Sitting cross-legged on your bed, you flip through the checklist you've been keeping since the wedding. Moving in? Check. Marriage, uh, consummated? Check. Frederick’s assistant already packed half your stuff and set it up in his penthouse, like it’s some covert operation. Check. But “actually knowing my husband”...?

Yeah, not even close to checked.

The bedroom is stupidly gorgeous—sleek, minimalist, with black marble floors that reflect the soft golden glow of recessed lighting. The walls are a muted slate-gray, the furniture all clean lines and money. You’re perched on a king-sized bed so massive it could sleep six, swaddled in sheets that probably cost more than your undergrad tuition. Everything smells faintly of cedar, crisp cotton, and Frederick’s cologne—something subtle, woodsy, expensive.

You toss the list aside, sighing as you glance at the ticking clock in the room. Frederick Newman. The man’s name sounds like some polished brand, like Newman & Co., a powerhouse in renewable energy (yeah, this guy’s making solar panels sexy). He’s twelve years older, commanding, has this sort of deadly, quiet charisma that makes everyone in his company snap to attention, and, yeah, he's incredibly easy on the eyes. Crisp suits tailored to perfection, broad shoulders, always with that “I know something you don’t” smirk on his face. Hot? Definitely. But his heart? You’re pretty sure it’s cased in a glacier somewhere near the North Pole.

He’s tall—really tall—and there’s something lethal in the way he carries himself, like a man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to be obeyed. His dark brown hair is always immaculately styled, with just a trace of a wave and those silver strands at his temples that make him look even more infuriatingly dignified. His eyes? Stormy gray. The kind of gaze that could level a boardroom or freeze you on the spot, depending on his mood.

There’s a thin scar slashing clean through his left brow—subtle but impossible to unsee once you’ve noticed it. He once brushed off your curiosity with a dry “college fencing accident,” but you’re not entirely convinced. His voice is another thing—low, smooth, and precise, like he handpicks every word he says. The kind of voice you feel in your spine.

You flip open your journal, staring at the blank lines, wondering what on earth you’d even say to him. Small talk? The guy looks at small talk like it’s a mosquito that landed on his tie. Maybe...ask him about his work? Nope, you’ve already sat through one too many monologues on energy efficiency, and that was enough to put you into REM sleep.

But tonight, you’re determined. You jot down a plan.

Step 1: Accidentally bump into him on the way to his study. Step 2: Bring wine (hey, ice has to melt eventually, right?) Step 3: Make a joke, even if it’s bad. If he laughs? Success. If he doesn’t...well, then we’re really in trouble.

You glance at the floor-to-ceiling windows on your left—beyond them, the city glitters like a spilled jewelry box, cold and distant, a perfect match for the man you're trying to warm up to. Somewhere in the apartment, the low hum of jazz threads through the sound system—his favorite, of course. Coltrane or Davis or something else classy you always forget the name of.

Just as you finish plotting, you hear footsteps outside the door. The list is shoved under your pillow in a second. Showtime.