Chapter Five
Elena woke to silence.
Not the comforting kind she knew from her childhood home — the one filled with the soft hum of traffic and the smell of fresh laundry.
This silence was different.
It belonged to the Blackwood penthouse: vast, cold, and too perfect.
It felt alive somehow, as if the walls were listening.
She lay still for a while, staring at the ceiling, counting the seconds between her shallow breaths.
The bed was massive, swallowing her small frame as she sat up and pulled the white sheets around her shoulders.
Her first full day here.
Her first day as Mrs. Blackwood.
Not a visitor.
Not a guest.
A resident — bound by paper, signature, and duty.
The apartment looked like something out of a magazine — flawless, expensive, untouched. Every corner gleamed. Every object looked placed for show, not comfort. It didn't feel like a home; it felt like a museum.
She slipped out of bed, her bare feet sinking into the thick carpet, and walked to the window.
The city was waking beneath her in muted shades of gold and gray, the last traces of rain clinging to the skyline.
On her nightstand sat a binder — thick, labeled in Adrian's sharp handwriting.
Rules. Instructions. Security codes. Notes about "appropriate conduct."
It was the kind of thing only a man like him would think necessary.
She sighed. "Of course," she muttered to herself, flipping through a few pages. "A manual for being married."
The ridiculousness of it almost made her laugh.
---
By midmorning, she'd showered and dressed — jeans, a loose blouse, hair down.
No heels. No polished elegance.
She needed to feel like herself again, even if the walls around her didn't allow it.
Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that Adrian's presence lingered everywhere — in the quiet hum of the lights, in the faint smell of his cologne that clung to the air, in the way the whole place seemed to watch her.
The kitchen was spotless.
The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound.
She hesitated at the counter, noticing the sleek digital screen glowing beside the coffee machine.
It displayed Adrian's schedule — color-coded, precise to the minute.
"Of course you'd plan your breathing if you could," she muttered under her breath.
The drawers were perfectly organized. Every utensil lined up like soldiers. Even the pantry looked staged — rows of labeled jars and neatly folded paper towels.
Her old apartment had been nothing like this — mismatched mugs, last-minute meals, noise, life.
This was... suffocatingly perfect.
She hated it.
But she understood it.
---
By noon, she had unpacked her things, filling drawers that somehow still looked empty.
The apartment seemed to reject her touch, like it knew she didn't belong.
When she finally wandered into the kitchen again, a faint sound made her freeze — footsteps.
She turned just as Adrian appeared in the doorway.
He didn't speak immediately. Just looked at her, assessing.
His expression unreadable as ever.
"You're following the schedule," he said flatly.
"I am," she replied, forcing a calm smile.
"Good."
He turned to leave.
"Do you ever say anything else?" she blurted before she could stop herself.
He paused. Looked back at her.
For a second — just a second — the corner of his mouth curved, almost amused.
"Only when necessary," he said, then disappeared down the hall.
---
The silence after he left was heavier than before.
Later, she found herself in the library.
It was enormous, lined with books arranged by subject — finance, psychology, philosophy.
Every spine perfectly aligned.
She trailed her fingers across the rows, whispering softly, "What do you even read for fun, Adrian? Or do you schedule that too?"
For a moment, she pictured him here — sleeves rolled up, eyes scanning pages.
A man who seemed to understand everything except people.
She shook the thought away quickly.
He wasn't hers to imagine.
---
Evening came, painting the skyline in orange and silver.
Elena stepped onto the terrace, letting the wind tangle her hair.
For a moment, she could breathe again.
Then she glanced back at the tinted glass doors, half expecting to see him watching.
Maybe he was. She couldn't tell anymore.
---
Dinner came at eight.
She cooked something simple — pasta, salad, tea.
When Adrian appeared again, she didn't hear him until he spoke.
"Sit," he said quietly, motioning to the chair opposite him.
He was still in his suit, sleeves rolled, a file in hand. He looked like he'd stepped out of a portrait that had forgotten warmth.
She sat.
He ate without looking up, flipping through a document as if she wasn't there.
Elena cleared her throat softly.
"The rain made the streets look like rivers tonight," she said, her voice gentle, almost testing.
He looked up briefly. "Hm."
Then, "The drainage downtown has always been poor."
And that was the end of it.
---
When dinner was over, he pushed his chair back.
"The house rules begin tomorrow," he said. "You'll follow them all. No exceptions."
She nodded. "Yes."
"I expect punctuality. Obedience. Discretion."
Her voice came smaller this time. "Understood."
He watched her for a long moment, eyes unreadable, then turned to leave.
"Adrian," she called softly before she could stop herself.
He paused. "Yes?"
She hesitated, then shook her head. "Nothing. Goodnight."
He gave a small nod. "Goodnight, Elena."
The sound of his footsteps faded down the hall, leaving her alone again.
---
She sat there long after he'd gone, staring at her untouched glass of water.
Relief and unease twisted together inside her.
Later that night, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking of her mother, the debt, the contract that now owned her life.
And then — Adrian.
The way his voice filled a room without effort. The quiet discipline in every move.
He was cold, yes, but there was something magnetic beneath the surface — something she couldn't name.
She turned onto her side, whispering,
"It's just a contract."
But even as the words left her lips, she didn't believe them.
Outside, rain whispered against the glass.
The city slept below, but inside the Blackwood penthouse, Elena lay wide awake — a stranger in her own new life, wondering just how much of herself she'd lose before the year was over.