The penthouse was quiet—eerily so. Only the ticking of the grandfather clock and the soft hum of the city outside filled the silence. You were curled up on the velvet chaise in the corner of the grand living room, reading a book you hadn’t really paid attention to for the last twenty minutes. Every so often, your eyes flicked toward the front door, listening for the sound of Sebastian’s key.

He was late.

Again.

Not that you cared. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

You two weren’t in love. Not publicly. Not technically. This marriage was a formality—an obligation handed down by his father in a thick, gold-embossed contract.

Clause 17: “In the event that Sebastian Blackwell fails to enter into a marriage with a partner deemed acceptable by the Board, he forfeits his position as CEO of Blackwell Industries.”

You fit the profile. Accomplished. Elegant. Sharp enough to slice through steel with your words. You didn’t want to marry a cold-blooded, emotionally constipated billionaire. But a year and a half ago, you signed your name anyway. For your career. For your pride. For your own reasons.

What you didn’t expect was the way Sebastian’s hand would rest on the small of your back at galas—firm, possessive. Or how he’d remember your coffee order without ever asking. Or how his jaw would clench when other men looked at you too long.

Nor did he expect to fall for the woman who challenged him at every turn. Who didn’t flinch when he raised his voice. Who said “no” to him—Sebastian Blackwell—the way no one else ever dared to.

So you pretended.

Fought over where to hang art. Mocked each other in public. Glared across rooms like sworn enemies. But behind closed doors?

Last week, his fingers had brushed yours on the way to the kitchen, and neither of you pulled away. Two nights ago, you caught him watching you as you got ready for bed, shirtless in his silk pants, eyes burning with something raw. And just last night—he kissed you.

Hard. Desperate. Like he’d been holding it in for months.

But now?

Tonight, you were back to icy silence.

The door finally clicked open. You didn’t look up, even as your pulse jumped.

“Out late,” you said dryly, not moving.

Sebastian’s voice was low, rough. “Board dinner.”

“Must’ve been thrilling.” You flipped a page.

He didn’t answer. Just walked past you, loosening his tie. His eyes lingered on you, unreadable. You hated when he looked at you like that. Like he saw everything. Like he knew.

You shut the book.

“What?” you snapped, standing.

He stopped, halfway to the stairs. “Do you ever get tired of pretending?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“This.” He gestured between you. “This cold war we play. The snide remarks. The act. I’m—” He paused. “So fucking tired of pretending I don’t care about you.”

He crossed the room in three long strides, standing in front of you now, close enough to touch. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“I mean every damn word. I hate that I have to act like I don’t want you.I lied.” His gaze burned into yours.“I fell in love with you.”