The wedding passed like a shadow—quick, quiet, and strangely unreal.
No music. No family. No celebration.
Just a dim courthouse tucked away in lower Manhattan, a stone-faced judge paid generously for silence, and a marriage contract that felt more like a transaction than a vow.
Emily barely remembered signing her name. The white dress she wore—a sleek, expensive thing selected by Liam's assistant—fit her body but not her spirit. She'd always imagined her wedding day to be filled with warmth and love, not ink and obligation.
Liam didn't smile. He barely looked at her. Not even during the brief photo the clerk insisted on taking. They stood beside each other stiffly, like co-workers awkwardly posing for a retirement party. There was no holding hands, no kiss, not even a fake one.
When they stepped out of the building and into the late afternoon sun, Liam turned to her without emotion.
"You'll move into my penthouse tonight."
Emily forced herself to nod, heart pounding. "Of course."
Without ceremony, he reached into his coat and handed her a sleek black credit card. "Buy whatever you need. Clothes. Shoes. Accessories. You represent me now. Appearances matter in my world."
She hesitated as she took it, the cool plastic resting in her palm like something dangerous. Her throat tightened. "And what exactly am I representing?"
Liam's eyes met hers. They were cold, unreadable. "A wife. In public. Nothing more."
That last phrase echoed in her chest like a dropped stone.
Nothing more.
—
The penthouse, when she arrived later that evening, was breathtaking—and sterile.
Towering over Manhattan, it was all glass, steel, and quiet power. Everything gleamed. Marble floors. Sculpted furniture. Walls dressed in abstract art she couldn't even begin to interpret. The view was stunning, but the space felt more like a museum than a home.
Emily wandered the vast rooms in silence. She felt like a guest, or worse, an intruder.
She unpacked slowly in the guest bedroom Liam said would be hers. Her fingers trembled as she hung her clothes in the spacious walk-in closet. None of it felt real. The world she had just entered was too perfect, too curated—and completely devoid of warmth.
It wasn't until she started exploring the hallway that she noticed it.
A door. Different from the rest. Heavy, metallic, and fitted with a glowing keycard scanner.
It didn't belong.
Curious, Emily approached it, pressing her ear gently to the cold surface.
Silence.
No humming machinery. No distant voices. Just thick, heavy quiet.
Then—footsteps behind her.
She turned sharply. Liam stood there, arms folded across his chest, face unreadable.
"Some doors stay locked, Emily," he said, voice even. "If you want to keep this arrangement peaceful, don't try to open that one."
His words weren't shouted. He didn't threaten.
But there was a tension in his voice—something sharp beneath the calm.
Emily's heart stuttered. She nodded. "I understand."
But even as she walked away, the door called to her in the back of her mind—like a secret waiting to be discovered.
She was beginning to realize something dangerous:
She wasn't just living in Liam's world.
She was trapped in it.
And some secrets in this penthouse were too cold to stay buried.