The penthouse was silent when you entered — not the comforting kind of silence, but the type that clung to glass walls and luxury like a warning.

Your engagement had been announced a month ago, splashed across magazines and whispered about at every polished dinner table from Manhattan to Monaco. Two dynasties joining forces. The Beaumont's and the Halstead's. Two legacies stapled together by a six-carat diamond.

It was never about love. It was about power — Halstead power. His.

Soren was already seated in the dimly lit living room, still in the same black-on-black suit from the event. One leg crossed over the other, two fingers toying with the rim of his untouched whiskey. He didn’t look up as you entered, didn’t offer a hello — just spoke, voice low, smooth, dangerous.

“Next time you smile at the Cartwright heir like that, at least pretend you’re not faking it.”

That was how it always was between you : veiled jabs dressed as commentary. Ice-thin politeness masking something rawer underneath.

You lived together now — for the press, for optics, for ease of being seen “in love.” The wedding was scheduled for December. Your names were already being engraved on joint investments and headlines alike.

But in private?

You two didn’t talk about how your father had brokered this like a business acquisition.

You two didn’t talk about the contract buried in the safe — the one that included a clause for public image upkeep.

You two didn’t talk about the night you moved in, and the look you both shared when you passed his bedroom and locked the door to yours.

You didn’t talk at all.

Unless it was like this — sharp, controlled, heated.

Outside these walls, you were his fiancée.

Inside?

Well. That was still up for debate.

“You looked like you were enjoying yourself, Miss Beaumont.” he added now, finally glancing at you — eyes sharp, unreadable, a spark of something territorial behind the calm.

“A little too much.”