The penthouse was exactly what I expected—which meant it was nothing like anywhere I'd ever lived.

Adrian's housekeeper, a woman named Margot with steel-gray hair and an expression that suggested she'd seen every gold-digger in Manhattan and found them all equally tedious, showed me around with the warmth of someone conducting a morgue tour. The marble floors reflected the skyline. The furniture looked like it had been selected by someone who'd decided comfort was pedestrian. Everything was white, black, or chrome—a color palette that screamed "emotional availability not guaranteed."

"Your suite is on the east wing," Margot said, her accent clipping the words short. "Mr. Kross's rooms are on the west. There's a shared sitting area between if you require anything."

Require anything. Right. Like actual human connection or the ability to stop my heart from racing every time I thought about Adrian Kross sleeping fifty feet away.

"Great," I said, my voice bright and false as a three-dollar bill. "Super convenient for... marital things."

Margot's jaw tightened. She knew. Of course she knew. The staff always knows. We're invisible to the wealthy, which makes us the keepers of their secrets—and their lies.

My suite was stunning in the way that made me feel like an intruder. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, and the bedroom was larger than the entire apartment Marcus and I had shared for three years. The walk-in closet was empty except for three designer dresses that Adrian had apparently arranged—each one worth more than I'd spent on clothes in the last five years combined.

I stood in the middle of that cavernous space and felt the walls of the penthouse close in around me.

There was a soft knock on the door frame. Adrian stood there in his shirtsleeves, having apparently shed the jacket somewhere between his office and my exile. His dark eyes tracked my face with the intensity of someone reading a contract for hidden clauses.

"You're angry," he said. Not a question.

"I'm not angry." I smoothed my hands over my thrift-store dress—the one I'd worn to his office, the one that suddenly felt like I was showing up to a black-tie event in a Halloween costume. "I'm just processing the fact that I'm now living in a museum. A very expensive, very sterile museum."

Adrian's lips curved slightly. "You can change it. The décor, I mean. Buy whatever you want." He pulled a black credit card from his pocket and set it on the edge of the marble dresser. "No limit."

I stared at that card like it might bite me.

"That's not—" I started, then stopped. What was I going to say? That I couldn't take his money? I'd already signed the contract. I was living in his penthouse, wearing his name, about to play his wife in front of the entire city. The credit card was just the logical extension of the lie.

"Isla." He moved closer, and I caught the scent of him—cedar and leather and something darker underneath, smoke and bergamot, something that made my nervous system completely betray my brain. "You need clothes. You need things. That card is for necessities."

"Necessities," I repeated, my voice sharp enough to draw blood. "Right. Because what I really needed was to move into a penthouse and pretend to be married to a man who probably has a spreadsheet tracking his emotional investments."

Something flickered in his expression—hurt, maybe, or irritation. It was gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

"I have a gala tomorrow night," he said, his tone shifting into something cooler, more professional. "The Ashford Foundation benefit. It's black-tie, and I'll need you to look the part. The card will cover that."

"Of course it will." I turned away from him, walked to the window, pressed my palm against the glass. The city sprawled below like something I could never touch, no matter how high I climbed. "Is there a script I should memorize? A particular way I should look at you that screams 'deeply in love'?"

"You could try looking at me like you don't hate me," Adrian said quietly.

I didn't turn around. "I don't hate you."

"Then what?"

Everything. I hated that I was here. I hated that I needed this. I hated that he smelled like expensive cedar and dark promises, and I hated that some stupid, romantic part of me—the part I'd spent eight years trying to kill—wanted to believe this was real.

"I'm terrified," I said instead, and the honesty of it surprised us both. "I'm terrified of being caught. Of being exposed. Of—" I stopped myself before I could say the rest. Of wanting this to be real.

Adrian was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer than I'd ever heard it. "No one's going to catch you, Isla. I won't let them."

