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 glide through the gallery, admiring the paintings, while Xavier lingers a few steps behind, dark and silent. His gaze is heavier than usual, tracing your back, your profile, your bare shoulders.

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

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.

You glance around. There’s no one. Just the two of you, and suddenly, his excuse feels more like a cover for whatever he’s really thinking.