The words flickered across my vision like a glitching neon sign, and I froze. In this high-stakes marriage of convenience, I was nothing but a "fragile ornament"—a decorative weight he couldn’t wait to shed. The scrolling text told me he loathed my clinginess. They said my family’s "new money" status made me a joke in his world. They predicted that tonight, the moment he stepped into his office, he would fall for the real female lead at first sight. And me? I was destined to go into a jealous spiral, cause a scene at his headquarters, and get crushed by a truck. My family would be driven into bankruptcy by his hand shortly after. The tears that had been pricking my eyes suddenly vanished. All those times I’d cried because he came home late, because he pushed me away, or because he was too rough—it all felt pathetic now. I pulled back from him, forcing my voice to sound like ice. "You should go. The office is more important." After all, this "easy-crier" reflex of mine was probably just an annoyance to a man like him. 1 Blake looked up at me, his breath coming in short, jagged hitches. His face was a mess of my lipstick marks, and his wrists were locked in leather restraints. I’d spent half the evening weeping just to get him to agree to this. When I’d handed him the sheer V-neck silk shirt and the cuffs, his expression had been dark enough to swallow the room. I had crumbled immediately, sobbing about how my best friend’s husband wore things like this, how he looked powerful and touchable, and how some women just had all the luck. Blake’s face had twisted with something like resignation, but he’d put them on. Now, his voice was a low, ragged growl. "Are you sure you want me to go?" His eyes searched mine, hunting for a crack in my mask. I nodded frantically, the sheer intensity of his gaze threatening to trigger my tears again. He went quiet for a beat. "Unlock me," he said, his tone turning clinical. I shivered and climbed onto his lap to fumbling with the key. But my mind was a cinema of my own tragic ending. My fingers shook so violently I couldn’t find the mechanism. The more I panicked, the more the sob rose in my throat. He let out a heavy breath, his voice softening into something dangerously persuasive. "Gwen. If you don’t want me to leave, just tell me—" "There," I gasped, the lock clicking open. I choked back a sob and pressed his dress shirt into his hands. "I’ll be fine here alone. Don’t worry about me. Drive safe." Blake paused. He didn't say a word. Maybe he really did find me repulsive now; when he took the shirt, he pointedly avoided letting our fingers touch. He dressed with the efficiency of a man reclaimed by his world. The tailored suit emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow waist, and once he slid his silver-rimmed glasses back on, the wall was back up. He looked distant, untouchable. "Don't wait up for me." I forced a bright, hollow smile. "Do what you have to do." Blake’s jaw tightened. Without another word, he turned and left. The heavy oak door shut with a thud that echoed through the empty penthouse. The dam broke. The tears fell in heavy, silent drops. I dialed my mother, my voice thick with grief. "Mom... I want out. I want to end the arrangement." My mother’s voice sharpened with concern. "What’s wrong, honey? What happened?" I stumbled over my words. I couldn’t tell her that Blake was going to fall for someone else, that I’d be killed by a truck, and that he’d dismantle our family’s empire. "He doesn't love me," I whispered. There was a long silence on the other end. "It’s okay, baby," she said eventually. "A marriage should be a choice, not a sentence. The Callahan family... maybe they were always too much for us. I’ll talk to your father. Stop crying, okay?" "Okay." I wiped my face. The bed beside me was already cold. It hurt. The "Feed" in my head was right. My family’s wealth had come fast—too fast. Before I was seven, I was drooling over dollar-store corn dogs. Then my dad won a massive lottery, made a few brilliant, aggressive moves in tech, and suddenly we were orbiting the elite of the East Coast. The Callahans, however, were old money. Centennial blood. People lined up around the block just for a nod from them. Blake was the golden heir, groomed for the throne since birth—composed, lethal, a man who took over the family conglomerate while most guys were still figuring out their majors. Supposedly, my family had done the Callahans a great favor once. I couldn't remember what it was, and no one would tell me. I’d never even met Blake until a month ago when he showed up at our house and proposed the alliance. I’d wondered if it was a scam. But all my doubts had melted the moment I saw his face. I was all in. I wanted the man, the myth, the legend. Blake had given me a one-month "trial period." He said if I felt it wasn't a fit, we could walk away. At first, I thought he was being considerate. Now I realized he was just giving himself an exit strategy. Three days left. Just three days until the month was up. 2 To change the script, I spent the night being the perfect, invisible wife. I didn't text him to ask if he missed me. I didn't blow up his phone with "emergency" calls. I didn't send a single emoji. In the morning, assuming he wouldn't be back, I wandered downstairs without a bra, wearing only an oversized tee. "Why are you up so early?" The low, resonant voice made me jump. Blake was sitting on the sofa, a tablet in his hand. He looked up, his eyes sweeping over me, darkening instantly. Heat rushed to my face. [Lol, look at her acting all shy. Is she going to do the 'clumsy trophy wife' act again?] [Seriously, how old is she? The 'innocent girl' shtick is so cringe.] [The hero is exhausted from the office and has to come home to this? No wonder he falls for the heroine. Strong women are the future.] I dug my nails into my palms. Don't cry. I fought the urge to throw myself into his lap and beg for attention. Instead, I gave him a cool, detached smile. "Couldn't sleep. You're back. Have some breakfast." Blake set