Chapter Three
Claire
I woke in a tangle of Egyptian cotton, the soft sheets probably feeling insulted by my ancient pajamas I’d brought from home.
Disoriented, I fought through the remnants of a strange dream: Alexander in a crisp white suit, taunting me with his polished watch, sneering “late” while he walked ahead of me, too fast for me to catch up.
Even in dreams, he made me feel like I couldn't keep up.
The real-life Alexander had already vanished, leaving behind only a note in his sharp, direct script: Join me for lunch. Don’t be late.
The enormity of the penthouse swallowed me whole. It was as if I'd stepped into a modern art museum where the exhibits were designer furniture pieces and endless walls of glass.
The air felt too crisp, too clean, without a trace of the warm, messy life I was used to.
Sterile. It felt sterile.
Each step I took echoed in the vast emptiness, reminding me how small and out of place I was here.
My heart pounded with a mix of excitement and anxiety.
Everything seemed too beautiful, too perfect, like a world that would never accept me.
I couldn't decide if I was Cinderella at the ball or an unwelcome intruder in Alexander's flawless life.
The cold design echoed the man exactly, every sharp corner and monochrome wall a callback to the man himself.
I wanted to curl back into the softness of the bed and hide.
Instead, I braved the open space, touching the back of the smooth leather couch as if it might shock me.
Even the kitchen gleamed like it had never been touched by something as humble as a spatula.
My mind kept slipping to thoughts of my mother’s cramped house, Jen’s demands, and the crushing bills that had pushed me to this decision.
As much as I wanted to be resentful, I knew I had no choice.
A wave of determination surged through me.
This was temporary. I could survive this for Mom, for Michael, even for spoiled Jen.
Alexander's brusque note crumpled in my hand, and I smoothed it out with a sigh. Don’t be late. Even on paper, he was commanding, arrogant. I wondered if he ever considered that I might have plans.
Of course, I didn’t have plans, but he didn’t know that.
Curiosity won over intimidation, and I explored the place that would be my home for the next year. I found the closet—or rather, the room pretending to be a closet. His clothes were lined up like soldiers on parade, each suit exuding power and money. I fingered the sleeve of one jacket, feeling the soft richness of the fabric and feeling just as poor and ridiculous as the old pajamas I wore.
What would he think when he saw the dress I planned to wear for lunch? The tag proved it was designer, but I'd found it in the clearance bin and clutched it like a prized possession.
I knew Alexander's crowd wouldn’t be fooled, yet I had nothing else to wear. I almost laughed at the image of me next to him, his polished, magazine-ready wife with the spirit of a bargain hunter.
In his home office, I opened and flipped through pages of a notebook, not reading his tight, neat writing, but watching the full pages fly by. Until something else popped out – a photo. I know I shouldn’t look, but I need to know.
I pulled it out, and there she was—Allison. Her blonde hair shimmered, and her eyes seemed to mock me from the photo. Alexander stood next to her, his hand on her back, the cold perfection of his face tense.
Confusion filled me. Why did he have a picture of her and him tucked away like this like some kind of secret? She was dating his brother, so what was the story behind this?
My mind circled the questions like a dog chasing its tail. The picture felt like a warning, a small piece of honesty in a house of deception. I shoved it back between the pages, slamming it shut as if that could contain my emotions.
The note crinkled under my grip, the edges pressing into my palm like tiny knives, Alexander's command pulling me from my own spiraling thoughts.
There was no time to let doubt settle in.
I was going to lunch, and I would hold my head high, even if it killed me.
I exhaled sharply, smoothing it against my fingers before tucking it deep into my pocket.
The picture—its quiet, damning truth—sat like a stone in my gut.
But Alexander had pulled me back before the weight of doubt could settle.
Lunch. Something normal.
Except in Alexander’s world, nothing felt normal to me.
I walked away, straightening my spine as I stepped into the hallway, my fingers still curled against my palm.
Getting ready for lunch gave me the opportunity to relax and finally, to smile.
When I let go of the things I couldn’t control, I realized this whole situation could be fun, if I let it.
I sat on the couch to wait for Alexander’s call and picked up my phone from the glass coffee table in front of me, debating whether to call Mom—or maybe Michael—for a moment of reassurance.
