The elevator opened to silence.
Ana stepped into the penthouse with guarded eyes, her heels echoing against polished marble floors. Everything was… perfect. Cold, minimalist, magazine-worthy.
Like a museum no one was allowed to touch.
Just like him, she thought.
Christian followed behind her, speaking to someone on his Bluetooth headset. Something about stocks. Or China. Or legal restructuring. She couldn't care less.
She moved toward the window—the view was ridiculous. The skyline stretched endlessly across New York, but all she could see was her own reflection. Red-rimmed eyes. A face that didn't look like hers anymore.
"I assume this place is part of the package?" she asked, still staring out.
Christian ended the call. "You live here. I live three floors up."
Ana turned, arms crossed. "Good. I don't want to see you more than I have to."
He nodded once. "Same."
The silence crackled like tension in a thunderstorm.
Then he walked to the bar, poured himself a drink, and handed her a glass of water.
She didn't take it.
He didn't insist.
"I have some ground rules," he said finally.
"Oh, you do?" she scoffed. "Should I be curtsying?"
Christian didn't flinch. "Rule one. You don't speak to the media. Ever. I handle all interviews."
"Wow. You must be a blast at parties."
"Rule two. You're expected to attend events with me. Three minimum per month. Wear what you want, but you'll be briefed in advance."
"Sounds charming."
"Rule three. Whatever this is, it doesn't bleed into real life. You don't get involved in my company, or my family."
"Don't worry. I'm not interested in your kingdom or your crown, Your Highness."
He stepped closer. She didn't back down.
"Rule four," he said quietly. "We do not fake affection when we're alone. Not ever."
That one hit her harder than it should've.
She narrowed her eyes. "Afraid you'll catch feelings?"
Christian's gaze stayed cold. But something flickered behind it. A split-second flash of something human. Regret? Guilt? She couldn't tell.
"You have no idea what I'm afraid of," he said.
Ana folded her arms tighter. "I have rules too."
"Let's hear them."
"I don't want your money."
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Keep the deposits. I'll take the penthouse. That's it. I'm not for sale, Blake. Not now, not ever."
For the first time, he looked… unsettled.
Not angry. Not impressed.
Just... thrown.
And then came his calm reply.
"Noted."
She turned away before he could see the tears sting the back of her eyes again.
This wasn't a marriage.
It was war.
Ana locked the door to the guest bedroom—not that she needed to. Christian never lingered long enough for a second look.
She kicked off her heels, opened the drawer, and pulled out the one thing that still felt like hers.
A plain leather journal.
No headlines. No contracts. No rules.
Just her.
She opened it, dated the page, and started to write.
📓 Ana's Journal Entry #1
Day 1. Or maybe Day 0. Depends on when a mistake becomes reality.
I didn't grow up dreaming about weddings. I didn't cut out pictures of white dresses or imagine what my last name would become. I didn't need forever. I just wanted freedom.
And now I have neither.
I'm living in a penthouse I never asked for.
Married to a man who speaks like emotions are beneath him.
Wearing a diamond on my finger that burns more than it shines.
He said this wasn't personal.
But how can it not be personal when my life has been rewritten without my consent?
I keep asking myself—how did I end up here? One email. One wrong name. One signature. That's all it took to change everything.
I don't love him. I won't love him.
This isn't a romance.
It's a contract.
A trap wrapped in silk.
I don't care how many rules he gives me.
I'll make my own.
Because I may be his wife on paper...
But I'm still Ana Rae.
And I refuse to disappear.
End of entry.
She closed the journal and stared at her handwriting for a long time.
It didn't solve anything.
But at least, in these pages, she still existed.
To be continued...