the tablet down, his brow furrowing. His gaze dropped to my feet. "The floor is cold. Where are your slippers?" "It’s summer," I mumbled. "I’m fine." When I looked up, he was already standing in front of me. Standing two steps lower on the sunken living room floor, he was eye-level with me. I could see the faint dark circles under his lashes. He looked weary. Edgy. I wanted to kiss the exhaustion right off his face. He reached out to pull me into his arms, a habit from the last few weeks. But then I caught it—the faint, unmistakable scent of a woman’s perfume. My fingers curled. I took a sharp, deliberate step back. "You should rest. I’m going to go eat." Blake’s hand stayed frozen in mid-air. His eyes turned wintry. A chill ran down my spine. I didn't dare look back as I bolted for the dining room. I didn't see him staring at my retreating back for a long, long time. He didn't stay long. He had to go back to the office. Before he left, he knocked on my bedroom door. I was curled up under the duvet, venting to my best friend, Sherry. I shoved my phone under the pillow like a guilty teenager. "Need something?" I asked, my voice hitching. I couldn't let him see. Yesterday, he’d told me to stop listening to Sherry’s "nonsense." If he knew I was currently trash-talking him, I’d be dead. Blake stood there, expressionless, his sharp eyes scanning my face before settling on the lump under the pillow where my phone was hidden. He lingered. I swallowed hard, my fingertips turning white as I gripped the edge of the mattress. "Blake?" He withdrew his gaze, his face somehow even grimmer than before. "I’m heading back. Call me if you need anything. Tell Maria what you want for lunch." He paused. "I’m leaving now." He was acting strange. He’d said "I’m leaving" twice. I just smiled at him. "Okay. Drive safe." Blake’s grip tightened on the door handle until his knuckles turned white. He closed the door behind him. [Is the trophy wife actually giving up? I thought she’d beg for a goodbye kiss. Maybe she realized he likes 'intellectual' types and she’s trying to play hard to get?] [Please. He’s so annoyed he can barely look at her. If she tried to kiss him, he’d probably shove her off.] [He’s already subconsciously staying 'pure' for the heroine. Integrity is a man’s best accessory.] My heart felt like it was being soaked in acid. The ache was physical. I fought the tears with everything I had. My phone buzzed. A message from Sherry. “OH MY GOD! Dump him!! I don’t care how hot he is, he’s treating you like trash. It’s not like you begged for this marriage!” “It’s just a face, babe. With your money, we can find you ten models. 6’2, abs for days, guys who actually like you. Pick one!” “Seriously, end it. I’ll handle the rest.” I bit my lip. “Okay,” I replied. After I sent it, the weight of the night finally hit me. My eyelids felt heavy, and I drifted into a deep, dark sleep. I never saw the photo Sherry sent immediately after. 3 When I woke up, the room was draped in shadows. A single dim lamp was on by the sofa, casting a long, elegant shadow across the floor. Blake was sitting there, the soft light catching the sharp lines of his profile. He looked almost gentle—if you ignored the suffocating intensity in his eyes. "Gwen. Did you sleep well?" I startled, wondering how long he’d been sitting there in the dark. "Yeah," I rasped, my throat dry. I reached for my phone. It was already plugged in, charging on the nightstand. I swiped the screen. It was a photo of a college-aged guy in a crisp white shirt—looking brooding, handsome, and very much like bait. My face went nuclear. I didn't realize Blake had moved until he was right there, kneeling by the bed, reaching for my bare foot peeking out from the blanket. I flinched and shoved the phone face-down. "Blake! Why didn't you wake me up?" My mind raced. Did he see the photo? Would he think I was looking for a replacement already? I searched his face, but it was a mask of exhaustion. "I'll remember for next time," he said quietly. There was a microscopic tremor in his voice. "Are you hungry? Dinner is ready." I looked at him, the "Feed" echoing in my head. He must be so miserable being stuck with me. Even if he saw the photo, he’d probably just feel relieved. I pulled my foot out of his hand and gave him a strained smile. "I’m a grown woman, Blake. I can put on my own shoes. You don't have to do that." I added, "Thanks, though." Blake’s empty hand slowly curled into a fist. "Right." Dinner was excruciating. Blake didn't talk, and I didn't chirp away with my usual questions about his day. The silence was heavy enough to crush. My phone buzzed. A text from Mom. “Sweetie, your father and I talked. We support whatever decision you make. We just want you to be happy and safe.” The tears threatened to return. I didn't want him to hate me more for being a mess, so I sniffled and stood up. "I’m done. Going to my room." Snap. I looked back. Blake had just laid down his chopsticks. They were snapped clean in two. I froze, instinctively wanting to check his hands for splinters. But logic stopped me. Don't be a nuisance, Gwen. I took a shower and felt a bit more grounded. I threw on a new silk slip and stepped out of the bathroom, only to be hit with a visual that stopped my heart. Blake was lying on the bed. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, his silver glasses catching the light. He looked devastatingly handsome. Like a trap. I felt a surge of heat. My hand moved toward him almost against my will. [Wait, is the hero actually seducing her? This wasn't in the book!] [Why does he look like a king trying to reclaim his territory?] [The original plot says he met the heroine and her boyfriend today. He’s probably feeling territorial and taking it out on the wife. He’s just practicing his moves.] My hand stopped an inch from his shoulder. I reached past him for my phone charger instead. "Blake, I have something to say," I murmured, my voice surprisingly steady. "Let's end the agreement."
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