Chapter 9
chapter
nine
Evelyn
The first thing I notice about Mike's place is the view. Obviously, you get a good view from most penthouses. But this one is particularly spectacular.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the entire living room, framing Lady Bird Lake like a postcard—water glinting in the late afternoon sun, joggers moving along the trail below, the city humming softly in the distance.
It's the kind of view you see in magazines about "Austin's Most Coveted Addresses" while sitting in a dentist's waiting room, never imagining you'd actually stand inside one.
The second thing I notice is that this is very much not kindergarten-teacher housing.
My entire house—well, Kurt's house—could fit in this living room. Twice. With room left over for a bounce house.
"Wow," I breathe. "Do I need to take my shoes off? I don’t want your floors to be offended by my knock-off brand tennis shoes.”
Mike snorts. "You can keep them on. My floors aren't sentient."
"That you know of." I step further inside, turning in a slow circle. "Seriously, Mike. This is... a lot."
"It's home."
"It's a magazine spread."
He shrugs, unbothered. "It's where I sleep and occasionally remember to eat. Mostly it's just square footage I forget to use."
I glance around, then back at him. “Are you sure you don’t want to have your people run a background check on me? Make sure I'm not secretly into corporate espionage or marrying billionaires for sport?"
He arches a brow. "Aren't you a kindergarten teacher?"
"Yes," I say solemnly. "But you'd be amazed how convincing we can be. I once talked a five-year-old out of eating a crayon using nothing but sustained eye contact and the promise of extra recess. That's negotiation skills, Mike. Hostage-level."
His mouth twitches. "I'll keep that in mind."
"You should. I'm very dangerous."
"Clearly." He pauses. “I would’ve thought the promise of crayon-colored poop would have deterred them.”
“Well, aren’t you adorable?” I say. “That would be the easiest way to make an entire room of children eat crayons.”
“I’ve clearly got a lot to learn,” he says, then gestures for me to follow. "Come on. I'll show you around."
The condo is sleek but warm—rich wood floors, clean lines, art that looks thoughtfully chosen instead of just expensive for the sake of it.
There's a guitar in the corner of the living room that looks like it’s actually been played, not just a decoration.
Books are stacked on the coffee table, spines cracked.
A blanket is tossed over the arm of the couch, as if someone actually uses it.
It feels lived in. Real.
I don't know why that surprises me.
“I feel like we should revisit that prenup,” I muse.
“Why is that?”
“So you know I’m not after your money. Because I don’t know if you know this or not, but you obviously have a lot of money.”
He laughs, then grips my biceps. “Princess, you didn’t do any of this on purpose. I know you’re not a gold digger. I’m not worried.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah, I promise.”
“Okay.”
He shows me the kitchen, fully equipped with quartz countertops and appliances that I will definitely need tutorials to use. His office consists of a massive desk housing three monitors and a wall-sized white board with an impressive number of sticky notes.
He stops outside a closed door. “This is the guest room,” he says. "Bedroom. Bathroom. Closet. Lock on the door if you want to use it.”
I step inside and freeze.
The room is beautiful. Soft gray walls. A bed that looks like a cloud dressed in expensive sheets. A window seat overlooks the lake. Fresh flowers on the nightstand—orchids, I realize with a start. Like the ones from Vegas.
“You remembered,” I say quietly.
His head tilts. “You picked orchids at the hotel. Seemed like a safe bet."
I turn to face him, something warm and dangerous blooming in my chest. "Mike, you didn't have to—"
He puts one finger to my lips. “Actually, I did,” he says gently. “You've been sleeping on a couch for three months. You deserve your own space. A door that locks. A room that's actually yours.”
I don't know what to say to that.
So I deflect, because that's what I do.
“Fair warning,” I tell him, “I will absolutely reorganize your kitchen at some point. It’s a compulsion. I can’t help it.”
“My spices are already alphabetized.”
“Swoon,” I say, waving a hand in front of my face. “If we weren’t already married, I think I’d propose.”
We order tacos because that’s what you do when you live in Texas and are surrounded by amazing tacos.
Mike opens a bottle of wine, pours two glasses without ceremony, and we end up on opposite ends of the couch, shoes kicked off, city lights flickering to life around us.
For a few minutes, we just... exist.
It's strange. Comfortable in a way I didn't expect. Kurt and I never sat in easy silence. There was always something—the TV too loud, his phone buzzing, a critique coming from his lips.
