Anne closed the door to her room gently behind her. The air was too still, too heavy with unspoken things. Her fingers lingered on the doorknob as she leaned against the wooden frame, trying to breathe past the knot in her chest.
The scandal. That word kept ringing in her ears.
She turned, finding Rayden still standing near the kitchen, sipping the last of his whiskey. The tension in his posture hadn't faded.
Gathering her courage, she took a step closer and asked, "Rayden?"
He glanced at her but didn't speak.
She tried again, this time with a gentler voice. "I didn't mean to push earlier. But… what did your mother mean? What scandal was she talking about?"
Rayden's jaw tightened.
"There's nothing you need to know," he said, clipped and cold.
Anne blinked, taken aback by the finality in his tone. She nodded slowly, swallowing the sharpness of his words.
From the corner of the room, Brian cleared his throat—loudly.
Both of them turned toward him, momentarily forgetting he was still there.
"I should go," Brian said, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. "Text me if anything comes up. Goodnight."
He slipped out before either could protest.
Silence filled the space once more.
Anne managed a small, tired smile. "I'll go to bed, then."
Rayden didn't answer. He just nodded, gaze fixed on the floor.
⸻
The penthouse felt oddly cavernous now that the maids had returned to their quarters and Brian had left. Even the soft hum of the fridge seemed loud in the stillness.
Rayden stood in the dim kitchen for a while, staring into nothing. That word—scandal—clawed at his mind.
Damn you, Mother. Why did she have to bring it up now?
It didn't matter that their relationship was fake. The illusion still had to hold. He couldn't let Anne get spooked. He couldn't let history repeat itself.
His fingers ran through his hair as he headed to his room and peeled off his shirt, tossing it to the floor. A hot shower dulled his thoughts a little, but only barely. Water couldn't wash away memories.
When he finally lay down in bed, staring at the ceiling, he realized sleep would not come easily tonight.
To hell with it.
He got up, slipped on a black hoodie, and walked quietly toward Anne's room. Maybe they could clear the air. Maybe he owed her some kind of explanation—even if incomplete.
But as he opened her door slowly, he found her already asleep.
Her small figure curled beneath the blankets, brows furrowed, her body tense even in slumber.
Rayden lingered at the doorway. He should leave.
Then she whimpered.
"No… stop… please—don't—"
Rayden's eyes widened. She was dreaming—no, having a nightmare.
He stepped forward as Anne thrashed lightly under the covers. "No! I don't want to! Please!"
He had no choice. "Anne," he called softly, then louder, "Anne, wake up!"
She jolted awake, her breath ragged and eyes glassy with fear.
When she saw him, she didn't hesitate. She lunged forward and clung to him, arms wrapping tightly around his torso.
Rayden froze.
His breath caught in his throat as Anne buried her face into his chest. Her small frame trembled violently.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, still caught between sleep and fear. "I didn't mean to… I didn't want to go back there…"
Rayden didn't know what to do with his hands. Slowly, awkwardly, he placed them on her back. Her hair smelled faintly of lavender and something softer—something undeniably her.
His heart was thundering.
What is this feeling? Why was his chest so tight?
"Hey," he said gently, "you're safe. You're here. He's not going to hurt you again."
Anne's grip loosened a bit. She looked up at him, eyes still glassy. "Thank you, Rayden… I'm sorry."
He didn't answer. If he opened his mouth, something might come out that neither of them was ready to hear.
He helped her lie down again, pulling the blanket up to her chin. She seemed calmer now, her breathing softer.
He stood there for a long moment, watching the way the moonlight spilled across her peaceful face.
Then he turned and walked out, closing the door with a quiet click behind him.
⸻
Rayden returned to the kitchen, poured himself a second glass of whiskey, and stood leaning against the marble counter.
He sipped, but the liquor didn't burn enough to distract him from the ache in his chest.
He had told himself this arrangement would be easy.
He had lied.
His hand pressed against his chest, as if trying to calm the erratic beats of his heart.
What was happening to him?
⸻
The next morning, Rayden stirred awake to the faint scent of something… delicious.
Eggs? Butter?
He sat up slowly, blinking away the weight of sleep, and checked the time. It was barely eight.
He descended the staircase barefoot, and what he saw made him stop.
Anne stood in the kitchen, dressed in a soft pink pajama set, hair tied up in a messy bun, flipping pancakes over a pan.
She turned and smiled. "Good morning."
Rayden stared. "Where are the maids?"
"I gave them the morning off," Anne replied. "Well… sort of. I rescheduled their chores for noon. Thought we'd appreciate some privacy before the storm."
He crossed his arms. "Privacy… or avoiding intel leaking to my mother?"
Anne grinned sheepishly. "Both."
He let out a low chuckle. "Smart."
She plated the pancakes and pushed a cup of fresh coffee toward him. "Breakfast?"
Rayden took a seat, still slightly dazed. "You didn't have to."
"I wanted to," she said simply.
They ate in comfortable silence. Rayden couldn't remember the last time someone made him breakfast. Not out of duty, but by choice.
And for the first time since he was a boy, the penthouse felt like a home.
⸻
By ten, Anne disappeared upstairs to get ready.
When she returned, Rayden stood waiting at the bottom of the stairs—and almost forgot how to breathe.
She wore a classic navy blue dress with pearl buttons, paired with nude heels and a matching clutch. Her hair was softly curled, and light makeup highlighted her delicate features.
"Is it too much?" she asked nervously.
"No," Rayden said before he could stop himself. "It's… perfect."
She blushed. "Thanks. Brian helped me pick it out."
Of course he did.
They walked to the car, and Rayden opened the door for her without thinking. Anne smiled as she slid in.
⸻
The Lancaster estate was even more intimidating than she remembered.
Sweeping gardens. Stone fountains. Tall arched windows that seemed to look down on you like judgmental eyes.
Anne gripped her clutch tighter as they entered the dining room.
A tall figure was already seated at the table—young, sharply dressed, with the same piercing gray eyes as Rayden.
"Rio," Rayden greeted.
The young man looked up. His lips curved into a knowing grin. "So this is the fiancée."
Anne gave a small, respectful nod. "Nice to meet you."
Rio stood and offered his hand. "Likewise. I've heard… mixed reviews."
Anne couldn't help but laugh softly. "I'd say that's fair."
Rio smirked, impressed. "I like her already."
The room filled with light conversation and the gentle clinking of silverware as they took their seats.
But the temperature seemed to drop when the patriarch entered.
Frederick Lancaster. Tall. Imposing. A coldness in his stare that made Anne's spine stiffen instantly.
His eyes raked over her like she was a business proposal.
"So," he said, sitting at the head of the table. "This is the woman who claims to love my son."
Anne held her breath, smile unwavering.
Rayden reached for her hand beneath the table—and squeezed her hand.