The elevator opened directly into the penthouse.
It was vast. That was the first thing Blaire noticed. The ceilings were twenty feet high. The walls were glass, offering a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline that cost more than her life.
But it was cold.
Everything was gray, black, or white. Minimalist. Sharp edges. No photos. No flowers. It looked like a museum, not a home.
An older woman in a crisp uniform was waiting by the foyer.
"Good evening, Mr. Singleton," she said. She looked at Blaire, her eyes widening slightly. "And... Mrs. Singleton."
"Mrs. Higgins," Declan said, shrugging off his tuxedo jacket. He handed it to her. "This is Blaire."
"Welcome, madam," she said politely.
"Where is the guest room?" Blaire asked, clutching her clutch like a shield. "I'd like to unpack."
Mrs. Higgins paused. She looked at Declan, confused.
"The other bedrooms are part of my private wing," Declan said. He was unbuttoning his cuffs. "They are not for guests. You will sleep in the master suite."
"This place is eight thousand square feet," Blaire said, looking around. "Don't tell me there's only one bed."
"There are three bedrooms," Declan said calmly. "But Mrs. Higgins, put her bags in the master suite."
"Yes, sir." Mrs. Higgins grabbed Blaire's luggage and scurried away.
"Declan!" Blaire snapped.
He turned to her. He walked closer, forcing her to back up until her heels hit the wall of the foyer.
He placed one hand on the wall next to her head. He leaned in.
"We are married, Blaire," he said. "The Singleton family does not do separate bedrooms. It implies dysfunction."
"This is dysfunction!" she argued. "It's a business deal!"
"I spent two billion dollars to merge our companies," he said, his voice low. "Do you think I did that to have a roommate?"
Blaire stared at him. "You... you expect..."
"I expect a wife," he said. "Go shower. You smell like fear and hairspray."
He pushed off the wall and walked toward the bar.
Blaire stood there, shaking.
She turned and followed Mrs. Higgins.
The master bedroom was enormous. And right in the center was a bed. A massive, California King bed with black silk sheets. It looked like an altar to sin.
Her clothes were already hanging in the closet. Her bright, colorful dresses looked ridiculous next to his row of severe black suits.
She went into the bathroom. It was all marble and glass.
She saw his razor. His cologne. His toothbrush.
She felt like an intruder.
She locked the door. She turned on the shower, making it scalding hot. She scrubbed her skin until it was pink, trying to wash away the day.
She stayed in there for forty minutes.
Finally, the water turned cold. She turned it off.
She reached for a towel and dried off. Then she realized she had forgotten her pajamas. They were in the suitcase in the bedroom.
"Damn it," she whispered.
She looked around. There was a black robe hanging on the back of the door.
She had no choice.
She put it on. It was huge. The sleeves hung past her hands. It smelled like him-that intoxicating mix of cedar and spice. Being wrapped in it felt like being hugged by him.
She took a deep breath. He's probably asleep. Or downstairs.
She unlocked the door and stepped out.
The room was dim.
Declan was sitting in a leather armchair by the window. He had a glass of whiskey in his hand. He had taken off his shirt.
Her breath caught.
He was... sculpted. Layers of hard muscle shifted under his skin as he raised the glass to his lips. A dusting of dark hair covered his chest, trailing down his flat stomach and disappearing into his dress pants.
He looked at her.
His eyes swept over her wet hair, down the oversized robe, to her bare feet.
He didn't say a word. He just stared. The air in the room grew heavy. Charged.
Blaire pulled the lapels of the robe tighter.
"I... I'm going to sleep on the sofa," she stammered.
Declan set the glass down. The sound of crystal hitting the coaster was sharp.
He stood up.
He walked toward her. Slow. Predatory.
"The bed is big enough, Blaire," he said. "Don't make me carry you."
She looked at the bed. Then at him.
She knew he would do it.
"Fine," she whispered.
She walked to the far side of the bed. She dropped the robe and scrambled under the covers before he could see anything. She lay on the very edge, her back to the room.
The mattress dipped.
Declan got in.
He was hot. Like a furnace. She could feel his body heat radiating across the six inches of space between them.
She held her breath, waiting for him to touch her. To demand his "rights."
"Goodnight, Blaire," he said.
His voice was right behind her ear.
Then, the light clicked off.
She lay there in the dark, eyes wide open, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing.
