My chamber was flooded with pale morning light when the quiet hum of the motorized blinds woke me. For a fleeting, happy moment, I lost all sense of location. But reality sank back just as rapidly: Mrs. Noah Blackwood was me.
I sighed resignedly, got up from bed and entered the next bathroom—polished chrome, white marble, mirrors reflecting a version of myself I hardly knew. Trying to dispel the residual anxiety from last night's encounter outside the window, I sprayed cool water on my face.
Whatever brief link I sensed in Noah's gaze was a mistake. We lacked friendship. We were not in a loving relationship. We were legal and convenience bound business partners.
Driven to recover some feeling of control, I dressed professionally, practically, safely in my regular fitted shirt and pants. The aroma of freshly made coffee welcomed me like an old friend as I arrived in the large kitchen.
Noah was already there, sloppily leaning against the marble island with a cup. He looked well put in a black, open-collared shirt; he seemed totally at ease while I felt like a trespasser.
Good morning, I replied, trying to be polite.
His eyes became chilly and critical over me. "You got up early."
I shot back, heading for the coffee machine, saying "I work early." His focused stare made my skin tingle, but I refused to feel scared.
He placed down his cup and waved towards the dining room, where an open leather-bound planner sat. Without further word. We have to talk about expectations.
I followed grudgingly, every sense on full alert. Before sitting across the shining glass table, he pulled out a chair for me—gent yet indifferent.
"Our lives will be under great observation from now on," he said, his voice as sharp as the lines of his custom suit. "We have events, corporate visits, and charitable galas to go as a married couple."
His comments were cold, deliberate efficiency, not anything like friendliness.
Keeping my tone objective, I said, "I expected that." "Everything else."
He hardly looked up as he turned over the planner. "Our first formal outing is the Blackwood Foundation Gala next week. It's a public event of great significance. You will be my wife presented here.
Those statements had great weight that rested mostly between us. His mate. The label seemed hollow and piercing at once.
"I'll need specifics ahead of time," I responded, attempting to match his cool head count. "I cannot stroll blindly."
He nodded favorably. "Understanding."
"Now for the personal rules," Noah said, his voice lowering to something deeper.
I became stiffer. Here comes this.
"We keep different bedrooms," he said, eyes fixed on mine and with much conviction. "There is no sharing of personal information. Neither needless meddling in each other's life.
I nodded even though I bristled. "Great. I have limits, however as well.
His brow wrinkled, obviously fascinated by my disobedience. "Keep on."
"Respect my space," I said insistently "I'm not some socialite chasing glory. I have to operate a company.
His face changed slightly, something like approbation glinting in his icy eyes. Agreed.
And no surprises, I said, leaning forward. "I need complete transparency if you want me walked about like arm candy."
His lips quitched—just a trace of amusement. You are not what I had in mind.
"Good," I said. Neither of you are.
He lay his hands flat on the table, steady, still, before I could get up. "Again one more thing."
I stopped, suddenly acutely aware of the tension pulsating between us.
"You will be mine in name," he whispered softly, his voice slanted with something sinister. "No matter what happens outside these walls." Nobody doubts our marriage. No one questions our narrative.
His focused scrutiny fixed me in place and left no space for misreading. He was asserting dominance—not over my emotions but over my performance.
I raised my chin deliberately in defiance. "As long as you remember—I only yours on paper."
His well calibrated mask shattered, pleasure flaring in his dark eyes for the first time. "We'll see how long that runs."
He got up gently and went without further word, leaving the room humming with unresolved anxiety. I fought the heat building in my chest by exhaling softly.
Let him not get to you. This was a commercial contract—nothing more.
Driven to get back on track, I withdrew to the office nook Noah had set up for me—perfect, contemporary, and absolutely objective. The elegant computer screen watched back, reminding me of the one thing I could influence: my job.
Later that evening, I went into the large, empty kitchen for late-night tea as the apartment became quiet. The city's lights danced over the floor to ceiling windows, giving the elegant countertops a gentle glow.
I wasn't expecting him.
Noah came out of the darkness, his face incomprehensible. Unlike his regular smart suits, he wore black henley and sweatpants. He appeared human.
"Couldn't sleep?" he said, his voice softer, almost natural.
I paused, then nodded. "Long day."
He poured himself a drink and moved more deliberately and slowly. Get comfortable with it. Not now is turning back possible.
His comments had weight beyond what first seemed. We were imprisoned in something considerably more sophisticated than simply looks and signatures.
His look softened momentarily, not with love but with understanding. Like he understood what it was to be imprisoned in a society of norms and expectations.
But his barriers crashed back into position just as fast.
"Goodnight, Mrs. Blackwood," he replied coldly and vanished down the hall.
Heart racing with something I couldn't understand, I glanced at the vacant area he had stood in. Whatever he was, whatever he was—it was hardly over.
And in the chilly, still shadows of our ideal apartment, the lines separating guidelines from limits were already starting to blur.