This is different. Mike scrolls through his phone absently, but he's not checked out. When I shift, he glances over. When I laugh at something on my own screen, he asks what's funny, then laughs with me when I show him the reel.
He's present. And it’s nice.
But I know we have things to discuss, so once I’m done with my dinner, I put on my proverbial big girl panties and bite the bullet.
“So," I say, swirling my wine. “You mentioned earlier that we needed to discuss boundaries.”
He sets his phone down and turns toward me, giving me his full attention. “Yeah. We do need to do that.”
I hesitate, trying to figure out how to phrase this. "Are you going to... date? I don’t know what your arrangement was with the princess, so I’d like to know how things are going to work.”
“Date? Like other women?”
I shrug, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile. "You're a gorgeous billionaire. You probably have women who orbit you like moons. I just—if you do, I'd appreciate discretion. I don't want to look stupid." I pick at the edge of my sleeve, then glance up at him. "That's all."
Something dark flickers in his gaze—not anger. Something more like recognition. “Tell me more about Kurt," he says.
I blink. "That was abrupt. What do you want to know?”
“How long were you together before he stopped making you feel wanted?"
My wine glass freezes halfway to my mouth. "Excuse me?"
“He didn't make you feel chosen," Mike continues calmly, like he's stating a fact. "He made you feel convenient. Like you were something he kept around because it was easier than letting you go. Like a comfortable pair of old shoes.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. My heart twists at his words and tears prick at my eyes. But Mike isn’t done.
“He liked you best when you were quiet," he adds. "When you didn't take up space. When you didn't need anything from him."
My throat tightens. “Did you read my diary?” I manage, hoping for a teasing tone.
“No," he says. "I listened. You told me about the couch.
The cooking critiques. The ‘helpful suggestions’ about your body.
The sex that was scheduled and mechanical and never once about your pleasure.
" He tilts his head. "You aren’t asking me if I'm going to date other women because you're curious. You’re asking because you're already preparing yourself to be deprioritized. "
Ouch. That's a direct hit.
I set my glass down carefully, mostly because my hands aren't entirely steady. "Okay, Dr. Phil. That was invasive. And hurtful.”
“Am I wrong?"
“No," I admit quietly. "You're not."
He nods, unsurprised. Then he leans back, one arm stretched along the couch behind me—not touching, but close enough that I could feel the warmth of him if I leaned back.
I shake my head, still feeling confused. “You didn’t exactly answer my question,” I say. “Is that a yes? On the dating?”
“No.”
I frown. "No?"
“I will not date other women. I will not touch another woman. Not while you're wearing my ring. Not while you're living in my home. You are my wife."
The word lands differently here than it did in Vegas. Heavier. More real.
I laugh softly, deflecting again. "Mike, our marriage isn’t real. It’s temporary. We both know—"
“But it is real,” he interrupts. "There's paperwork. Legal documentation. Your signature next to mine." He holds up his left hand. “We’ve got rings. We said vows.”
"You know what I mean. It's temporary. Transactional. You don't need to rearrange your life for me. The prenup made sense for a real princess. I'm just..." I gesture vaguely at myself. "I'm just an accidental Evelyn."
Something shifts in his expression. His jaw tightens.
"You're not an accidental anything,” he says, voice low.
I falter, swallowing thickly.
"You keep doing that," he says. "Shrinking yourself. Making yourself smaller so you fit into spaces that were never designed for you." He leans forward, elbows on his knees, those dark eyes pinning me in place. "Stop."
"I'm not—"
"If you were mine," he says quietly, "without an expiration date, without an exit clause—let me tell you how I'd treat you.”
My heart is doing something reckless. Beating too fast, too loud, probably visible in my throat.
"I'd come home to you," he continues. “So fucking happy to see you.
I'd make sure you never had to sleep on a couch again. I'd learn your coffee order and your favorite songs and the exact face you make when you're pretending to be fine, but you're actually overthinking everything. I’d send flowers to your classroom or bouquets of crayons, whichever you’d prefer. I’d make love to you every goddamn day and insist you come first. Every. Single. Time.”
"I don't—"
"You're making that face right now."
I huff out a breath. "This is very unfair. You can't just say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because it's—" I wave my hand helplessly. "It's a lot. We've known each other for less than a week."
