Chapter 7 Iris's POV

The knock came at exactly noon. Not a second late.

I stared at the door, my heart beating like it wanted to escape my chest.

My suitcase stood by the wall, zipped and ready, even though I had unpacked and repacked it three times.

Just the essentials, I told myself. But really, how do you pack for six months of pretending to be someone's wife?

I took a deep breath and opened the door.

Nicholas stood there, clean-shaven, in a crisp black button-down, and the kind of unbothered calm that felt like a warning more than a courtesy.

His expression softened slightly when he saw me, maybe pity, maybe understanding.

"Hello," he said. "You ready?"

I nodded, even though my stomach twisted. "As ready as I'll ever be."

He didn't say a word. Just stepped aside and let me lock the door behind me. My fingers lingered on the knob a second too long.

This was the last time I'd be Iris Taylor of Apartment 2B. The girl with overdue bills and a broken knee. The girl with a name that meant nothing in this city.

Now I was becoming Iris Slade. God help me.

The car ride was quiet. Nicholas drove like he didn't care where he was going, like Malcolm's world was based on muscle memory.

I stared out the window, watching my neighborhood fade behind us. Everything outside looked smaller and dimmer, like the city was stripping itself away the closer we got to Malcolm's part of the world.

The streets widened. The houses turned into glass-and-steel monuments. Even the air felt more expensive.

"You nervous?" Nicholas asked suddenly.

I looked at him, taken aback. "Is it that obvious?"

He shrugged. "No one walks into Malcolm Slade's life without a little fear. Even the ones who pretend they aren't afraid."

I smiled, tight and hollow. "Thanks for being honest."

He glanced at me, one hand resting lazily on the wheel. "He's not the easiest man to be around, Iris. But he's not cruel. Not unless someone gives him a reason."

"That's oddly comforting."

We drove a little longer in silence. Then the gates appeared.

Massive black wrought-iron gates, gleaming silver accents slowly swung open when we drove up.

The driveway curved through manicured trees and perfect hedges like we were entering a kingdom, not a home. I wasn't sure if I was the queen or the sacrifice.

The car pulled up in front of a house that was not a house, but a fortress masquerading as a high-end magazine photo shoot. Grey stone. Black glass. Every window scowling like an eye.

Nicholas pulled over and stepped out, coming around to open my door.

"Here we are," he said.

I stepped out. My legs felt wobbly, and I hated that. I didn't want to show weakness, not in this place. Not here.

The front doors opened before we reached them. A suit-clad employee nodded at Nicholas, welcoming us inside.

Everything was... too much. Too cold. Too beautiful. Too expensive. The kind of place where even the air felt curated.

I stood in the foyer, trying not to shrink under the weight of it all, the vaulted ceilings, the chandelier that was worth more than my childhood home, the floor that sparkled as if it had never known dust.

Nicholas gave me a small nod before disappearing down the hall, like a ghost vanishing into shadows.

He left me standing there, alone, holding two worn-out suitcases and a heart that wouldn't stop pounding.

Then I saw him.

Malcolm Slade, standing at the base of the grand staircase like some carved statue come to life, impeccable stance, hands in pockets, eyes unreadable.

His gaze skimmed over me, not in a lustful way. In an assessing one. Like he was cataloguing every crack in my armor. We didn't speak right away. Maybe we didn't need to.

Finally, he moved forward, slow and measured, like a man walking into a negotiation rather than greeting his wife.

"Welcome home," he said.

Home. The word hung between us like smoke, slippery and elusive.

"This doesn't feel real," I whispered, my voice softer than I intended.

"It isn't," he replied, standing a few feet from me. "But that's the point."

I glanced around again. "How many people live here?"

"Just me, Anna, my cook, and the butler." Pause. "And now you."

I gulped. "It feels like a museum."

"It's a fortress," he corrected. "People like me don't get homes. We get strongholds."

That sentence sat with me in a weird way, more honest than anything he'd said before.

"Come on," he said after a moment. "Let me show you around."

He didn't wait for my response. Just turned and started walking. I followed behind, because what was I going to do?

He led me through wide hallways with walls covered in paintings I couldn't name but somehow knew were priceless.

Past rooms that looked like they'd been plucked out of magazines, flawless, sterile, and too pristine to actually be used.

At last, we stopped before a door.

"This will be your room," he said, pushing it open.

It was beautiful, stunning. Cream walls, tall windows, warm golden light pouring in through silk curtains.

The bed was big enough that I could have three of me in it. But still, it seemed borrowed. Like a hotel suite that someone else had slept in first.

