Chastity
I stood outside the guest room door. Took a slow breath. Let it out through my nose.
The house pressed in around me. Silent. Masculine. Sterile. All hard edges and dark wood and cold metal fixtures. No softness anywhere. No warmth except what leaked from the single lamp he'd left burning in my room.
It felt like a cage. Not because of locks or bars. Because of the weight of it. The way every sound I made seemed too loud. The way the air itself felt controlled. Measured. His.
Wyatt was somewhere downstairs. I couldn't see him. Couldn't hear him. But I felt it anyway. The same way prey feels a predator's attention even when he isn't looking. The way your skin prickled when you were being watched. That heavy, inescapable awareness that you weren’t alone.
I forced myself to move. Hand on the rail. One step. Then another. The stairs creaked under my weight—barely, but enough. Enough that he'd know I was coming.
My pulse kicked up. Stupid. Irrational. I wasn't walking into danger. Just a conversation. Rules and expectations, he'd said. Professional. Transactional.
But my body didn't believe that.
The living room came into view. And there he was.
Sitting on the couch. Relaxed posture. One leg sprawled out in front of him, ankle crossed over his knee.
Arm draped over the backrest like he had all the time in the world.
Head tipped back slightly. Completely unbothered.
He looked like he owned the space. Owned the silence. Owned the air I was breathing.
And worse—he looked like he owned my presence in it.
His eyes lifted. Found me on the stairs. Tracked my steps as I descended. Not hungry. Not flirty. Not even particularly interested.
Just assessing. The way a buyer examined a purchase. The way a coach sized up a rookie. The way someone with power looked at someone without it.
I hated the way my breath stuttered. Hated the flush creeping up my neck. Hated that I couldn't control the way my hands tightened on the rail.
I reached the bottom step. Stopped there. Stood with my spine straight and my chin up because I refused to look small in front of him.
But I felt small anyway.
The distance between the stairs and the couch seemed impossibly wide. And impossibly narrow. Both at once.
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched me stand there with that same flat, measuring expression. Waiting.
For what, I didn't know. But the weight of his attention settled over me like a hand at the back of my neck. Gentle. Inescapable. And I realized with sudden, awful clarity that this was how the next thirty days would feel.
I moved toward the couch. Chose the armchair farthest from him. Sat down with my hands folded in my lap. Back straight. Legs crossed at the ankle like my mother taught me. Professional distance. Safe distance.
His gaze flicked over me. Lingered on the space between us. Then returned to my face with something that looked almost like amusement.
"If you sit that far from me in public, everyone will know it's fake."
My throat tightened. I swallowed against it. Stood. Moved to the other end of the couch. Put two cushions between us.
Still too far, apparently.
He didn't say anything this time. Just lifted his hand. Made a small, lazy gesture with two fingers. The kind of motion you'd use to call a dog.
"Closer."
The word slid over my skin like ice. Not loud. Not harsh. Just absolute. A command dressed up as a suggestion.
I wanted to refuse. Wanted to plant myself exactly where I was and make him say it again. Make him work for it. But my body moved before my pride could stop it.
I sat down one cushion over. Close enough now that if either of us shifted, our knees would touch. Close enough to smell him—something clean and faintly woodsy. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him even though he wasn't moving.
His gaze held mine. Steady. Unyielding. "Better."
I wanted to punch him. Wanted to shove him backwards into the couch cushions and wipe that smug, controlled expression off his face. Wanted to scream that I wasn't a chess piece he could position however he liked.
Instead, I forced my voice to stay level. "You said we were going over rules."
He nodded once. Slow. Deliberate. "Rule one—no arguing with me in public."
My jaw tightened. "I don't argue."
His mouth curved. Not quite a smile. Something sharper. "You already have. Twice."
"When?"
"Just now. And in the restaurant."
I opened my mouth. Snapped it shut again. Heat crawled up my neck.
He saw it. I knew he did. The way his eyes tracked the flush spreading across my skin. The way his expression shifted—just slightly—into something that looked like satisfaction.
Like he'd won.
I glared at him. Couldn't help it. And that made it worse. Because the moment I did, his smile widened. Just a fraction. Just enough to let me know he'd counted that too.
Another point in his favor. Another crack in my armor.
I forced my hands to unclench in my lap. Forced my breathing to slow. Forced myself to look at him without flinching. "What's rule two?"
"Your father released the statement already."
I stiffened. The words landed like stones in my stomach, heavy and cold. "What did it say?"
