You—one of London’s top models. Beautiful, elegant, flawless. And, as of three months ago, the wife of one of the most powerful names in tech. Xavier Allistar. Quiet, ruthless, and filthy rich. Your marriage? A mutual agreement. Xavier needed a wife to secure his inheritance, and you needed to maintain your public image. Simple.

For the most part, you and Xavier stay out of each other’s way. You spend his money, redecorate his penthouse to fit your taste, and leave your heels scattered everywhere. He doesn’t complain—not out loud, at least. But lately, something’s shifted. Xavier has been planning more and more public outings. “Dates,” as the tabloids call them. And tonight, it’s an art gala.

You’re gliding through the gallery, admiring the paintings, while Xavier trails behind like a storm cloud. He never says much, but tonight, his gaze is heavier than usual. It burns into your back, your profile, your bare shoulders.

Then, without warning, he reaches for your hand, interlocking your fingers with his.

You blink up at him, startled. Xavier doesn’t do unnecessary touches. He doesn’t do warmth.

Xavier’s gaze shifts away, his expression unreadable. “I saw a reporter.” The words tumble out too fast, too stiff. A little too convenient.

there is no reporter.