Chapter 2 Terms of Marriage

I woke up to noise.

It wasn’t the sharp, intrusive kind that usually shattered my mornings—alerts, calls, calendar reminders barking demands at me before I would even opened my eyes, but it was something softer. A low rhythmic music drifting through the penthouse like it had every right to be there. I wasn't used to this.

For a few disoriented seconds, my body reacted before my mind did and my heart kicked hard against my ribs, adrenaline surging not from fear but from dissonance... the wrongness of it. My home was supposed to be silent, predictable and controlled in the mornings.

I was used to it feeling more like a showroom than a place someone lived.

I sat up slowly, the silk sheets cool against my skin as I rubbed a hand over my face. Memory came rushing back in sharp fragments—ballroom lights, shattered expectations, a courthouse signature, rain, a spare key pressed into a man’s palm.

Ohh.. Jack. His name reminded me of my rebellion.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and slipped into a robe, tying it tighter than necessary. Barefoot, I padded down the marble hallway, every step echoing faintly. The closer I got to the kitchen, the clearer the music became.

Then the unmistakable smell of coffee hit my nostrils and when I turned the corner, the sight in front of me stopped me short.

Jack Roman stood in my kitchen as if he’d always belonged there. Jeans slung low on his hips, no shirt, barefoot on imported stone tiles I’d never once stood on without heels. Tattoos spread across his arms and shoulders like a story written in ink. His hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends, droplets of water darkening his skin.

I raised a brow. He was dancing?

Like actually dancing—he swayed his hips flipping pancakes in a pan like it was part of the choreography. The radio sat on my pristine counter, something old and soulful playing through it, the sound bouncing off glass and steel. I couldn't unsee it.

I observed him, completely stunned.

I snapped out of my daze. “You are in my kitchen,” I said flatly.

He turned, completely unbothered, a boyish grin already in place. “Good morning, wife.”

The word did something strange to my stomach—an involuntary twitch, a tightening I refused to examine.

“I didn’t authorize breakfast.” I muttered.

He slid pancakes onto a plate with ridiculous flourish. “It’s not for you. It’s for me. But I made extra in case you woke up less terrifying.”

I gave him a look honed by years of hostile boardrooms and hostile men. It had ended negotiations and had successfully crushed egos.

He only grinned wider.

“Do you always invade people’s homes like you’re claiming territory?” I asked.

“Only when I legally marry them.” He smirked.

I folded my arms, grounding myself. “We need rules.”

Jack took a bite of pancake, chewed thoughtfully, then nodded. “I was wondering when that hammer would drop.”

We sat across from each other in my study an hour later, sunlight slicing through the tall windows. A formal contract lay between us on the desk—crisp and precise. My handwriting filled the margins with clauses and contingencies. Jack lounged in the chair opposite me like he owned the place, legs stretched out, coffee mug balanced casually in one hand.

I held my pen like a weapon.

“Rule one,” I said. “We’re only married for six months, no strings attached. At the end, we file for a clean, quiet divorce.”

He nodded. “Agreed.”

“Rule two. Public displays of affection only when necessary. Galas, press events, board meetings... But absolutely nothing in private. It'd do us good to respect each other's boundaries.” I whispered the last part.

“Cold,” he muttered. Then, louder, “But expected. Go on.”

I gaze him a quick look. “Rule three. No sleeping in the same bed. You’ll take the guest room.”

He raised an eyebrow as if taunting me. “Well, that’s a shame.”

I didn’t react. I had perfected neutrality.

“Rule four. No questions about the past. Not yours or mine. Besides, all these will be over before we know it and it'll be on my terms.”

His smirk faded at that. Something darker passed through his eyes.

“That's fair.”

I slid the contract toward him. “Now sign.”

He took the pen, then paused. “One more amendment.”

I frowned. “What?”

“No lying, especially about what matters. If we’re going to fake love, the least we can do is be honest in private. No shades when we’re alone.”

My pulse stuttered.

“That’s not part of the deal.” I waved it off.

“It is now.” He insisted.

I studied him, irritation tangling with something else I didn’t want to name. Then I nodded once.

He signed.

But living with him was like sharing space with a storm.

He left half-drunk coffee mugs on bookshelves. Played music too loud in the shower and fucking sings along. He lets his boots dry in the living room like the floor wasn’t worth more than most cars. He cooked like it was performance art and talked to my dog—technically a security drone—with full, animated conversations.

I hated it, but at the same time I didn't and then I hated that I didn’t.

On the fourth day, I came home late from a board meeting, exhaustion clinging to me like a second skin. The penthouse was dim.

Jack was asleep on the couch, a book half-open on his chest, a movie paused mid-scene on the screen. I wasn't used to sights like this, so I stood there longer than I meant to.

Then, quietly, I turned off the TV. Gently removed the book from his chest and draped a throw blanket over him.

In the morning, I claimed I had no idea how it got there.

Our first event as a married couple came on day eight.

The Harrow Foundation Gala.

My face had been everywhere on the tabloids for a week.

HEIRESS ELENA VALE MARRIES ROGUE TECH CEO, JACK ROMAN IN SUDDEN TWIST.

Richard was furious. My father was worse—and silent.

Jack appeared in a tailored tux that looked unfair on him, tie loosened just enough to be dangerous.

“You cleaned up,” I muttered as flashes exploded outside the car.

“I aim to dazzle.” He offered his hand.

Inside, he was effortless, charming and dangerous all at the same time. He laughed easily, leaned close, whispered things in my ear that made me laugh—like it was real laughter, I didn't fake it. I hadn’t realized how rare that had become.

Richard cornered me near the champagne tower.

“You think this changes anything?” he hissed.

I tilted my head. “You’re right. But he’s not pretending to be something he’s not. Maybe that’s why I married him instead of you, however abrupt.”

His glare burned into me even as I walked away.

Later, back home, the city glittered beyond the windows.

Jack handed me a glass of whiskey. “Careful,” he said. “You almost looked happy tonight.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”

The silence stretched.

“Did you mean what you said to Richard?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “It appears you’re the only person in my world who’s not trying to manipulate me.”

“That’s a lonely world.”

“It is.”

“No shades,” he reminded me.

Something inside me thawed.

The next morning, he was in the kitchen again.

“You cook like we’re an actual couple,” I said.

“You glare like I should be dead.” He countered.

We smiled.

Then the knock came.

The envelope was heavy. My father’s handwriting unmistakable:

"Terminate the marriage with that tattooed freak within 14 days. Or I go public with what I know about Jack Roman’s past."

I read it once and then again.

My hands went cold.

Jack read it too. His jaw clenched.

And suddenly, the contract on the desk didn’t feel like protection anymore.

It felt like a countdown.