He reached for his phone. Moved with that same infuriating calm. Unlocked it with his thumb. Scrolled once. Twice. Then read aloud without looking at me.
“I was going to do it, but apparently, he doesn’t listen well.” He cleared his throat. "'My daughter and Wyatt Cole have been seeing each other privately for several months and chose to keep it quiet to protect her privacy. The moment caught on camera was taken out of context.'"
My stomach twisted. Sharp. Immediate. Like someone had reached inside and wrung it dry.
Months.
Months.
I'd never spoken to him until two nights ago. Never seen him without a mask. Never even known his name existed in my orbit until my father said it over breakfast like a curse word. And now the entire world thought we'd been sneaking around for half a year.
"People will know that's not true." The words came out too fast. Too desperate. I hated the sound of my own voice—thin and shaky and small.
He set the phone down on the armrest. Looked at me with that flat, unreadable expression. "No, sweetheart. You know it's not true. That's enough."
That sweetheart hit wrong. Like he'd taken something soft and turned it into a weapon. Like he was wrapping barbed wire around sugar and forcing me to swallow it whole.
I bit the inside of my cheek. Hard enough to taste copper. Hard enough to stop myself from saying something I'd regret.
He continued as if I hadn't reacted at all. As if my silence was permission. "Our story is simple. We met at a charity event six months ago. You liked that I'm not eighteen."
Heat crawled up my neck. Fast. Mortifying. "I never said—"
"You will."
Two words. Flat. Final. No room for negotiation.
I opened my mouth. Closed it again. My pulse pounded in my ears.
He kept going. Steady. Methodical. Like he was reading from a script he'd already memorized.
"You're sweet. Shy. Stayed away from the spotlight. Perfectly believable that you wanted privacy."
My hands curled into fists in my lap. Nails pressing crescents into my palms.
He made it sound so easy. So clean. Like he was describing someone else. Some perfect little girlfriend who existed only in his head.
My voice came out quieter than I wanted. Wavering at the edges. "And you?"
His mouth curved. Slow. Deliberate. That same almost-smile that never reached his eyes. "I'm the grumpy older guy who fell for you."
My heart stumbled. Just for a second. Just long enough for something warm and confusing to flicker in my chest before I could kill it.
I hated myself for it. Hated the way my body reacted without my permission. Hated the way those words—fell for you—landed softer than they should have. Because they weren't real. None of this was real. He didn't fall for me. He didn't even like me. He was playing a part. And I was the prop.
I forced my voice to stay steady. Forced my gaze to hold his even though every instinct screamed at me to look away. "You don't look like someone who falls for anyone."
His smirk deepened. Just a fraction. Just enough to make my stomach twist again. "Good thing you're such a good actress then."
The words sliced clean through whatever fragile composure I'd been clinging to.
I stood. Too fast. The couch cushion bounced slightly under the sudden shift in weight. "I'm not acting."
He tilted his head. Studied me like I was something mildly interesting under glass. "Sit down."
My legs locked. Spine rigid. Every muscle in my body screaming at me to stay exactly where I was.
"Sit. Down."
I sat. Hated myself for it. Hated the way my knees folded without permission. Hated the way my body obeyed before my brain caught up. Hated that he didn't have to raise his voice. Didn't have to move. Just said it twice, and I crumbled.
"Good girl."
The words crawled under my skin. Low and quiet and deliberate. Not praise. Ownership. Like he'd trained me to respond, and I'd passed some test I didn't know I was taking.
Heat flooded my face. Shame mixed with something I refused to name.
He stood. Moved around the coffee table with that same unhurried control. Each step measured. Purposeful. Like he had all the time in the world and knew I wasn't going anywhere.
He stopped directly in front of me.
Close.
Too close.
I sank backwards into the cushions without meaning to. My shoulders hit the backrest. Nowhere left to go.
His shadow fell over me. Not menacing. Not aggressive. Just there. Inescapable.
"Rule two—physical touch is non-negotiable."
My pulse spiked. Sharp and immediate. A warning bell clanging in my chest.
"We don't have to—"
"We do."
He cut me off clean. No room for argument. No space for negotiation.
Then he listed it. Calm. Clinical. Like he was reading from a manual.
Hand on the lower back. Holding hands. Him brushing hair off my shoulder. Guiding me in crowds. Leaning close to whisper. Occasionally touching my waist. Me touching his arm when I laughed.