The echo of my own footsteps in the marble hallway haunted me like a reminder of my new sentence. Three years. Three years wasn't a contract; it was a lifetime when it came to living them with a man who froze the air with every breath. But the worst part wasn't the time, it was the space. Or rather, the lack of it.
Elias was standing in the doorway of his master suite, watching the staff move my suitcases from the other wing of the penthouse. His room was three times larger than mine, decorated in anthracite and dark wood, with a king-size bed that looked like a shrine to minimalism and power. His scent—that blend of leather, sandalwood, and success—was everywhere. It was suffocating.
"You can use the dressing room on the left," he said, without looking at me, engrossed in his phone as if stock market activity were more important than the fact that a stranger was going to sleep inches away from him. "I've made room for your things." Don't touch my watches or my suits. I hate when people move my belongings.
"Don't worry, Elias. I have no interest in your rich-guy toys," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. I grabbed my carry-on and went into the dressing room.
It was an immense space, filled with mirrors and automatic LED lights. Seeing my simple dresses and few belongings hanging next to his three-thousand-dollar designer suits, I felt a pang of humiliation. I didn't belong here. I was a virus in his perfect system.
When I came out, Elias was taking off his jacket, revealing the white silk shirt that clung to his broad shoulders. He unbuttoned the top two buttons and ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, loosening it slightly. That small human gesture made him look even more dangerous.
"Where am I going to sleep?" I asked, pointing to the bed.
Elias raised an eyebrow, a hint of cruel amusement in his eyes.
"In bed, Zahra. Where else? Miller and the other lawyers have access to the security cameras in the hallway and the living room. If they see one of us sleeping on the couch night after night, they'll start asking questions. And we can't afford questions."
"I could put up a pillow barrier," I suggested, feeling heat rise up my neck.
"Don't be childish. I'm a grown man, not a hormone-driven teenager. I'm not going to touch you while you're asleep. I have enough self-control for both of us."
His words were meant to be reassuring, but they wounded my pride. Was I really that unattractive to him? Was I just a lifeless "asset" that didn't even stir a basic instinct in him? I shook my head. I should be grateful, not offended.
Night fell on the city, and with it, the sepulchral silence of the attic. I put on a pearl-colored silk nightgown, ankle-length, trying to be as modest as possible given my options. When I came out of the bathroom, Elias was already in bed, leaning against the leather headboard, reading some documents on his tablet. He was wearing only black pajama pants. His chest was bare, revealing defined but not exaggerated muscles, and a pale scar that crossed his left side.
I froze in the doorway.
"Are you going to stay there all night or are you going to come in now?" he asked without taking his eyes off the screen.
I walked to the empty side of the bed and slipped under the Egyptian cotton sheets. They were cool and soft, but my body was as stiff as a board. I could feel the heat emanating from him just inches away. The silence was so thick I could hear the ticking of his wristwatch on the nightstand.
"Turn off the light when you're ready," he said, finally putting down his tablet and sliding downstairs.
I switched off the lamp, and the room was plunged into a bluish gloom, illuminated only by the distant glow of the skyscrapers. I turned away, my back to him, and squeezed my eyes shut.
Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. Sleep wouldn't come. I was too aware of his every move, his deep, rhythmic breathing. Suddenly, I felt him stir. The bed creaked softly.
"Zahra," his voice echoed in the darkness, closer than I expected.
"Yes?" My voice came out as a barely audible whisper.
"A decorator is coming tomorrow. I want you to change a few things in the living room. Photos of us, maybe some of your books. It has to look like you actually live here, like this place has a feminine touch."
"I thought you hated it when people touched your things."
"I hate it. But I hate losing my company even more. Do what you have to do. But don't touch my office."
"Understood," I replied. There was a long pause. "Elias… that scar?"
I felt his body tense under the sheets. The silence dragged on so long I thought he wasn't going to answer.
"A reminder that you can't trust anyone, not even family," he said finally, with a bitterness that chilled me to the bone. "Now go to sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day."
I kept thinking about his words. Who had done that to him? His grandfather? His father? For the first time, I felt a flicker of compassion for the blue-eyed monster. Beneath all that money and arrogance, there was a wounded man, someone who had built glass walls not just to see the world, but to keep the world from touching him.
Without realizing it, exhaustion began to overcome me. My defenses weakened, and my body relaxed. Sometime in the early morning, amidst a hazy dream of galas and blood contracts, I unconsciously sought warmth. I shifted to the center of the bed and felt a firm, heavy arm encircle my waist, pulling me against a solid, warm chest.
I didn't fully wake up, but in that state between wakefulness and sleep, I felt safe. For the first time in weeks, the fear vanished. What I didn't know was that, in the dim light, Elias Thorne was wide awake, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his jaw clenched, fighting the urge to never let go. The contract stated he wasn't to touch me, but his body was beginning to write its own rules.