Chapter Three: Trapped in Wealth

It was the most alienating feeling Leila Carter had ever experienced.

As she stood in the opulent lobby of Adrian Blackwell's apartment, she gripped her suitcase handle tightly. The room, like the man who owned it, was frigid, incredibly smooth, and completely cold.

A stunning view of the shimmering skyline of New York was provided by the floor-to-ceiling windows that ran the length of the open-concept living area. A sterile glow was cast over the black leather furnishings, glass coffee tables, and sharp steel accents by the city lights reflecting off the immaculately polished marble floors. Everything was carefully set out, too flawless, too managed.

It was like entering a billionaire's fortress-- chilly, efficient, and completely soulless

She detested it.

Adrian drooled from next to her, his voice tinged with laughter, "You're staring." "Are you impressed?"

Leila turned to him and exhaled slowly. Here, he appeared relaxed.

He did, of course. She was now simply another tool in his toolbox, and this was his territory.

"It's....." She paused, trying to find the correct phrase. "Excessive."

Adrian grinned. "It's efficient."

"Efficient," she repeated, raising an eyebrow. "That's a chilly way to characterize a house."

His facial expression stayed the same. "Those who seek comfort should live in a home. I'm looking for outcomes.

He did, of course.

Leila dragged her eyes around the room once again as the situation's truth set in. She would spend the next six months living here.

Her stomach twisted.

Adrian's strong voice interrupted her thoughts before she had a chance to think about it.

"I'll show you to your bedroom."

One Bed, No Escape

Leila thought he would show her to a guest room down one of the lengthy corridors.

She was mistaken.

Adrian pulled up to a stop in front of a pair of doors and pushed them open.

Her stomach twisted.

With ease, he declared, "This is your room."

She entered—and stopped.

The room was dominated by a huge, king-sized bed with dark covers that were both opulent and confining. The cityscape was surrounded by tall windows that shed silver light on the minimalist artwork, the deep mahogany furniture, and the walk-in closet, which likely contained suits worth more than her whole bank account.

Everything had a subtle hint of his scent, which was black, pricey, and completely unjust.

Leila's heartbeat surged. "You're playing."

Adrian shrugged out of his suit jacket and walked past her. "Not at all."

She folded her arms. "You think I'll sleep in here? Along with you?

He raised an eyebrow. "Sweetheart, that's what engaged couples do."

The pet name made Leila's tummy tighten, but she ignored it.

She bit out, "Engaged couples have a choice." "I thought you were not interested in having sex with me."

Adrian's smile grew angular.

"I'm not," he said lazily. But this penthouse is being watched by my security detail, my housekeeper, and the media? They don't have to be aware of that.

Her chest grew constricted. Naturally

This wasn't just about convincing the world; they needed to sell the lie to Adrian's closest friend and family too.

With a deep exhale, Leila forced herself to remain calm.

"All right. However, I'll take the couch.

Adrian stopped grinning. "No."

She became irritated. "It's not realistic for me to share a bed with you."

Adrian stepped forward slowly, his black eyes meeting hers. He said, "I expect you to play your role." "And being by my side is part of that."

Leila's jaw tightened.

It was more than just the setup. He was putting her to the test. Pushing to find out how much she could bend before breaking.

She narrowed her eyes. "You're a jerk."

Adrian grinned without concern. "So I've been informed."

Leila took a deep breath and held on to her pride.

Alright.

She would be in this room if he wanted her there.

He would regret, however, underestimating her.

She turned to him and gave him a lovely, sugary grin after dropping her bag onto the immaculate bed.

She whispered, "I hope you enjoy sleeping on the edge." "Because I kick."

Adrian's laughter grew.

"Noted," he whispered.

Leila disregarded the chill that was beginning to creep up her back.

This was war.

Dinner and Power Struggles

Even dinner with Adrian Blackwell would have been a battleground, as Leila should have anticipated.

A plate of exquisitely organized food was placed in front of her as she sat across from him at the absurdly long dining table. The chef in the penthouse had prepared a sophisticated and gourmet meal, but it was impossible to enjoy because of the tension in the air.

Adrian ate calmly and precisely, his keen eyes examining her as though she were just another business deal to be worked out.

Leila raised her wine glass and sipped it slowly. This game could be played by two people.

"So," she interrupted the quiet. "What exactly is this all about?"

Adrian's forehead raised. "The engagement?"

“No,” she said. “This ridiculous control game you play.”

Adrian’s smirk was infuriating. “I don’t play games, Leila.”

She scoffed. “That’s rich coming from the man who arranged a fake engagement just to get ahead in business.”

Adrian leaned back, studying her. “And yet, here you are.”

Leila’s fingers tightened around her fork.

She hated that he was right. She hated that she had needed him, but more than anything, she hated the way he was getting under her skin.

“Tell me, Adrian.” She tilted her head. “Does it ever get lonely up here? In your perfect, pristine tower?”

Adrian didn’t react. However, there was a flicker—a split second of something unreadable—before his usual indifference slid back into place.

“No,” he said simply.

Liar.

Leila smirked. “Of course. You probably schedule your emotions between board meetings.”

Adrian didn’t take the bait. “You should eat.”

Her smirk widened. “Worried about me?”

His expression remained unreadable. “If you pass out in public, it’ll be bad for business.”

And just like that, her amusement vanished.

Of course. Everything was business to Adrian Blackwell. She took a slow bite of her food, meeting his gaze head-on.

“You’re right,” she said smoothly. “Wouldn’t want to damage the Blackwell brand.”

Adrian’s lips curved slightly. A silent acknowledgment.

The battle lines had been drawn.

Six months.

One penthouse.

And a war neither of them planned on losing.