By the time the clock inches close to eight, my stomach is a bundle of nerves tied so tightly together I can barely breathe. Nova left an hour ago, swearing she'd text me every ten minutes-and she has, which somehow makes me more anxious. I haven't responded. I keep staring at the open wardrobe, at the dresses lined up like strangers waiting for me to make the wrong choice.
I pick something simple. A fitted black dress with thin straps, nothing flashy, nothing loud. It looks clean. Safe. Exactly what someone like Asher would prefer.
Or at least, what I think he would.
I tie my hair half-up, slip into black flats-heels feel like a risk right now-and take one long breath before stepping into the hallway.
The penthouse is quiet, bathed in soft gold lighting, the city glittering beyond the windows like a map drawn in lights. I walk toward the dining room, palms damp, steps feather-light on the polished floors.
Asher is already there.
He sits at the head of the long dining table, posture straight, fingers loosely pressed together, gaze fixed on a document in front of him. He's dressed in a dark charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal strong forearms and the glint of his watch. His hair looks freshly styled, but he wears it like he always does-effortless, sharp, intimidating without trying.
He doesn't look up when I enter.
Not immediately.
But then his eyes lift, slowly, deliberately, and when they land on me, something flickers. Brief. Unreadable. But enough to make my heartbeat stutter.
"Ms. Wynn," he says, voice calm and low. "Sit."
I do, settling two seats away from him on his right side. The distance feels intentional. Professional. A reminder.
This isn't real.
Nothing between us is real.
I fold my hands in my lap and wait, unsure what comes next. A moment passes, thick with silence. Then two servers-when did they appear?-place plates in front of us.
The moment they leave, Asher speaks again.
"This dinner is to familiarize you with certain expectations," he says. "Public behavior, conversational roles, and the tone we must maintain."
I nod. "Okay."
His gaze lifts to mine, cold but not unkind. "First rule for meals: no fidgeting. Keep your posture straight. Shoulders relaxed. Hands placed lightly beside your plate when you're not using them."
I almost drop my fork. "Right. Sorry."
"And don't apologize unless you've made a substantial mistake."
"Oh." I pause. "Okay."
His jaw tightens. "That was another apology."
Heat creeps up my neck, but his expression doesn't change. He simply returns to cutting his food with smooth, practiced motions, as if nothing about this conversation is unusual.
I mimic his pace. Small bites, steady movements. No clinking. No scraping.
Every second feels like studying for an exam I never signed up for.
He finishes his first bite and speaks again.
"In public, our interactions will appear familiar but measured. You will walk beside me, not behind. You may hold my arm. You may not cling. You will smile when appropriate and remain silent unless spoken to directly."
My chest tightens. "And when we're alone?"
He doesn't look up. "We maintain boundaries. We follow the contract. Nothing more."
I don't know why that stings. It shouldn't. He warned me from the beginning. But still, a small part of me feels... dismissed. Like a reminder that in this enormous apartment, I am the temporary one. The replaceable one.
He must sense the tension because he adds, "This is not personal, Ms. Wynn. It is necessary."
"Right." My voice is softer than I mean it to be.
His eyes lift slowly, meeting mine with startling directness. "You are not here to feel uncertain or unwanted. You are here because you agreed to an arrangement that benefits both of us."
I swallow. "I know."
"Then stop shrinking," he says, voice barely above a murmur. "You won't survive in my world if you act like you're apologizing for existing."
The words hit deeper than expected. Sharp. Clean. Brutal in accuracy.
"I'm trying," I whisper.
"You will do more than try."
Silence stretches.
But it isn't hostile. It crackles with something heavier, something unspoken, something neither of us seems ready to touch.
Halfway through dinner, tension coils between us-not the nervous kind, but an awareness, like the air shifts every time his gaze brushes mine. He eats with precision. Speaks only to instruct. Observes everything. And yet... there's something else. A softness behind the steel. A shadow of thoughtfulness.
When the plates are cleared, he gestures for me to follow him to the lounge area. The space is dimly lit, the city's glow reflecting off the glass. He sits on one end of the sofa. I take the other.
This distance feels different-intentional in another way.
"We will attend an event next week," he says. "A private family luncheon. My grandmother will want to speak with you. She will test you."
My skin prickles. "Test me how?"
A quiet breath leaves him. Not quite a sigh. More like the ghost of irritation toward the situation.
"She will ask about your past, your interests, your goals. She searches for flaws. Contradictions. Weaknesses. Don't give her any."
"I'll try-"
"No," he interrupts gently but firmly. "You will prepare."
He stands, retrieves a sleek folder from his desk, and hands it to me. It's filled with pages of information: his grandmother's charities, her friends, her hobbies, even her disliked foods.
"You memorized all this?" I ask.
"I lived it."
A hint of something passes across his face. Something tired. Human.
I look down at the papers, my voice softer. "I'll learn it. I promise."
He nods once, as if accepting that answer.
But then I make a mistake.
I place the folder on the glass table without thinking-too close to the edge, disrupting the perfect symmetry of the room.
His demeanor shifts.
Cold. Controlled. Almost tense.
He steps forward, nudges the folder exactly two inches to align with the coaster and the vase.
My heart clenches. "Did I... do something wrong?"
He hesitates.
And for the first time, he seems unsure what to say.
"No," he finally replies. "It's not you. It's order. I require it."
"I can be careful," I say quietly. "I'll learn how everything works here."
His eyes flick to mine-sharper, almost pained in a way I don't understand.
"I don't expect you to adapt immediately. But I do expect you to listen."
A beat.
"And I expect you not to fear me."
The last line catches me off guard, stealing a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"I'm not afraid of you," I say.
He studies me, slow and searching, like he's deciding whether he believes it.
Then he steps back toward the window, hands in his pockets, posture rigid in a way that suddenly feels less like confidence and more like armor.
"Dinner is concluded," he says quietly. "You may return to your room."
It sounds like a dismissal. A gentle one, but still a dismissal.
I stand slowly. "Goodnight, Asher."
He doesn't look at me.
But when I reach the hallway, his voice reaches me instead.
"Goodnight, Elara."
Something tightens in my chest.
Because for the first time tonight-
he says my name.