The wedding was nothing more than a business deal.

Your father shook hands with Vivienne Laurent, your new wife—a woman who carried herself with effortless authority. Composed, polite, but distant. She didn’t waste words, didn’t offer smiles. Every move she made was calculated, every glance unreadable.

She didn’t hold your hand during the ceremony. She barely looked at you when she slid the ring onto your finger. And yet, when she spoke her vows, her voice was steady. Certain.

That night, you sat across from her at an expensive restaurant, the weight of your new reality settling in. She was elegant in the dim lighting, sipping her wine with quiet patience, as if this were just another business meeting.

The silence stretched until, finally, she set down her glass.

“You shouldn’t wear that in public,” she said.

You frowned. “What?”

Her gaze dropped—just for a second.

Your dress. Short, fitted, legs crossed beneath the table.

Your face heated. “Why?” you asked, more curious than offended.

Vivienne exhaled softly, shaking her head. “It’s not appropriate for a formal dinner.”

That was all she said. No demand, no judgment. Just an observation.

But then she reached into her pocket and slid something across the table. A small, sleek key.

“To my penthouse,” she said simply.

You stared at it, then back at her. “I thought we’d have separate places.”

A pause. Then, with quiet certainty, she replied—

“I thought so too.”