But before I could press the call button, a message popped up on my screen.
Alexander: Drive will pick you up in another 5 minutes.
I inhaled deeply and grabbed my small handbag, then headed outside.
A sleek black Mercedes-Maybach waited at the curb, its paint reflecting the soft sunlight.
The driver, in a crisp black suit and cap, stepped out and opened the door for me and he didn’t say a word.
I was not used to such treatment but there was no harm in enjoying the princess treatment for a day.
I nodded politely and slipped inside the car.
And the moment I sank into the plush leather seats, I felt a wave of nervous energy wash over me.
The cabin was quiet, luxurious—wood trim, subtle ambient lighting, and the faint scent of leather and aftershave.
Everything about it screamed Alexander Reed: powerful, meticulous, coldly impressive.
As the car glided through traffic, I stared out the window, my fingers tightening slightly around my purse thinking about the lunch.
I am not sure what it meant to Suddenly plan a lunch…
in his territory.
Lunch.
Just lunch. At his office.
Nothing to panic about, right?
What was I supposed to say?
How was I supposed to act?
Was this just for appearances, or did he have some kind of plan?
I shifted in my seat, smoothing the front of my dress.
Play it cool. Be polite.
Stick to the arrangement.
Still, my heart thudded with unease.
Something about Alexander always left me feeling like I was walking into a room with no exits.
In about forty minutes, driver stopped in front of the high-rise building that housed Alexander’s company.
The driver stepped out, walked around, and opened the door for me.
I stepped out and headed towards the entrance.
The receptionist smiled at me.
“Hello, Mrs Reed. He’s expecting you. Top floor.”
My heart gave a small skip at the name: Mrs. Reed.
Would they notice the hesitation in my step?
I wasn’t his real wife but everyone here now believed it.
And for now, I had to control my nervousness and play along.
“Thanks.”
The elevator ride felt endless, each floor ding raising the pressure in my chest. I checked my reflection in the polished doors—calm, collected, pretty enough.
Hopefully convincing.
When the doors slid open, I stepped into a sleek corridor filled with glass walls, abstract art, and silence.
I hesitated for a fraction of a second, then pushed open the tall door.
The conversation was already alive—alive but sharp-edged.
Voices clashed in the space between silverware and careful decorum, and catering staff hurried around, exchanging wide-eyed glances at the huge conference table ringed by people dressed like old money.
Alexander stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, city skyline stretching out behind him like a power portrait.
He was in a dark suit, no tie, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up.
Controlled, elegant, dangerous.
He turned at the sound of the door, and his gaze landed on me—sharp, unreadable, with maybe a flicker of something else.
Approval? Curiosity?
I moved toward the sleek conference table by the windows, suddenly aware of the click of my heels, the way his eyes followed my every step.
“Right on time,” he said simply, stepping forward.
I wore a politely warm smile as he introduced me to everyone.
“Have a seat. Lunch is on the way,” Alexander said once the formalities were over.
“Thanks.” I took my seat, and Alexander sat beside me.
Everyone’s eyes were on me, and I could feel all sorts of emotions in the room: admiration and respect, jealousy and judgment.
"Claire is remarkably skilled at adapting, isn’t she? Some people just… thrive in uncertain situations."
Not a compliment.
A test. A challenge—from a balding, portly man whose wandering eyes made my skin crawl.
A flicker of heat curled at the base of my throat, but before I could react, Alexander was already rising.
His chair scraped against the floor, the sound slicing through the hush that followed.
"Claire has proven herself beyond question," Alexander said.
His voice was measured steel, cold enough to burn, sharp enough to cut.
The room sat stunned, and I didn’t know what was going on.
Alexander, ever calculated, was not a man prone to displays of emotion.
And yet, here he was, positioning himself like a shield between me and the man making underhanded comments about me.
I wasn’t sure if I should be grateful or worried that he’d gone this far.
A year of playing house with Alexander would be anything but dull.
The table sat silent, stunned by Alexander’s comment.
His words were a verbal fencing match with a partner who bowed out of the fight without further comment.
I had thought Alexander’s only weapon was his cold indifference, but here was a different side of him altogether.
Eyes shifted from me to him and back again.
I glanced around, seeing the confusion etched on the faces of his associates.