It was probably a lie. It was definitely possessive and controlling and exactly the kind of thing that should have triggered my survival instincts. Instead, I felt something in my chest crack open like an egg, all my carefully protected insides suddenly vulnerable to the air.

I didn't turn around. I couldn't. If I looked at him right now, he'd see everything I was trying to hide.

---

The gala was held at the Metropolitan Museum, because of course Adrian Kross knew people who could rent the Met like it was a country club. The dress I'd bought with his unlimited credit card was midnight blue silk that clung to my body like it had been poured on, and I'd spent forty minutes in front of the mirror trying to convince myself I didn't look like a fraud playing dress-up in her mother's closet.

Adrian's hand found the small of my back as we walked through the entrance, and the contact sent a jolt through my nervous system that had nothing to do with the crowd of Manhattan's elite watching us arrive.

"You look stunning," he murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear it. His fingers splayed against my back, and I could feel the heat of his palm through the silk. "Every man in this room is going to spend the entire evening wondering how he got so lucky."

I should have rolled my eyes. Should have deflected with humor, my usual armor against anything that felt too real. Instead, I felt my pulse quicken and my breath catch like I was a teenager with her first crush.

"You're very good at this," I said, keeping my voice light even as my body betrayed me completely.

"At what?"

"Lying."

Adrian's hand tightened slightly on my back, and when I glanced up at him, his dark eyes were unreadable. "I'm not lying."

We were interrupted before I could respond—which was probably for the best, because I was dangerously close to believing him.

The evening dissolved into a blur of names I wouldn't remember and conversations designed to showcase wealth and power. Adrian moved through the crowd like he owned it, which, given that he probably did own most of it, was accurate. But his hand never left my back. His attention kept returning to me even when he was talking to CEOs and politicians. Every few minutes, he'd lean down and say something that made me laugh—real laughter, not the practiced society laugh everyone else was using.

"You're doing this on purpose," I hissed during one of these moments, when he'd just whispered something about how the ambassador's wife was definitely having an affair with her personal trainer.

"Doing what?" Adrian's expression was all innocence.

"Making me like you. Making this feel real."

"Maybe I'm just making sure you don't bolt." His hand slipped down to curve around my hip, and the possessiveness of the gesture made my breath catch. "You look like you're always calculating the nearest exit."

He wasn't wrong.

We were standing near the Renaissance paintings when Dominic Ashford materialized beside us like a perfectly groomed ghost. I'd never seen him before, but I recognized him immediately from the way Adrian's entire body went tense, from the way his hand on my hip became almost painful in its grip.

Dominic was beautiful in the way that old money made beautiful—all golden-blond hair and ice-blue eyes and the kind of smile that suggested he'd never been told no in his entire life. He smelled like expensive cologne, something crisp and perfect and utterly soulless.

"Adrian." Dominic's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I didn't know you were bringing a date. This is new."

"This is my wife." Adrian's voice had gone cold in a way I'd never heard it before. His arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer, and I felt the intensity of his possessiveness like a physical force. "Isla Voss-Kross."

I watched Dominic's expression shift—a subtle flicker of something that looked like hunger, quickly masked. His ice-blue eyes tracked over me with an assessment that made my skin crawl.

"Congratulations," he said smoothly. "I had no idea you were engaged. The wedding must have been quite the event."

"It was intimate," Adrian said, his jaw tight. "We preferred privacy."

"Of course." Dominic's smile widened. "Well, I'm sure we'll see much more of your beautiful wife in the future. Adrian, we should discuss the Meridian project. I believe I have a proposal that might interest you."

Adrian didn't respond. He was too busy looking at me like he was trying to memorize my face, or maybe like he was wondering if I was about to run. His hand had moved to the small of my back again, and his thumb was stroking slow circles against the silk of my dress.

"Not tonight," Adrian finally said, his voice still cold. "I'm with my wife."

