every space is pristine but utterly lifeless.

"How long have you lived here?" I ask, my heels clicking on the marble floors.

"Five years." He doesn't turn around. "Since I took over as CEO."

"It's very..." I search for a word that isn't insulting. "Clean."

"I have a housekeeper." He stops at the base of a floating staircase. "She comes Mondays and Thursdays, stay out of her way."

We climbed to the second floor. The master suite is at the end of a long hallway. Lucien opens double doors, and I step inside expecting one bedroom.

There are two.

A sitting room connects them—neutral furniture, cold fireplace, more glass walls overlooking the grounds. To the left is his bedroom. To the right is mine.

Separate kingdoms with a demilitarized zone between.

"Your room." Lucien gestures to the right side. "Mine is there. The sitting room is shared. I expect you to keep your space clean and respect my privacy."

I walk into what's supposed to be my bedroom for the next two years. It's beautiful in that same cold, impersonal way. King-size bed with white linens. Walk-in closet big enough for a studio apartment. Ensuite bathroom with a soaking tub.

My suitcase sits on the bed, looking pathetic. Everything I own fits in one bag.

"The closet will be stocked with appropriate clothing by tomorrow." Lucien stands in the doorway, not entering. "Patricia has your measurements."

"Appropriate clothing?" I turn to face him.

"You're a Cross now. You'll dress like one." His tone is matter-of-fact. "Designer labels only and nothing cheap."

Something in me snaps.

"My clothes aren't cheap." I cross my arms. "They're just not pretentious."

"They're inadequate." He pulls out his phone again, already dismissing me. "Patricia will handle everything, she has also scheduled your calendar."

"My calendar?" The words come out sharper than intended.

Lucien finally looks up, his steel-blue eyes cold. "Did you think you'd spend two years doing nothing? We have appearances to maintain charity events, business dinners. Society functions."

"I have a job," I remind him. "At the legal clinic."

"You had a job." He corrects me. "You're Mrs. Lucien Cross now. That's a full-time position."

The casual way he says it makes my blood boil.

"I didn't agree to give up my career." I step closer, refusing to back down. "That wasn't in the contract."

"Read the fine print." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You agreed to fulfill all social obligations as my wife. That requires availability, Mara. You can't serve hors d'oeuvres at a nonprofit while attending galas with billionaires."

The reminder of how we met lands like a slap.

"What about my family?" My voice shakes despite my best efforts. "Can I visit them? Or is that not appropriate either?"

"Sundays." He says it like he's granting a favor. "You have Sundays. The rest of the week, you're here or at required events."

"And friends? Can I see my friends?"

"Do you have friends who won't ask questions about our arrangement?" He raises an eyebrow. "Because if you do, I'd be impressed. Most people in your position lose their entire social circle once they enter mine."

He's right. God, I hate that he's right.

My friends from the legal clinic stopped texting after I announced my sudden engagement to a billionaire they'd never heard me mention. They probably think I'm a gold-digger and they are not entirely wrong.

"What are the rules, then?" I force myself to ask. "Since you own me for the next two years."

Lucien's jaw tightens at the word "own."

"Don't embarrass me in public," he says coldly. "Don't speak to the press without my approval. Don't make friends with anyone I haven't vetted. Don't go anywhere without informing Patricia. And don't" He pauses, his eyes hardening. “…develop any romantic feelings. This is business, keep it that way."

The last rule is almost funny. As if I could ever feel anything for him besides contempt.

"That's it?" I ask.

"That's it." He pockets his phone, moving toward his bedroom door. "We maintain separate lives under the same roof. You play the devoted wife when required. I pay for your family's existence. Simple."

"Simple," I echo hollowly.

He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, not looking at me.

"The wedding ring stays on at all times," he adds. "Even when you're alone. I'll know if you take it off."

"How? Do you have cameras in here?"

"I don't need cameras." He finally turns, his expression unreadable. "I'll see it in your eyes. The moment you stop pretending. The moment you remember you're not really mine."

The words hang between us, loaded with something I can't name.

"I'll never be yours, Lucien." I meet his gaze. "Contract or not."

"We'll see." His smile is cold. "Goodnight, Mrs. Cross."

He disappears into his bedroom. The door closes with a soft click that sounds like a cell locking.

I stand alone in the sitting room, still wearing my wedding dress, the diamond ring heavy on my finger. The silence is suffocating.

I walk to the window, looking out at the manicured grounds, the security gates, the walls that separate this place from the real world. From my family, from freedom.

Two years. Seven hundred and thirty days.

I can survive this. I have to.

But as I hear Lucien's door lock from the inside—a clear message about boundaries and distance—something inside me breaks.

I sink onto the pristine white couch, my wedding dress pooling around me and I cry.

For my father's pain and my mother's fear and Diana's guilt. For the life I gave up and the prison I walked into. For the man on the other side of that locked door who bought me like property and expects me to smile about it.

I cry until there's nothing left. Then I stand, wipe my face, and walk into my new bedroom.

The suitcase on the bed mocks me with its inadequacy. I open it with shaking hands, pulling out my clothes—jeans, t-shirts, the blazer I wore to the legal clinic every day.

I hang them in the massive closet anyway, claiming what little space I can.