Carrie.
The soft hum of silence followed me as I descended the private staircase to what was now my new home, apparently.
Everything smelled expensive. The kind of sterile, perfumed luxury you'd find in a showroom or a lifestyle magazine. Not lived-in. Not warm. Just beautiful and distant.
When I reached the bottom floor, I heard myself humming, the hallway opened into a wide living space. It was stunning, I couldn't lie. Pale cream walls, soft lighting recessed into the high ceiling, and velvet drapes tied neatly to reveal a private terrace overlooking the city. The furniture looked untouched, ivory couches, glass tables, a bookshelf filled with perfectly aligned spines that probably no one had ever read.
This was mine. At least for the next five years.
I slipped off my heels and let my feet sink into the thick rug as I wandered toward the bedroom. King-sized bed. Plush duvet. Matching nightstands with elegant lamps. Everything was in perfect harmony, like someone had designed it for a catalog shoot. But it didn't feel like it belonged to me.
Nothing did.
A thick envelope had been placed on the dresser with my name printed in neat letters: Mrs. Carrie Yates. I picked it up, hesitated, then dropped it back down like it burned.
Mrs. Yates.
It didn't even sound like me. I wasn't a wife. I hadn't fallen in love. I hadn't walked down an aisle or said vows I believed in. I'd signed a contract in front of a judge whose name I already forgot.
This wasn't a love story. This was survival.
I moved toward the walk-in closet. Rows of clothes hung neatly, dresses, skirts, soft cashmere sweaters and other types of clothings, all tags still attached. A wardrobe curated by strangers. By assistants. By people who didn't know me. It reminded me that I'd traded my name, my freedom, my space for my brother's hospital bills and a shot at peace.
And for now… I didn't regret it. Not yet. But the loneliness crept in fast because I knew deep down, I would soon start regretting my actions.
I sat at the edge of the bed, shoulders slumping for the first time all day. No one could see me now. I didn't have to perform. I didn't have to be proud. I didn't have to be brave.
I just had to breathe.
The quiet in this space was deafening. No creaks, no distant traffic, no sounds of life. Just my heart thudding against the walls of a home that wasn't mine.
I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The weight of the contract, of the ring on my finger, of the lie I would have to live, it all settled over me like a second skin.
I closed my eyes, whispering to myself, Five years. Just five.
But even then, something deep inside whispered back, a lot can happen in five years.
I laid down on the bed as sleep came to me without even trying.
When I woke up, the sun had already dipped behind the skyline, casting soft amber streaks across the cream curtains. The clock on the wall read a little past 6 p.m., and my stomach growled in protest. I hadn't eaten anything substantial since morning, unless you count the half-hearted coffee I'd sipped before leaving for the civil center.
The hunger was a dull ache now, growing heavier by the second. But I hadn't even thought to ask about food. We hadn't talked about meals, or schedules, or anything resembling the basic logistics of living together.
And Ty had been very clear: his floor was off-limits.
I sat up slowly, brushing the sleep out of my eyes. The silence of this place was unsettling. It wasn't just quiet, it was still. Like the penthouse was holding its breath. Like I was intruding.
I slipped on a robe and stepped out into the hallway. The penthouse was a sprawling, architectural masterpiece; glass, marble, and chrome in perfect balance. Every surface gleamed under soft lighting, and the air carried the faint scent of something citrusy and clean, like it had been curated along with the furniture.
I sighed and pulled out my phone, hoping to call him and just ask. Simple. Except… as I scrolled through my contacts, a thought hit me.
What did I even save his number under?
Mr. Yates? Husband? Ty? Nothing rang a bell. I kept scrolling, and then stopped cold.
I hadn't saved it.
I didn't even have his number.
It was laughable, really. Married; contractually, legally—and I didn't even have my husband's number in my phone. My thumb hovered uselessly over the screen before I locked it and let out a breathless laugh, one that didn't quite reach my chest.
Of course he didn't give it to me. Why would he? We weren't real. Not in any way that counted.
I didn't want to admit I felt a little foolish standing there like a lost guest in my own new home. So I did the only thing I could think of.
I dialed his assistant's number.
At least she always picked up.
The phone rang twice before a crisp, familiar voice came through the line.
"Good evening, Yates," Gina said, her tone as efficient as ever—neither too warm nor too cold, just perfectly balanced, like someone trained to always sound in control.
I hesitated for a second. Mrs. Yates. That name still didn't feel like mine.
"Hi, Gina. Sorry to bother you, I just… I'm trying to find the kitchen."
There was a short pause on her end, and I wondered if she was surprised I didn't know something that basic.
"The kitchen is on the first floor, ma'am. That's the shared living space."
"Oh. Thank you," I said, feeling a mix of embarrassment and relief. Then I added, "can you please call me Carrie?" The other end was silent. "And one more thing," I added before she could end the call. "Would it be possible for you to share Mr. Yates's contact number with me?"
"Of course," she replied. "I'll send it to you in a moment, Ms. Carrie. You'll receive a message shortly. He gave me permission to share it, should you ever need it."
There was something in the way she said should you ever need it; a softness, a professional kindness that I hadn't expected. Like maybe she understood more than she let on.
"Thank you, Gina. Really."
"You're welcome, ma'am. Let me know if there's anything else."
The line disconnected, and almost immediately, a message buzzed onto my phone with a number—Ty Yates.
I stared at the name for a few seconds. I could've changed it to something else, added a sarcastic emoji or saved him as Contract Husband, maybe. But no. I left it as it was.
Just Ty Yates.
Simple, distant, and real enough to make my chest feel tight. With a small sigh, I turned back to the stairs, ready to find the kitchen—and maybe figure out how to survive the first night of this beautiful, cold arrangement.
The shared kitchen was near the central lounge, a wide-open space with floor-to-ceiling windows and a nighttime view of the city that could take your breath away. But I wasn't here for views. I was here for food.
The kitchen looked like something out of a high-end cooking show. Stainless steel appliances, a massive island in the center, sleek cabinetry with no visible handles. I opened one drawer after another, searching for something, anything that could become dinner. Most of it looked untouched.
But just as I opened the fridge, I heard footsteps.
Ty.
Of course.