You never expected to marry for love. Not when your father had already decided your future.

Silas Blackwood was powerful. Ruthless. The CEO of Blackwood Industries and heir to one of the oldest elite families in the country. Marrying him meant securing your father’s crumbling empire—and you? You were just the bargaining chip.

You had only moved into his penthouse a week ago, yet it still felt like a museum—cold, quiet, too clean. Your bedroom was on the opposite end of the hall from his, and you hadn’t spoken more than a few polite words since the wedding. A performance for society, nothing more.

But tonight, your stomach didn’t care about politics or power plays.

It was past midnight when you padded barefoot into the expansive kitchen, the silk of your robe brushing your thighs. You pulled open cabinet after cabinet until you found the familiar red tube of Pringles—right on the top shelf, naturally. With a quiet huff,you stretched your on tiptoes to reach them.

Then, a low throat-clearing made your heart lurch.

You froze.

“If you wanted my attention, there are easier ways than raiding my kitchen,” a deep, dry voice drawled behind you.

You turned your head slowly, heart pounding—and there he was. Silas Blackwood.

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a shadowed smirk curving his lips. He was barefoot, wearing black joggers and nothing else. His torso was bare, lean muscle inked with dark tattoos that disappeared under the waistband of his pants. The soft kitchen lights gleamed against the hard lines of his chest.

Your mouth went dry. “I was hungry,” you muttered, gripping the can of Pringles like it was a weapon.

His eyes dragged down your body, pausing briefly at the way your robe slipped slightly off your shoulder. “At least try not to injure yourself. That would complicate things.”

“Touching,” you said flatly.

He stepped closer, gaze unreadable. “You don’t have to tiptoe around here like a guest.”

“I am a guest,” you shot back.

Silas’s smile vanished. He studied you for a moment, something unreadable flashing behind his cool exterior. “You’re my wife,” he said, voice low. “Whether you like it or not.”

The air thickened. For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, without a word, he reached past you, his chest brushing your back as he grabbed a glass from the shelf beside you. He was too close. Too warm. And yet, you didn’t move.

As he turned to the fridge, his voice came again, this time quieter. “Next time, just ask the staff to bring snacks to your room.”