21. Allie #2
Finally, he moves to the double doors at the end of the hall and swings them open. "The master bedroom."
My furniture. The stuff I picked out. The bed frame I agonized over.
The bedding is still sealed in plastic like a crime scene.
The dresser wrapped tighter than leftovers in cling film.
The room itself is huge, with vaulted ceilings and massive windows, but it’s as hollow as the rest of the house. A showroom, not a sanctuary.
My room. Not our room.
To the right is a walk-in closet. My suitcases sit on the carpet, unopened. Beyond that, an en suite bathroom—marble flooring, walk-in shower, oversized jetted tub that looks like it’s never seen a single bubble bath. It’s pristine and clearly untouched.
“Where do you sleep?” I ask, frowning at the sheer emptiness.
Rico scrubs a hand down his face, already exhausted by my presence. “Downstairs.”
Right. Separate floors. Separate lives. Separate everything. I shouldn’t be surprised, but the confirmation still stings like paper cuts from the contract we signed.
I step back into the bedroom, eyeing the still-packaged bedding. “I’ll need to wash the linens first.” The words are informal, but the implication? Not so much. If we’re doing anything tonight, it’s not happening here, buddy.
He follows my gaze to the untouched bed, and I swear I can hear the gears grinding in his head. Is he calculating the spin cycle time?
“Will we be spending the night in your room since mine isn’t ready?”
His eyes flick from the bed to the plastic-wrapped comforter, then back to me. He exhales sharply. “Follow me.”
Not exactly the victory dance I was hoping for, but I’ll take it.
Chasing behind him, we head back down the stairs, through the sterile kitchen, and into a side hallway I hadn’t noticed before. Three closed doors line the hall. He skips the first two without comment—because why would he communicate like a normal human—and stops at the last set of double doors.
He pushes them open, and I instantly understand why he didn’t offer the grand tour.
The room is dark. Not just dim. Dark. The walls are painted black, like he walked into a Home Depot, found the brooding billionaire section, and said, Yes, this will do.
The massive bed in the center is covered in black bedding, neatly made.
Two nightstands flank the bed, empty except for a single phone charger. No art. No plants. No personality.
Just walls, a bed, and the crushing weight of isolation. Color me amazed — oh wait, color dies here.
It’s another master suite, complete with a walk-in closet and an en suite bathroom, mirroring the setup upstairs. Same layout. Same size. Just…darker. Lukewarm. Like he moved in, stripped the room of anything remotely comforting, and called it a day.
Separate rooms weren’t enough. We’re on separate floors. The man might as well have a bunker under the house to put an entire six feet barrier of concrete between us.
“My room.” Rico glances around like he’s just now noting where we are.
Right. Fantastic. How am I supposed to sleep with a man—hell, have sex with a man—who treats me like an unwanted giveaway mug from a company picnic? Barely used, shoved in the back of the cabinet, only pulled out when everything else is in the dishwasher… and definitely not the first pick.
We both stand there. Silent. The awkwardness thickens, settling over the room like a San Francisco fog. If this is a preview of married life, I’m screwed. Him, a marble statue with issues. Me, a bundle of nerves, barely held together by champagne and denial.
Rico nods toward the bed. “Sleep there tonight.”
“With you?” The words flop out before I can stop them.
“No.”
I blink. Did I black out and skip the part where we mutually agreed to be Amish about this whole thing? “Wait, seriously? It’s our wedding night. You’re not even gonna pretend to fake romance me?”
Nothing. Not a twitch of emotion. He’s already walking past me, heading into the master closet.
I hear hangers scrape across the rod; the light flicking on and off like he’s performing some half-assed magic trick.
Five minutes later, he emerges in jeans and a plain black T-shirt, looking like he’s about to run errands, not celebrate his legally binding commitment.
I stare at him. “Where the hell are you going?”
Adjusting his watch, he finally meets my gaze, as if I’m the one being irrational. “Office.”
The word drops like an anvil, flat and unmerciful.
“You’re…going to work. Now. On our wedding night?”
He doesn’t wait for my inescapable meltdown. He just heads for the door like I’m invisible. My brain scrambles for words, for something sharp enough to cut through his apathy, but the room is so devoid of throwable objects I’d have to hurl the whole damn nightstand to make an impact.
“Rico!” My voice cracks.
He pauses, hand on the doorframe, turning his head just enough to acknowledge my existence. Barely.
“It’s our wedding night.”
“Well aware.” His voice flat and emotionless.
“We’re supposed to consummate. You agreed.”
Slowly, he pivots, and those amber eyes rake over me, cold and calculating.
Like he’s assessing a business deal, not his wife.
And damn it, I know what I look like—silk gown, hair tumbling down, makeup still intact despite the day’s marathon.
I’m objectively attractive. But his expression doesn’t shift. Not a flicker of want. Just…detached.
“We agreed.”
I glance at the bed, then back at him, gesturing between us like I’m explaining the birds and the bees to a particularly dense high-schooler. “Well? What’s the hold-up? Clothes off. Lights out. Let’s get this done.” God, I never pictured that as my foreplay, but here I am.
His lips twitch. Not quite a smile—Rico doesn’t smile—but close enough to make my blood pressure spike. “Well…” he mimics, voice low and taunting.
My hands flutter in exasperation. “It’s. Our. Wedding. Night. We’re supposed to consummate. How many more facts do I need to spell out? Should I draw you a diagram? You here, me there, penis meets vagina—boom, deal sealed.”
Aaaannndddd, this is rock bottom. Welcome Allie.
This time, I swear I catch the ghost of amusement flashing across his face, but it’s gone before I can confirm it. “I’m going to work.”
My jaw unhinges. “You agreed!”
“I did.” He shrugs, plucking an invisible piece of lint from his shirt as if he couldn’t make it any more obvious about how fatigued he was with this conversation. “But you’re the one with the problem, Pearlina. Not me.”
I sputter. “Of course I have a problem! We agreed to consummate!”
“Didn’t say when.”
The room tilts. I grab the bedpost for balance, my entire body vibrating with the rage usually reserved for tech support calls. “Are you kidding me? It was implied we’d consummate on our wedding night. What else would consummation mean?”
Another shrug. This man shrugs like it’s an Olympic sport and he’s gunning for gold.
I snap. “So, are we having sex or not?”
Never in my wildest nightmares did I imagine standing in my future husband's bedroom, wearing the world’s most impractical lingerie riding right up my ass under this dress, begging for sex. The woeful note in my voice makes me hate myself a little.
Rico tilts his head, more animal than human. “Are you ovulating?”
“W-what?” It's all stutters at this point. “No…I don’t think so.”
“No? Then nope.” He pops the “p” like a bubblegum-blowing brat and strolls out, leaving me standing there, speechless and seething.
On our wedding night. While he goes to work.
I glance down at my wedding band, the small pearl glinting mockingly in the dim light. Pretty. Pointless. Just like this marriage.