Alexander had marked me as his own, at least for now, and no one dared dispute it.
A strange mix of emotions washed over me.
Alexander remained standing, watching the room with hawk-like precision, ready to attack any further threats to his carefully constructed facade.
I wondered if I would ever see the true man beneath the armor.
This brief display had left me as breathless as the sharp kiss of winter air.
As the tension dissipated, low conversations resumed, voices hushed and muted.
My hand shook slightly as I reached for a glass someone had placed before me, the clinking ice lending a much-needed sense of normalcy to the moment.
I couldn’t help but feel that this game he was playing was more complex than I'd imagined, and I was far from knowing all the rules.
Finally, he sat down beside me after a long gap, his demeanor was composed but his eyes were still burning. I stole a glance, and our eyes locked, a silent agreement passed between us. And now I knew I didn’t have to deal with these kinds of situations alone. We were in this together, for better or worse. I just had to figure out how to keep pace with the man who always seemed several steps ahead.
Another sip of water steadied me, the ice clicking against the glass as I swallowed the moment down with practiced ease. The tension had loosened its grip on the room, but Alexander’s words bounced around my skull.
I turned slightly, my gaze landing on the man whose backhanded compliment had started it all. His mouth twisted into something resembling a smirk, though the weight of Alexander’s earlier reprimand had dulled its edge. His attention flickered to me once more—curious, cautious, perhaps even intrigued.
I smiled, bright and effortless, as if none of it had fazed me in the slightest. “Adaptation is an underrated skill, don’t you think?” My voice was light, conversational, laced with the warmth of someone who hadn’t just been insulted but rather invited into an intellectual discussion. “After all, unpredictability is the only certainty in life. I find it’s better to embrace change than fight it.”
The man hesitated, his confidence wavering beneath the weight of my response. He had expected discomfort—maybe silence, maybe a stumble, or for me to say something sharp back. But instead, I had turned his words into something more palatable, something he couldn't easily twist back into insult.
“I suppose that’s true,” he said, recovering just enough to play along.
“Though not everyone adjusts so seamlessly.”
I leaned in slightly, tilting my head with an easy curiosity.
“And yet, here we are, sharing a meal and good company. That seems seamless enough to me.”
His lips parted as if searching for some clever snub, but I had already returned my attention to my meal, effectively dismissing whatever response he might have had.
The conversation had been mine to end, and I had done so with all the grace expected of me.
Alexander, still watching, smirked just barely, the kind of expression that was gone as soon as it arrived.
I didn’t know whether it was amusement or approval, but I didn’t linger on it.
I had held my ground, kept the game in motion, and I had done it with a smile.
As the meal wrapped up, Alexander rose from his seat, signaling the end.
I followed suit, offering a polite smile to everyone.
“Thank you, it was a pleasure meeting you all,” I said, keeping my voice warm and steady.
A few firm handshakes followed, while others simply nodded back with courteous smiles.
“Let’s go home, Claire.”
I looked at him, confused.
Wasn’t he going back to work after lunch?
“I don’t have any meetings pending today,” he said, as if he could read my mind.
He placed a light guiding hand on my back, the quiet authority in his gesture making it clear—the performance was over, for now.
The driver was waiting for us outside the office.
We slipped into the backseat of the car, the door clicking shut behind us.
The ride was quiet—Alexander was preoccupied with a string of work-related calls, his tone clipped and focused.
I sat beside him, staring out the window, the hum of his voice a distant backdrop to my swirling thoughts.
The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable but we still had to pretend like real husband and wife because of the driver.
What if he got to know and told everyone?
There was no need to take that risk.
After about forty to forty-five minutes, we reached back home.
The penthouse door closed behind us, closing us off from the outside world.
I collapsed onto the sofa, losing myself in its soft leather folds, my mind still swirling with the craziness of the business lunch.
The food had been amazing, the company mixed, and my attitude upbeat and unbreakable.
Still, each passing moment with Alexander seemed to peel back another layer of who he was—and who I was supposed to be.
The soft click of the balcony doors drew my attention.
Alexander’s silhouette cut through the dying light, and I found myself unable to look away from him.
"Are you all right?" he asked, and I wasn't sure how to answer.
