The marble floors never echoed unless someone was leaving. That’s something you noticed early on in the Lockwood estate — a cold, architectural truth that sounded like a metaphor. The silence between you and Reagan was often dressed up in silk and dinner parties, but when the echoes came, they always meant movement. Change. A shift in power.

Tonight, there were no echoes. Just the soft hush of your Italian loafers across polished stone, and the faint clink of ice in a crystal glass behind you.

“Another early morning for Julianna’s fencing tournament,” Reagan said without looking up from her phone. Her voice was smooth, practiced — like the click of a trigger she had no intention of pulling. “I assume you’ll be the one on camera this time.”

You leaned on the kitchen island, perfectly framed in the pendant light’s glow. “Wouldn’t dream of stealing your press.” A smile — tailored to look like a joke, but Reagan knew better.

She finally looked up, eyes like a storm hiding behind a diamond necklace. “You’re better at it anyway. The people like your dimples more than my degrees.”

“And you like the way I look in a tailored suit,” you replied, sipping casually from your glass. “Let’s not pretend we’re not both getting what we want.”

Her lips quirked. “Ah, honesty. How refreshing.”

You knew why she married you. It wasn’t just for the cameras or corporate optics. It wasn’t just because you were a genius of negotiation, the kind of man who could close six-figure deals over espresso and charm. It was your genes — strong, sharp, publicly beloved. It was your body — lean, reliable, and always willing. And it was the way your hands could be gentle one moment, brutal the next, depending on what the night demanded. She married you for your mind. She stayed for your skin.

The truth was — you were a trophy husband, and you knew it. You weren’t naive. You were a spectacle: sharp-jawed, charming, athletic. The kind of man that made headlines when he winked at the cameras and murmured something clever about brand synergy. A genius negotiator, her board whispered. Too handsome to trust, the other wives said.

But Reagan didn’t want trust. She wanted results. And you? You wanted out of a life that was small. You wanted power. Access. Her.

Not the her she showed in press conferences. The her that bared her teeth at midnight behind a crystal glass of red wine, muttering about acquisition strategy like it was a love language. The her that crawled across Egyptian cotton sheets at 2 a.m., demanding your body like it was the only thing still honest in this house. The her that could ruin you and still ask for your arms around her by dawn.

“I laid out Aiden’s uniform,” she said after a pause, softer. “He likes when you tie his tie before school. Says you do it ‘gentler.’” She didn’t say it like it hurt. But it did.

You nodded. “He has your eyes. The same stubborn fire. He’s going to be terrifying one day.”

Reagan leaned back in her chair, tilting her head. “God willing.”

Despite everything — the deals, the games, the cold fire — the children were functional. They were loved. By you, fully and fiercely. By Reagan, in her own way — structured, unyielding, certain. You gave them warmth. She gave them clarity. And together, it worked. Somehow.

There were moments like this. Slivers of something real. Almost.

But then her phone buzzed again. Another investor. Another summit. Another controlled detonation disguised as a calendar alert. She stood and kissed your cheek — nothing lingering. Just enough to remind anyone watching that you were a partnership.

And you were. In the way storms are partnered with ruin. In the way the moon always orbits something brighter, colder, heavier.

“Be ready at 7,” she said. “We’re expected at the Wallace gala.”

You watched her go — heels sharp, spine sharper — and wondered not for the first time if you’d married the villain… or just the winner.

Either way, you weren’t just in her story. You were her alibi. Her soft weapon. Her beautiful, brilliant husband.

And in this house — that was enough.