The sun is a traitor.
It blasts through the massive windows of my wing—yes, apparently that's what we're calling it—with this over-the-top cheerfulness that feels deeply personal. Like, read the room, sun. I'm exhausted.
I yank the ridiculously soft covers over my head, trying to disappear into this cloud of a bed. Every muscle in my body feels like it's been trampled by a herd of fashion models in stilettos. My brain? Total static.
This isn't my bed. This isn't my room. And the silence's unreal. No sirens in the distance, no Mr. Orange purring like a dying lawnmower, no Mrs. Katia shouting at the TV about her favorite soap cheating on her.
Just… silence. The kind only the super rich can afford. Peaceful, sure. But also creepy.
Eventually, I crack one eye open. The silk nightgown I swore I'd never be caught dead in? Yeah, it's actually stupidly soft. Still feels like I'm cosplaying as someone with a trust fund, but whatever.
I pad into the walk-in closet, which feels less like a place to keep clothes and more like a boutique had a meltdown. Racks of designer stuff, all new, all color-coordinated. And apparently, it's all mine. Me—Darcy Quinn—who usually rocks the same jeans until they start begging for mercy. It's overwhelming.
Like, what if I spill coffee on something? What if I accidentally wear the wrong shade of beige and get kicked out of rich people camp?
The pressure is real.
I grab a pair of dark jeans and a simple black top that actually fits without strangling me. It feels like a tiny act of rebellion against this whole high-fashion lifestyle they're trying to shove down my throat.
Comfort over couture any day.
The bathroom's just as ridiculous as the bedroom—marble everywhere, shiny chrome, probably imported air or something. The shower alone is big enough to park a car in.
Last night I thought I was dreaming but no, these things are actually happening.
I step under the steaming water, hoping it'll scrub off some of last night's mess. The fight with Lucien. That frosty tone of his. My own completely uncalled-for attitude. It all hits harder now that I'm not running on fumes.
He was actually pissed. And I? I went and poked the rich, powerful bear—right in his overpriced cage.
After the shower, I towel off my hair and call it a day—no way am I messing with the lineup of fancy styling tools laid out like I'm about to film a shampoo commercial.
Who needs perfect waves to wander around a mansion that doubles as a museum?
I step out of my wing (yes, my wing, still weird) and into the hallway. The place is dead quiet. Either everyone's still asleep, or the staff here are trained in the art of silent ninja movements.
Then my stomach growls, loud and dramatic. Right. Food. Even pretend billionaire wives need to eat. I follow the scent of something vaguely breakfast-y and end up in the kitchen.
If you can call it that. It's more like a sterile, industrial-sized showroom for kitchen appliances—like Gordon Ramsay might pop out and start yelling at someone for under-seasoning a $500 omelet.
There's already a chef in the kitchen, looking way too calm and put-together for this hour. He gives me a polite smile, like it's totally normal to be cooking breakfast for someone who doesn't even know where the forks are.
"Good morning, Mrs. Holt. What can I get for you?"
"Uh… coffee?" I say, immediately feeling like an imposter. "Just… black. And maybe… toast?"
He nods like I just requested a ten-course tasting menu. "Certainly. And what sort of toast would you prefer? Brioche, sourdough, gluten-free artisan rye?"
I blink. "Just… bread. Toasted." I'm already mourning my usual burnt bagels and instant coffee. This is going to be a learning curve—and not the fun kind.
I grab the coffee he hands me (strong, thank God) and settle onto one of the sleek stools at the massive island. The kitchen is so spotless and quiet. It's peaceful, in that clinical, rich-people way.
I'm just starting to unwind, coffee in hand, when a voice slices through the calm.
"Good morning, Mrs. Holt."
I nearly drop my mug. Lucien.
He's standing in the doorway like he's posing for the cover of Billionaire Quarterly—tailored dark suit, hair flawlessly in place, jaw freshly shaved, looking like he's about to casually negotiate world peace before 9 a.m. There's zero trace of the exhaustion—or fury—I felt rolling off him last night. Just that trademark unreadable expression.