I looked at him, his presence both daunting and strangely reassuring. "That was... unexpected," I finally said, trying to gauge his reaction.
He leaned against the glass door, as if waiting for me to continue. I wondered if he knew how intensely he could look at someone, how those blue eyes seemed to reach inside and search for things I wasn’t sure I wanted to reveal.
"I didn’t mean to put you in a difficult position," he said, his voice was lower and almost apologetic.
"You didn’t," I said quickly. "I mean, I’m the one who—"
I paused, words tumbling around like unpinned grenades in my mind. I’m the one who doesn’t belong. I’m the one who’s way over her head.
Alexander tilted his head, his curiosity more than I could bear.
"It was intense," I said, my words unsure but gaining strength as I spoke. "But I can handle it." I surprised myself with the confidence in my voice. The Claire who lived in fear of being not enough had been quieter lately, leaving room for this bolder, braver version.
"I know you can," he said. It was almost like a compliment, though from Alexander it was hard to tell. His approval was a slippery thing, difficult to hold onto, and I found myself wanting more of it.
We fell into silence, the city buzzing beneath us. Alexander’s gaze drifted toward the horizon, as unreadable and cold as ever. I felt a pull to understand him, to break through the facade he wore so well. But it was like chipping away at marble with a plastic spoon.
"Also, the man that day who mentioned Allison and James," he said, "It won’t happen again."
I blinked, startled by his directness. "It’s none of my busine—"
"Claire," he said, turning his full attention back to me. "I’m not in the habit of lying. You handle yourself well today. Especially with the curveballs thrown at you."
A rush of warmth spread through me. His words seemed honest, without ulterior motives or hidden traps. I wanted to soak in this version of Alexander, but shadows of doubt crept in, reminders of how fleeting it could all be.
"It’s not the first time I’ve been in a difficult situation," I said. My thoughts rewound to my last job, the humiliation and fear crashing over me like a relentless tide. The worst of it was done; I could talk about it now without wanting to curl into a ball.
His expression shifted, subtly at first, but enough for me to notice. A flicker of something—was it anger? concern? —passed through his eyes.
"My last boss," I continued, uncertain. "He didn’t exactly take no for an answer. Gave me a choice…" I swallowed hard. " Him or walk."
There was no mistaking the hardness in Alexander’s features now. I stumbled over my words, regretting my openness, convinced I’d caused a problem in this small, fragile connection between us.
"He didn’t fire me, outright," I said, trying to fill the space. "Not until he was sure I wasn’t going to... never mind. I don’t know why I’m telling you this."
His silence unnerved me. I felt stripped bare, and the chill of exposure seeped into my bones. He looked out over the city, and I wondered if he was even listening.
Then, without warning, he turned back to me, his expression unreadable. "Are you worried about the same thing with me?"
The question hit like a physical blow. I hadn’t let myself go that far in my thoughts. I hadn’t dared. I opened my mouth to respond, but my brain and tongue weren’t cooperating.
"I—" I said, remembering that the contract protected me from that but unable to articulate those thoughts.
The harsh ring of my phone interrupted the tension, an unwelcome call back to the reality I’d tried to escape. I fumbled for it, grateful for the distraction but frustrated by the timing.
It was Jen. Of course, it was. Her name flashed on the screen like the woman in real life, refusing to be ignored. I couldn’t not take the call.
Alexander watched me, his jaw set, his eyes demanding answers to a question we’d already discussed. Well, he’d discussed it, and I’d signed my name. I turned away, mumbling an apology as I answered.
"Claire! You said you’d send it yesterday," Jen’s voice pierced through my skull like a lobotomy pick. "I need the money now."
I heard the words, but my focus was on Alexander, the way he stared, the way he didn’t bother hiding his irritation. Somehow, though, I suspected he was annoyed with Jen, not me. I made excuses to Jen, promising to send it immediately. It was always immediately with her, as if she thought I had nothing else to do.
"I’m sorry," I said again, feeling the sting of Alexander's disapproval like a slap.
"I have to—"
"Go ahead." He cut me off, his tone flat.
"Don’t be late."
His words circled back to the beginning of our day, full of expectation and pressure.
I wondered how I was supposed to balance it all—this marriage, my family, and whatever this was between us.