Florian walked into the apartment and stopped dead.
The kitchen looked like a war zone of passive aggression.
Alessandra was sitting cross-legged on the multi-million dollar marble island. She was surrounded by yellow Post-it notes.
They were everywhere.
On the fridge: EMPTY.
On the stove: MUTE.
On the pantry: LOCKED.
On the coffee maker: I HATE YOU.
And right in the center of the island, stuck to a bottle of Evian, was a larger note: I AM YOUR WIFE, NOT YOUR HOUSEPLANT.
Florian stared at the sea of yellow paper. A laugh bubbled up in his chest-a dark, surprised sound.
"Creative," he said, peeling the note off the water bottle.
Alessandra looked at him. Her eyes were defiant. Then, her stomach let out a traitorous, loud growl.
Florian sighed. The annoyance faded, replaced by a strange resignation. He took off his suit jacket and draped it over a stool. He rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, exposing his forearms.
Alessandra watched him. He looked... human.
He walked to the pantry. "System, unlock pantry."
The lock clicked. He opened it. It was mostly empty, remnants of his bachelor days. He found a bag of spaghetti and a bulb of garlic.
"Garlic and oil," he muttered. "It'll have to do."
Alessandra watched in shock as the tyrant of Silicon Valley grabbed a knife. He smashed the garlic cloves with the flat of the blade, peeling them with practiced ease.
He turned on the stove. "Burner on. Medium."
Soon, the smell of sizzling garlic and olive oil filled the sterile air. It was a warm, pungent scent. It smelled like a home.
Alessandra didn't move from the island. She watched his hands. They were precise. Capable.
Florian tossed the pasta in the oil. He plated it. Two bowls.
He slammed one down in front of her. No garnish. No cheese. Just pasta.
"Eat," he ordered.
Alessandra picked up a fork. She took a bite. It was simple, spicy, and perfectly cooked. It was better than the cold purees the Winters' cook made for her.
She ate quickly. Florian ate standing up, leaning against the counter, watching her.
When the bowl was empty, Alessandra wiped her mouth. She pulled her tablet from her pocket. She typed.
We need rules.
The mechanical voice cut through the smell of garlic.
Florian raised an eyebrow. "Do we?"
I want a secret marriage, she typed. No wedding. No public announcement. No press.
Florian paused. This was actually what he wanted. He didn't want the volatility of a public union affecting his stock price yet. But he didn't like being dictated to.
"Why?" he asked.
Alessandra looked him in the eye. She tapped the screen.
Because I don't want the world to know I married a man who can't even fill a refrigerator.
Florian's eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, invading her personal space. He placed his hands on the island, trapping her legs between his arms.
"Careful, Winters," he murmured. "You have a sharp tongue for someone who doesn't speak."
He leaned in. "Deal. We keep it quiet. But in this house, you follow my lead."
Alessandra didn't flinch. She nodded once.
Deal.
Just then, Florian's phone rang. He pulled it out. The screen lit up: Chloe Gutierrez.
Alessandra saw the name. Her blood ran cold.
Florian answered. His voice changed instantly. It became smooth, charming. "Chloe. Yes, I received the proposal. It's interesting."
He turned away from Alessandra, walking toward the window.
Alessandra looked at her empty bowl. The warmth of the pasta faded, replaced by the chill of the room.