"Mr. Holt," I manage, trying not to sound like I just choked on my soul. "Rise and shine. Or, you know, just… shine, in your case."
He strides over to the counter, all smooth movements and quiet dominance. The chef places a steaming cup of coffee in front of him without a single word, like this is a daily ritual. Of course it is.
"You're up early," he says, voice calm and even, like last night's argument never happened. It's unnerving.
"Says the man who probably woke up at four a.m. to invent a new energy source," I shoot back, eyebrow raised. "Some of us mere mortals still require sleep."
He takes a slow sip of his coffee, eyes locking with mine over the rim. There's a flicker—amusement? Intrigue? Maybe he's just trying not to laugh at me. Honestly, fair.
"My schedule is efficient. It leaves little room for inefficiencies."
"Oh, like me. Arguing with you at dinner. Or, I don't know, having feelings."
He doesn't flinch. "Emotions are variables. And variables can be managed."
"Right," I snort, grabbing a bite of my artisanal toast, which is annoyingly delicious. "Because women's feelings are just minor bugs in the software, yeah? You gonna patch me next time I cry?"
That earns me a flash of something in his eyes. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. Close to a smirk. Dangerously close.
"Good system designers," he says slowly, "account for all contingencies."
I narrow my eyes. "And I assume that includes me demanding pizza for breakfast?"
He finally lets the smirk break through—just a bit. It hits like a punch to the chest. Damn him.
"I imagine the chef could be persuaded," he says, deadpan. "Though it may come with a side of judgment."
"Please. I eat judgment for breakfast," I mutter into my coffee, refusing to let him see how flustered that smirk made me.
He watches me for a beat longer than necessary, clearly enjoying himself now.
God help me—I might actually start looking forward to mornings.
"Unfortunate," he says, with that maddening glint of amusement in his voice. "Perhaps we can arrange for an alternative at a later date—though I doubt it would meet the nutritional standards of your brother's preferred diet."
Just like that, the mood shifts. My stomach tightens. Of course he brings up Leo. So casually. So deliberately. It's a reminder—not just of why I'm here, but who really holds the leash. Whatever flicker of peace or normalcy I was feeling evaporates in an instant.
"Leo's fine," I say, the warmth gone from my voice. "Thanks to me. And a very expensive contract." I narrow my eyes. "Don't pretend to care about his nutritional standards, Mr. Holt. You care about you. You care about a quiet, well-behaved fake wife who smiles on cue."
His jaw tightens, just a little. The polite mask starts to crack. "And you, Mrs. Holt," he says, voice dropping like a warning, "would do well to remember the terms of that contract. Your brother's freedom was secured. Don't gamble with it over baseless accusations."
The air between us shifts again—colder, heavier. We stare at each other across the counter like opponents waiting for the other to flinch.
"Reckless?" I shoot back, standing up fast enough for the stool to screech against the floor. "I'm just asking why your all-powerful, airtight company let someone like Leo get framed in the first place. Don't you want to know who the real threat is, Mr. Holt? Or does curiosity count as a breach of contract?"
He pushes his coffee away with a sharp scrape. His expression is pure ice now, every trace of playfulness gone. "I'm perfectly capable of handling my own internal affairs, Ms. Quinn. Your role in all this is very clear. Don't mistake your presence for permission to meddle."
"My role," I mutter, turning away. "Just another variable in your perfectly calculated life. Something to control. To shut up."
"Precisely," he says. No hesitation. "Now, if you'll excuse me. I have actual work to do."
And just like that, he's gone. The chef—who's been pretending to be invisible this whole time—finally lets out a breath and goes back to slicing fruit like it didn't just turn into a crime scene in here.
I slump back onto the stool, gripping the edge of the counter. My coffee is still warm, but it tastes bitter now.
So much for a peaceful morning.
Whatever this arrangement is, it's not a partnership. It's a battlefield disguised in marble and chrome. And the real danger is not the contract. It's not even Lucien.
It's what he brings out in me—this fire, this stubbornness, this craving to break his rules just to feel something.
And I don't know who that makes more dangerous—him or me.