CHAPTER 4
MALCOLM
My penthouse is engineered for silence.
The glass in the floor-to-ceiling windows is triple-paned to block out the sirens and the wind coming off Lake Michigan.
The HVAC system operates on a frequency that is virtually undetectable to the human ear.
The floors are poured concrete layered beneath imported hardwood, designed so that footsteps simply vanish.
For the last four years, this silence has been my armor.
At four-fifteen in the afternoon, the private elevator chimes, and the armor cracks.
I don’t turn around immediately. I stand by the kitchen island, resting my hands flat against the cold marble countertop. I listen to the heavy, metallic slide of the elevator doors opening, followed by the distinct sound of Grant clearing his throat.
Then, the uneven squeak of a suitcase wheel dragging across the floor.
"Put it anywhere, Grant," a voice says. It’s slightly raspy, lacking the alcohol-induced bravado from last night, but still carrying a heavy dose of defensive sarcasm. "I don’t want to ruin the aesthetic of the museum."
I turn around.
Audrey is standing in the center of my foyer.
She has traded the oversized college t-shirt for a pair of faded denim jeans and a thick, cream-colored sweater that looks like it was aggressively pulled out of a storage bin.
Her hair is tied back in a knot that is already falling apart, and she is gripping the handle of a battered navy suitcase like it’s a flotation device.
Next to the sheer scale of the penthouse, she looks impossibly small. But the way her eyes dart around the room—analyzing the sightlines, judging the sterile lack of personal items, mapping the exits—takes up every inch of oxygen in the space.
"That will be all, Grant," I say, my voice cutting through the quiet.
Grant gives a brief nod. He doesn't look at Audrey, but I catch the microscopic tightening around his eyes—the closest he ever gets to expressing concern. He steps back into the elevator. The doors slide shut, sealing us in.
Audrey doesn't move. She just stares at the spot where the elevator doors closed, her knuckles turning white around the plastic handle of her luggage.
"You can let go of the bag, Audrey," I say calmly. "No one is going to steal it."
"Excuse me if I have trust issues regarding my personal property," she fires back, finally turning to look at me. "The last time I unpacked my life, my fiancé legally transferred ownership of my office chairs to his mistress."
She tries to sound sharp, but I can see the fatigue pulling at the corners of her mouth. The hangover is gone, replaced by the crushing reality of what she just agreed to.
"Simon is an amateur," I reply, walking around the kitchen island. I stop a few feet away from her, leaving enough distance so she doesn't feel cornered. "If I wanted to steal your clothes, I wouldn't use a contract loophole. I would just burn the suitcase."
Audrey blinks, a short, involuntary laugh escaping her throat before she manages to suppress it. "Good to know. I’ll keep the fire extinguisher handy."
She lets go of the suitcase. The handle snaps down with a loud clatter that echoes off the high ceiling. She winces at the noise, looking around the massive, open-concept living area.
"It’s very..." She trails off, her brow furrowing as she takes in the charcoal gray sofas, the black steel accents, and the complete absence of color. "Serial killer chic. Do you own a single object that isn't functionally terrifying?"
"I own a toaster," I say deadpan.
"Does it double as a weapon?"
"Only if you drop it in the bathtub."
She bites the inside of her cheek. It’s the same nervous tell I noticed in the surveillance photos. She is trying very hard not to be intimidated by the space, or by me. It’s a futile effort, but her stubbornness is fascinating to watch.
"Your bedroom is down the hall. Last door on the left," I tell her, gesturing toward the corridor. "It has an en-suite bathroom. The lock on the inside of the door is a deadbolt. As per your condition this morning, your privacy is absolute. I will not enter without your permission."
She looks at the hallway, then back at me. The defensive posture drops a fraction, replaced by a flicker of genuine surprise. "Oh. Okay."
"Did you think I was going to force you to sleep at the foot of my bed?"
"I don't know what you do," she says, wrapping her arms around her stomach. The oversized sweater swallows her hands. "You blackmailed me into moving in with you in less than six hours. I’m still trying to figure out where the hidden cameras are."
"There are no cameras inside the apartment," I say, my tone hardening slightly. "There is security in the elevator, the lobby, and the perimeter. But what happens inside these walls stays between us."
I turn back to the kitchen island and pick up the small, black velvet box resting next to my laptop.
"Before you unpack," I say, holding the box in my palm. "We have a logistical issue to resolve."
Audrey takes a hesitant step forward. Her eyes drop to the velvet box, and I watch her throat work as she swallows. The reality of the fake engagement is no longer just ink on a contract. It is a physical object.
"The ring," she murmurs.
"If we are going to ruin Simon, we need to sell the narrative," I say, stepping closer to her.
I don't stop until I am standing just inside her personal space.
She doesn't back away, but I can hear the slight hitch in her breathing.
"Simon proposed to you with a two-carat princess cut from a commercial jeweler.
It was flashy, expensive, and entirely devoid of personality. "
Audrey’s jaw tightens. "He told me he spent months picking it out."
"He had his assistant buy it on a Tuesday afternoon," I correct her ruthlessly.
The truth hits her. I see the flash of pain in her eyes, followed instantly by a cold, hard anger. Good. Anger is useful. Pain is just a liability.
I hold out the box and flip the lid open with my thumb.
Audrey stares at the ring. The silence in the room stretches, thick and heavy.
It is an emerald-cut diamond, flanked by tapered baguettes, set in aged platinum. It doesn't look new. It looks like it has survived a century of secrets.
"It’s..." She exhales a shaky breath, her hand hovering over the box without touching it. "It’s beautiful. It doesn't look like a prop."
