Arielle had expected sterile elegance—white walls, glass, steel. But when she stepped into Grayson Vale's penthouse, it felt like stepping into another world. Dark mahogany floors stretched beneath her heels, accented by gold-framed artwork, velvet furniture, and towering windows that offered a panoramic view of Manhattan's skyline. Everything screamed wealth, but more than that—power.
She wasn't sure if it intimidated her or fascinated her.
"Miss Monroe," said a middle-aged woman in a navy blouse, her silver hair pinned neatly. "I'm Meredith, the housekeeper. Mr. Vale asked me to show you to your quarters."
Your quarters. Not your room. Not our room.
Right.
This was a contract.
Meredith led her down a corridor, heels echoing on polished floors. "You'll be staying in the east wing. Mr. Vale resides in the west wing. Unless told otherwise, meals are served at seven, one, and seven again. Breakfast is optional. Dinner, however, is expected."
Expected. Like another item on a schedule.
"Thank you, Meredith," Arielle said politely.
The woman gave a small nod and gestured to a double door. "This is your suite. Everything you may need is inside. If anything is missing, please call down."
As Meredith left, Arielle opened the doors and stepped in.
Her breath caught.
The room was larger than her old apartment. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and the king-sized bed was a canopy of cream and gold. The windows were draped in navy silk, matching the accents on the bedspread. A fireplace flickered quietly beneath a marble mantle, and beside it sat a grand piano.
Her fingers itched to touch the keys.
Arielle dropped her bags and walked to the piano, sitting lightly on the bench. It was a Steinway. Polished. Perfect. She pressed a key. The note rang through the room like a whisper.
Grayson had said no intimacy unless she wanted it.
But he hadn't said anything about emotional entanglement.
And music? Music was the language of the soul.
---
By the time dinner rolled around, Arielle was dressed in a pale blue silk dress sent up by Grayson's assistant. She had no doubt it cost more than her entire wardrobe combined. She felt like a porcelain doll as she entered the dining room.
Grayson was already seated.
He wore a navy button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms laced with veins and a watch that probably cost more than a car. He looked... relaxed, in a way that unnerved her more than his coldness.
"You're late," he said again, eyes not leaving his glass of wine.
"I thought wives got to be fashionably late."
He raised an eyebrow. "Contractual wives don't test their husbands on day one."
She sat down opposite him as the staff silently set dishes before them—roasted duck, truffle risotto, glazed carrots.
She blinked. "This is a seven-star restaurant menu."
"I don't do average."
He took a bite without waiting for her. She followed slowly, unsure whether she was eating with a man or a masked stranger.
"Your room is acceptable?" he asked after a few moments.
"It's a palace."
"Good. You'll be accompanying me to a gala this Friday. Wear something red."
Her fork froze mid-air. "Red?"
"It looks good on you."
Arielle blinked, unsure if she was more shocked by the compliment or the sudden shift in tone.
"Grayson," she said slowly, "why me?"
He looked up. "What do you mean?"
"There are a hundred desperate heiresses who would've killed for a contract like this. Girls with names the media loves, girls trained to be trophy wives. So… why me?"
His eyes held hers for a second too long.
"You were the only one who looked me in the eye and told me I was a monster."
She remembered that moment—in her father's office, months ago, when Vale Corp had walked in with an offer and she had snapped, "You're a vulture in a tailored suit." He hadn't even flinched then. She hadn't known he remembered.
"That impressed you?" she asked.
"That interested me," he corrected. "And in this world, Miss Monroe, interest is the most dangerous kind of power."
---
That night, she couldn't sleep.
She lay under gold-threaded sheets, staring at the ceiling, thinking of the strange new world she'd entered. The man on the other end of the hallway was her husband, on paper. But he wasn't a partner. He was a storm wrapped in Armani.
Her phone vibrated.
A message.
Unknown Number: You play piano beautifully. I heard you.
Her heart stuttered.
It had to be him.
She hesitated, then typed back.
Arielle: How long were you listening?
Unknown Number: Long enough to wonder what else those hands can do.
She flushed, then rolled her eyes. Classic Grayson. Even his texts were tailored in silk and sin.
Arielle: Very professional of you, Mr. Vale.
Grayson: I've never claimed to be professional. Only effective.
She stared at the screen, smiling despite herself.
---
The next few days passed in a blur of fittings, press interviews, and etiquette coaching. Grayson's assistant, Ezra, was efficient and impossibly calm. Arielle got used to cameras in her face, pretending to smile, holding Grayson's hand like she meant it.
But what unnerved her most was how easy it started to feel.
He was charming when he needed to be. He protected her from the press. He slid a hand around her waist in public, whispered dry sarcasm in her ear that made her laugh. And when no one was looking, he watched her like she was a puzzle he wasn't ready to solve.
---
Friday came.
The gala was held at the Glasshouse, overlooking the Hudson. Red carpets, chandeliers, champagne fountains—it was surreal.
Arielle stepped out of the limo in a crimson gown that hugged her curves and shimmered like rubies under the lights. Her hair was swept into waves, her lips painted scarlet.
The press exploded.
"Grayson! Arielle! Look here!"
"Are the rumors true? The secret engagement?"
He didn't speak. He simply took her hand, kissed her fingers gently, and whispered, "Smile like I've just told you I love you."
So she did.
Inside, the gala pulsed with music and opulence. Arielle was introduced to CEOs, politicians, influencers. Grayson never left her side. He kept his arm around her waist like she was precious cargo.
She played the part.
Until she overheard a conversation near the bar.
"Did you hear? He paid her family's debt in exchange for marriage. Poor thing probably didn't even have a choice."
"She's lucky. I'd sell my soul to be Mrs. Vale."
Arielle turned away, throat tight.
"Don't listen to them," came Grayson's voice behind her.
She didn't turn.
"They're not wrong," she said. "I did sell myself."
He stepped closer, voice low. "No. You bought time. That takes courage."
She looked up at him.
"Then why do I still feel like I've lost something?"
Grayson studied her. Then, before she could think, he reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His hand lingered.
"I've lost things too," he murmured. "Maybe we can learn to rebuild them."
She didn't move away.
---
Later that night, back in the penthouse, Arielle stood on the balcony, heels off, champagne glass in hand. Manhattan glittered below.
She heard the door open behind her.
"You clean up well," Grayson said.
She turned. "You don't look so bad either."
He came to stand beside her, close enough to touch, but not quite.
"What are we doing, Grayson?" she asked quietly.
He tilted his head. "Being seen. Being envied. Being married, according to the papers."
"That's not what I meant."
He didn't answer.
She sighed, setting down her glass. "You said love is a myth."
"It is."
"But you watched me like you wanted to believe in it tonight."
He said nothing for a moment. Then, in a low voice, "Believing in something and deserving it are two different things."
Her chest ached.
She reached out, fingers brushing his. "Maybe we both deserve more than we think."
And just like that, something shifted.
His hand closed around hers.
Not possessive.
Not calculated.
Just real.
Their eyes met. The world blurred. He leaned in, slowly—like asking a question without words. When his lips touched hers, it wasn't fire. It was gravity. Like he was falling into her, and she into him.
And for a moment, the contract didn't exist.
Just Arielle.
Just Grayson.
And a kiss that tasted like hope.