“Only a couple of days,” he says, “But I've watched you handle a case of mistaken identity with grace. You picked a dress that looked amazing on you, but was the least ostentatious and expensive of the group. When you found out we were legally married and it wasn’t part of a game, you didn’t panic or rant and rage.
Then you stood up to an ex who spent over a year diminishing you, and reorganized his spice cabinet as a final act of revenge.
" He smiles, soft and warm. "I know enough. "
"The spice cabinet thing was petty."
"The spice cabinet thing was iconic."
I laugh, surprised by the sound of it.
"Mike," I say, sobering slightly. "I need you to understand something. I'm not... I'm not good at this. At trusting. At believing someone when they say nice things. Kurt didn't break me, but he definitely left some dents. And I don't want to—"
"You don't have to be good at it yet," he interrupts gently. "You just have to let me prove it."
The space between us feels electric. Charged with something I don't have a name for.
"That's," I manage, "dangerously romantic."
His gaze drops to my mouth. Lingers there.
“What can I say, you bring it out in me.”
I don't know which of us moves first.
Maybe him. Maybe me. Maybe we both do, meeting in the middle like magnets finally allowed to snap together. But suddenly we’re kissing.
The kiss starts slowly. Exploratory. His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing over my cheekbone, and I melt into it like I've been waiting for this—for him—my whole life.
Maybe I have. Maybe every mediocre kiss before this was just preparation for the moment Mike Sinclaire would ruin me for anyone else.
When his tongue slides against mine, I make a sound—something between a whimper and a moan—and he growls in response. Actually growls. Low in his chest, vibrating through me.
“Come here," he murmurs against my mouth. “Closer.”
Before I can respond, his hands are on my hips, lifting me effortlessly onto his lap. I settle against him, thighs bracketing his, and oh. Ohhh, that's— He's hard. Very hard.
The realization sends a bolt of heat straight through me.
"Is this okay?" he asks, pulling back just enough to search my face.
"Yes," I breathe. "God, yes."
He kisses me again, deeper this time, and I rock against him instinctively. The friction is perfect—his hardness pressing exactly where I need it, the rough drag of denim against the thin cotton of my leggings.
"Fuck," he groans. "Evelyn—"
"Don't stop." I roll my hips again, chasing the sensation. "Please don't stop."
His hands grip my waist, guiding my movements, setting a rhythm that makes my brain go staticky. Every roll of my hips grinds my clit against him, pleasure building in slow, devastating waves.
"You feel so good," he manages, his voice wrecked. "Christ, the sounds you make—"
I'm not quiet. That's another thing Kurt hated—said I was too loud, too much, too needy. But Mike looks at me like every whimper and gasp is a gift. Like he wants to catalog each one and play them back later.
Our mouths meet again. Tongues tangle, breaths mingle. Everything one of my senses is on high alert, and I hope this is really happening and not some fever-induced dream. Oh God, what if I fell and hit my head in Vegas and I’m actually in a coma and there is no Mike.
He pulls back from the kiss. “Where did you go?”
I stare into his pretty brown eyes. “To crazy town. I was just thinking that this could all be a fantasy or a dream.”
He bucks up against me. “Feel how hard I am for you?”
“Yes,” I breathe. “You feel so good.”
"That's right,” he says, his forehead pressed to mine. “This isn’t a dream. It’s you and me living our new reality. Right now, we’re not going to think about exes or deadlines or prenups. We’re just going to be together. Husband and wife. Now, take what you need, princess. Use me."
Use me.
Something about those words snaps the last thread of my self-control.
I grind down harder, faster, my fingers fisting in his shirt for leverage. His hips buck up to meet mine, and we find a rhythm—desperate, frantic, perfect.
"I'm close," I gasp. "Mike, I'm—"
"I know." His hand slides up my back, presses between my shoulder blades, holding me against him. "Let go. I've got you. Come for me, Evelyn."
His voice—low and commanding and wrecked with want—tips me over the edge.
I shatter.
The orgasm crashes through me, white-hot and blinding. I cry out against his mouth, hips jerking, wave after wave of pleasure pulsing through me while he holds me steady.
"Fuck," he groans, and then he's following me over, his whole body tensing beneath mine, a guttural sound torn from his throat as he comes. “You made me come in my pants like a goddamn teenager.”
It’s on my lips to apologize, but then he starts to laugh. “You’re perfect, and I’m going to want to do that again.”