Talia's pov
The first morning of my new "marriage" began with silence.
Not the calm, lazy Sunday kind.
This was the expensive, disciplined kind of silence - the kind that smelled faintly of espresso and power.
I woke in a bed that probably had a mortgage. The sheets were cold, smooth, and so white it felt like even sleep here had to pass inspection. Morning light sliced through the glass walls, too bright, too sharp.
The bedroom looked like something out of an architecture magazine monochrome, minimalist, beautiful... and completely lifeless. No warmth. No clutter. No trace of its owner except for the faint scent of cedar and rain on the pillows.
If a control freak had a heartbeat, this would be it.
A knock at the door snapped me out of my thoughts.
"Good morning, Mrs. Voss," said an older woman with kind eyes and a crisp uniform. "I'm Mrs. Penrose. Breakfast is ready."
Mrs. Voss.
I nearly choked. "Oh, please don't call me that. Talia is fine."
Mrs. Penrose smiled, the polite kind that said she'd seen this before and knew it wouldn't last. "Of course, ma'am."
Ma'am. Wow, that escalated fast.
I followed her down a hallway so spotless it could double as a museum. Every step echoed. I half-expected Adrian to appear around a corner with a clipboard labeled Rules for Existing Near Me.
The dining table stretched the length of a runway. At the far end sat a note - his handwriting as rigid as his posture.
Gym - 6:00 a.m.
Meetings - All day.
Dinner - 7:00 p.m.
Don't speak to the press.
P.S. Don't touch the whiskey.
I blinked. "Did he really-?"
Mrs. Penrose nodded. "He has... systems."
"Systems?"
"Schedules. Protocols. He doesn't like improvisation."
"So... he left me a to-do list for my own existence," I said.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Great," I muttered. "I married a calendar."
By noon, I'd given myself a tour of the penthouse or more accurately, I'd gotten lost in it twice.
Every room was a different shade of intimidation. Sleek black counters. Hidden doors. The faint hum of climate control keeping even the air obedient.
When I wandered into his study, I stopped.
It was the only room that felt alive.
Books lined the walls - thick, serious, expensive-looking. A few art pieces whispered wealth instead of shouting it. And on the desk sat a fountain pen - gold nib, perfectly aligned with the edge.
Of course it was aligned. He probably calibrates his pencils by mood.
I picked it up. It was heavier than it looked. Solid. Deliberate. Just like him.
Then something caught my eye.
A photo frame, half-hidden behind a stack of files. Old. Out of place. Personal.
Inside was a boy - maybe eight - dark hair, amber eyes, and a smile so bright it hurt to look at. Beside him stood a girl his age, laughing, sunlight caught in her hair.
Something about her face tugged at me - familiar, though I couldn't place it.
It didn't fit. None of this did. Because the man in that picture - the one smiling like he'd never met silence - didn't exist anymore.
"Careful," a voice said behind me.
I jumped, the pen slipping from my fingers and clattering onto the desk.
Adrian stood in the doorway, a black coat still damp from the rain, hair perfectly in place - as if even the weather had been trained not to touch him.
"Oh, good," I said quickly, covering my panic. "The building's emotional support iceberg has arrived."
"I wasn't touching anything," I lied instantly.
His gaze flicked to the pen. "You were touching that."
"It's a pen, not a nuclear switch."
"It's a Montblanc Meisterstück," he said evenly. "Given to me after my first merger. Worth more than your rent, I assume."
I crossed my arms. "Wow. You really know how to make a girl feel at home."
He didn't bite. He just moved - silent, fluid, controlled - setting down his briefcase.
"You've explored enough for one day," he said.
"Is that an order?"
He looked at me then, and I swear the temperature dropped. "If it were, you'd already be obeying."
Something in his tone made my pulse stutter. Cold. Detached. Utterly certain.
I tried for nonchalance. "Your study's impressive. Very... sterile."
"Keep your curiosity on a leash, Mrs. Voss," he said softly, stepping closer. "In this house, boundaries aren't suggestions."
My eyes flicked toward the photo before I could stop myself. "Who's the girl?"
He followed my gaze, pausing just long enough for a crack to show - the smallest hesitation. Then, in a voice sharp enough to cut glass:
"No one you need to know."
He straightened the frame with surgical precision, jaw tight, then turned away as if erasing her from existence.
The air thickened.
He spoke again, quieter but colder. "I've arranged a team to help you prepare for the press conference. Stylists. Publicists. You'll do exactly as they tell you."
"What if I don't?"
He met my eyes - no heat, no anger, just quiet threat. "Then you'll make my first decision as a husband an unpleasant one."
A chill crawled down my spine.
He picked up a file, flipping through it like our conversation bored him. "Seven o'clock. Don't be late."
"For what?" I managed.
"Our debut," he said simply. "It's time the world saw perfection."
He didn't wait for a reply - just turned and left, the soft click of the door sounding louder than a slam.
I stared after him, heartbeat thundering, eyes drawn back to that photo on the desk.
The boy smiling in that frame didn't belong to the man who'd just walked out.
Whatever light he'd had back then... he'd buried it.
Deep.
And God help me, I had just agreed to live in the dark with him.