"It isn't." I look down at the stone, then back at her face. "It belonged to my grandmother. It is a family heirloom. My father has been trying to get his hands on it for a decade to give to Simon. He believes the golden boy should have the family legacy."
Audrey’s head snaps up. Her eyes are wide, the implication hitting her immediately. "You’re giving me a family heirloom? To fake an engagement? Malcolm, if Simon sees this—"
"Simon will realize that he is entirely, fundamentally outmatched," I finish for her.
I don't wait for her to argue. I reach out and take her left hand.
Her skin is cold, just like it was at the bar last night. My thumb brushes against the inside of her wrist, pressing lightly against the erratic, frantic beat of her pulse. She tries to pull her hand back, a pure reflex of self-preservation, but my grip tightens just enough to keep her anchored.
"Relax, Audrey," I murmur, keeping my eyes locked on hers.
"I am relaxed," she lies, her voice breathless.
I pull the ring from the velvet slot. The metal is cool against my fingers. I align it with her ring finger and slowly slide it past her knuckle.
It fits perfectly.
I don't let go of her hand immediately. I look down at the vintage platinum resting against her pale skin. The sight of it does something violent to the inside of my chest. A dark, possessive satisfaction that has absolutely nothing to do with revenge or family politics.
She is wearing my ring. She is standing in my home.
I suppress the urge to pull her closer. I force my fingers to loosen, letting her hand drop.
Audrey takes a quick step back, putting distance between us. She rubs her thumb over the diamond, staring at it as if it might burn her.
"It’s heavy," she whispers.
"You’ll get used to it." I pick up the empty velvet box and slide it into my pocket.
"The engagement party is in four weeks. Until then, we need to be seen in public. Dinners. Charity galas. Places where my father’s associates will notice us and report back to him.
By the time the party arrives, the rumor mill will have done half the work for us. "
Audrey nods slowly, still staring at the ring. "And what do we tell people? How did we meet? Why did we keep it a secret?"
"We didn't keep it a secret. We kept it private.
There is a difference." I walk over to the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of sparkling water.
I offer her one. She shakes her head. "As for how we met, the truth is usually the best foundation for a lie.
We met at a hotel bar. You were drinking a martini. I bought you another."
"Right. And then we bonded over our mutual hatred for your brother?" She looks up, a sharp edge returning to her voice.
"We bonded over a mutual understanding of what it takes to survive," I correct her.
"You don't need to overthink the narrative, Audrey.
People see what they want to see. When they look at us, they will see a man who has finally found a woman he can't buy, and a woman who has found a man who can protect her. "
She crosses her arms, the sweater bunching around her shoulders. "I don't need protection."
"Simon locked you out of your own company using a shell corporation," I point out, my tone flat. "You need protection."
"I need a better lawyer," she snaps back.
"You have me. It’s significantly more effective."
She glares at me. The defiance in her eyes is spectacular. Most people in my world nod, agree, and look at the floor when I speak. Audrey looks at me like she’s trying to figure out exactly where to insert the knife.
"Are there any other rules I need to know about?" she asks, her tone dripping with mock politeness. "Curfews? Dress codes? Do I need to submit a written request if I want to order a pizza?"
I unscrew the cap of the water bottle. I take a slow drink, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make her shift her weight uncomfortably.
"One rule," I say, setting the bottle down on the marble counter.
"Let me guess. Don't talk to the press?"
"If you are going to lie to me, Audrey, you need to be better at it."
She frowns, clearly caught off guard. "What?"
"Last night, you told me you were fine. You weren't. Today, you told me you were relaxed.
You aren't." I hold her gaze, refusing to let her look away.
"This arrangement only works if we operate with absolute transparency behind closed doors.
You can lie to Simon. You can lie to my father.
You can lie to the media. But in this apartment, you do not lie to me. "
Her jaw clenches. She presses the thumb of her right hand against the side of her index finger—the physical tell I’ve seen in the photos. She’s calculating. Trying to figure out if this is a threat or a boundary.
"Transparency," she repeats slowly.
"Complete."
"Fine." She drops her arms, lifting her chin. "Transparency. I think your apartment looks like a high-end morgue. I think your family is a nightmare. And I think that putting this ring on my finger is the most terrifying thing I have ever done."
She waits for me to react. She expects me to get angry, or to dismiss her fear.
Instead, a genuine, dark amusement settles in my chest.
"Good," I say quietly. "Fear keeps you sharp. Don't lose it."
I turn away from her, walking toward my home office. "Settle in. Unpack your bags. If you need food, there is a tablet on the kitchen counter linked to a delivery service. I have a conference call in ten minutes."
I don't wait for her to respond. I walk into the office and leave the door open just a crack.
I sit down at the heavy mahogany desk and open my laptop. The screen illuminates the dark wood, but I don't look at the financial reports waiting in my inbox.
I listen.
For a long minute, there is no sound from the living room. Then, I hear the soft, uneven squeak of her suitcase wheels rolling across the hardwood floor, heading down the hallway toward the guest bedroom.
I hear the door open. I hear it close.
And then, I hear the heavy, metallic thud of the deadbolt sliding into place.
I lean back in my leather chair, staring at the sliver of light coming through the crack in the office door.
She locked herself in. She is terrified of the space, terrified of the situation, and terrified of me.
I reach into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the empty velvet box.
I told her not to lie to me, but I am already lying to her. I told her this was a business arrangement. I told her the ring was just a tool to break Simon’s ego.
I close my eyes, the memory of her pulse beating frantically against my thumb still burning into my skin.
Transparency, I think, a bitter smile touching my lips.
If Audrey Jennings knew the truth—if she knew exactly what I was willing to burn down to keep her in this penthouse permanently—she wouldn't just lock the bedroom door.
She would jump out the window.