The way he said it—like I was the only thing in the world that mattered, like Dominic and his proposals and the entire Met full of important people could disappear and Adrian wouldn't notice—made something dangerous unfurl in my chest.

After Dominic drifted away to poison someone else's evening, Adrian guided me toward the quieter halls of the museum. We ended up in front of a Vermeer—a woman reading a letter, caught in a moment of private emotion.

"Who was that?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"Someone I used to consider a friend," Adrian said quietly. "Someone who proved that friendship was just another transaction to him."

I could feel the hurt underneath his words, the old betrayal. I understood that kind of wound—the kind that taught you never to trust anyone again.

"He was looking at me like..." I trailed off, not sure how to articulate the way Dominic's gaze had made me feel like prey.

"Like he wanted something that was mine." Adrian's hand found my chin, tilting my face up to his. His dark eyes were intense, burning with something that made my breath catch. "He won't touch you. He won't even look at you again. Do you understand?"

It was possessive and controlling and absolutely insane, and I should have been furious. Instead, I felt a shiver run down my spine at the raw intensity in his voice.

"Adrian—"

"Say you understand."

"I understand," I whispered.

He was close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough that I could smell the cedar and smoke and something darker, something that smelled like desire. His thumb traced my jawline, and I felt my eyes flutter closed.

"When this is over," he said, his voice low and rough, "when we don't have to do this anymore, I'm going to kiss you properly. I'm going to take my time and do it right, not as part of some performance. But right now, in front of all these people, I'm going to kiss you like I can't help myself. Like I'm completely fucking obsessed with you."

My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might break through my ribs.

"Adrian, this is—"

"A performance. I know." His other hand came up to cup the back of my neck. "But I need them to believe it. I need him to believe it."

He kissed me before I could respond, and it was nothing like the chaste kiss we'd shared in his office. This was consuming and possessive and so intense that the rest of the world fell away. His mouth was warm and demanding, and I found myself pressing against him, my hands gripping his jacket like he was the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly become liquid.

When he pulled away, I was trembling.

"That's not what I want," I said, my voice shaky.

Adrian's expression hardened. "What do you want?"

Everything. I wanted him to kiss me like that because he wanted to, not because of Dominic or performance or strategy. I wanted this to be real. I wanted to be the kind of person who could trust that it was real, but eight years of survival had taught me that wanting things was how you got hurt.

"I want to go home," I said instead, which was true in a way that had nothing to do with the penthouse.

Adrian's jaw clenched. For a moment, I thought he might argue. Instead, he took my hand and led me back through the museum, out into the night, and into the waiting car.

We didn't speak on the drive home. Adrian stared out the window, his jaw tight, his hand resting on his thigh. I watched the city slide past and tried to convince myself that what had happened in the museum was just part of the performance, just Adrian being strategic.

The problem was, I'd felt his heart racing when he kissed me. I'd felt the tremor in his hands. And I was terrified that it meant something, because if it meant something, then I was in far more danger than I'd ever been.

When we got back to the penthouse, Adrian walked me to my suite and stopped at the door.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "For the kiss. For overstepping."

I should have said it was fine, that it was part of the act. Instead, I said, "Don't apologize for that."

His dark eyes met mine, and for a moment, I saw something raw and vulnerable underneath the iron control.

"Then what are you afraid of?" he asked.

Everything about this. Everything about you. Everything about the fact that I'm starting to believe in something I know is a lie.

"I need to sleep," I said instead, and closed the door between us.

I leaned against it and listened to his footsteps retreat down the hallway, toward his suite, toward the space between us that felt impossibly vast and dangerously small all at once.

My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: You looked beautiful tonight. I look forward to knowing you better. —D

I deleted it immediately, but the message stayed with me like a stain.

Adrian had been right about one thing: Dominic was looking at me like I was prey.

The question was whether Adrian was looking at me like he wanted to protect me, or whether he was just looking at me like I was another possession to control.

And more terrifying than either of those options: I wasn't sure I cared anymore.