"You get the whole west wing. You'll have your own bathroom, closet, and study area. Privacy, when you need it."

"East wing." He said it as if it were a move on a board. "We don't have to see each other unless necessary."

I don't know why that stung like a kick in the chest. I should be happy. He lingered in the doorway for a second too long, like he wanted to say something else. Then finally, he did.

"Do you regret it yet?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Saying yes. Signing your name right next to mine."

I looked down at my suitcase. My fingers curled around the handle.

"I don't know yet," I admitted.

He nodded once, like he'd expected that. "Good. Keeps things interesting."

"And you?" I asked, surprising both of us. "Do you regret choosing me?"

He cocked his head to the side, regarding me. "No. You're just the right amount of chaos I can handle."

I wasn't certain if it was a compliment or a threat.

He turned to leave but paused just before stepping out. "Dinner is at seven. You don't have to come down if you don't want to. But if you do, be prepared to play the part."

Then he left and I stood there alone once more. Only this time in a castle from which I couldn't escape.

With a man who could smash people without so much as a finger being lifted.

However, I had six months. Six months to remain sane. Six months to survive Malcolm Slade.

The second Malcolm disappeared down the hallway, the walls appeared to breathe out around me, but the air didn't calm.

I stood there another moment, staring at the place he'd been, like the gravity in the room had left with him. Like I was waiting for something I couldn't name to pull me back in.

Nothing did. Just the silence. Heavy and humming.

I turned the handle to the bedroom, not my bedroom, just the one assigned to me in this beautifully controlled prison and stepped inside.

Everything in the room was too perfect. The kind of pristine that looked like it had been touched by gloved hands and then immediately disinfected.

Cream linens. Polished floors. A vase of white orchids that felt more decorative than alive.

No photos. No clutter. No sign that a real person had ever inhabited this room.

I peeled off my shoes, letting them fall carelessly to the side, then crossed to the gilded mirror above the vanity. The face staring back at me looked. unfamiliar. Paler than usual. Eyes too wide, like I'd just stepped off a battlefield and hadn't yet realized the war had simply changed location.

I splashed cold water on my face and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, breath tight.

It's just a contract, I said to myself. You're not here to feel. And yet...

Malcolm's eyes had lingered in my mind like a secret waiting to be told. Quiet. Controlled. Unreadable. But behind all that-storm.

He was not a man who needed to scream to hurt you. He could unravel a person in a sentence. Or a silence.

But he had not unraveled me. Not yet.

By the time I made it back downstairs, night had fully fallen. The windows had turned to mirrors, and the house had shifted with the sky, dim lighting, soft jazz murmuring through the walls like the house was trying to seduce itself.

I followed the aroma of something delicious and expensive to the dining room. It was a magazine spread, minimalist, moody, and angular at the edges.

Malcolm was already seated at the other end of the large table, sleeves rolled up, collar loose, cradling a glass of something amber-colored as if it were conferring secrets with him. He looked up when I entered, eyes sweeping over me once, slow and leisurely.

"You clean up well," he remarked, his voice low and smooth like aged whiskey.

"I didn't realize there was a dress code for contract wives," I replied, slipping into the seat across from him.

"There's a code for everything in this house," he said to me. "You'll learn. Or burn."

A cook appeared almost soundlessly, this must be Anna, Malcolm mentioned earlier. Placing dishes in front of us.

Perfectly plated salmon, the kind of green puree on the side that looked more like a painting than food.

We ate in silence for a few beats, not awkward, just thick with something unspoken.

Then Malcolm's voice cut through the silence.

"Iris."

I looked up, fork midway to my mouth.

"This house," he said, "it'll feel like a cage. Beautiful, yes. But a cage nonetheless. And the worst thing? Sometimes you won't even see the bars until you're already straining against them."

I tilted my head, meeting his gaze without flinching. "That supposed to scare me?"

"No," he said. "Just don't say I didn't warn you."

I took a sip of wine, letting the stem of the glass rest lightly between my fingers. "I've been in cages before. This one just comes with better wallpaper."

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But something close. Something real.

"Good," he said. "Because tomorrow, we start performing. And in this world, there are no second takes."

He lifted his glass toward me. A subtle gesture. Measured.

I mirrored him slowly, the crystal catching the light.

"To what?" I asked.

His gaze locked with mine, cool and calm, but something darker coiled beneath.

"To survival," he said. "In whatever form it decides to take."

We clinked glasses.

And for the first time since I arrived, the silence didn't feel empty. It felt like a wire stretched tight between us, taut, humming, and one spark away from combustion.