Atticus stood outside the restroom, his jaw set in a hard line. A muscle feathered near his temple, betraying his irritation.
He lifted his left arm, pulling back his crisp white cuff to glance at the dial of his Patek Philippe watch.
"The auction is starting in five minutes," he said, his voice flat. "We need to be at the front table."
Charlotte stared at him. She searched his face for any sign of guilt, any hint that he knew she had heard him reduce their entire life to a financial transaction. There was nothing.
She swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth. "Right. Let's go."
She walked past him, keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead.
They walked side-by-side back into the ballroom, but the space between them felt like a frozen wasteland.
As soon as they stepped into the main hall, the bright flashes of press cameras erupted.
Instantly, Atticus's large hand clamped down on her waist. His fingers dug into the silk of her dress. The heat of his palm seeped through the fabric, but it only made a violent shiver run down her spine. It was a mechanical touch. A performance.
The moment the cameras turned away, his hand dropped from her waist as if her skin had burned him.
An hour later, they walked out of the club and slid into the back seat of his armored Maybach.
The heavy doors shut with a solid thud, sealing them inside. The driver immediately raised the soundproof partition, plunging the back of the car into absolute silence.
Atticus didn't look at her. He reached for the tablet resting on the center console, tapped the screen, and began scrolling through emails from the European markets.
Charlotte turned her head to the window. The neon lights of New York City blurred past. The dark tint of the glass reflected her own tense jawline.
The silence in the car was suffocating. It pressed against her lungs until she couldn't take it anymore.
"Do you actually want to marry me, Atticus?" her voice broke the quiet. It trembled slightly, despite her effort to keep it steady.
Atticus's finger stopped mid-swipe on the screen. He didn't lift his head.
"What kind of question is that?" he asked, his tone dripping with impatience. "Are you overthinking again?"
Charlotte turned her body toward him. She needed to see his eyes. "I want a direct answer."
Atticus snapped the tablet shut. The sharp clack echoed loudly in the confined space.
His dark eyes finally met hers, and they were as cold as a winter ocean.
"The appointment at City Hall is set for next Thursday at ten in the morning," he stated, his voice hard and precise. "The family lawyers have finalized every clause of the agreement. There is nothing left to discuss."
"Is it because you love me?" she pushed, her chest aching. "Or is it just to fulfill the trust requirements?"
For a fraction of a second, something shifted in his eyes. A flicker of panic. But it vanished so quickly she thought she imagined it, instantly replaced by a wall of pure arrogance.
He reached up and loosened his silk tie with a sharp tug.
"Stop reading those mindless romance novels, Charlotte," he warned, his voice dropping an octave. "They are rotting your brain with unrealistic expectations."
He leaned back against the leather seat, looking at her with a mixture of pity and disdain.
"I am giving you the title of Mrs. George. I am giving you a life that every woman in this city would kill for. That is reality. That is enough."
The words drained the last drop of warmth from her blood.
He didn't love her. He didn't even respect her enough to lie about it.
Charlotte closed her eyes. A bone-deep exhaustion settled into her muscles.
"Okay," she whispered.
She didn't say another word for the rest of the ride. The air in the car turned stagnant and heavy.
The Maybach smoothly descended into the underground garage of their luxury apartment building near Central Park.
The car stopped. Atticus opened his own door and stepped out immediately. He didn't wait for her. He didn't walk around to open her door like he used to do years ago.
Charlotte pushed the heavy car door open herself. Her stilettos hit the concrete floor with a lonely, sharp sound.
They walked into the private elevator together. The digital numbers above the door ticked upward rapidly, but the physical proximity only highlighted the massive chasm between them.
The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open to their penthouse.
Just as they stepped out, a harsh, urgent ringtone shattered the quiet. It wasn't his work phone. It was the private cell phone in his inner jacket pocket.
