Chapter 4

Alyssa York POV:

The date flickered in my mind, a ghost from the past that always managed to haunt me. October 26th. It was my birthday. Not that anyone in the Cole family remembered, or cared. Especially not Dayton. It had been three years since he' d forgotten, the same year he' d left me waiting alone at our anniversary dinner to rush to Kristin. The car crash, the scar on my wrist, the emotional wreckage-it all converged on this day. It was a painful echo of a love that had died a slow, agonizing death.

I remembered the year before the accident, my last happy birthday with Dayton. He' d surprised me with a weekend getaway to a secluded cabin, just the two of us. He' d cooked, poorly but with genuine effort, and we' d spent the night talking, truly talking, about our dreams for the future. He' d looked at me that night with an unguarded tenderness that had made my heart swell. He' d even written me a small, silly poem, tucked into a hand-carved wooden box. It was the only tangible proof of a time when I believed he might actually grow to love me. That box was now buried deep in a storage unit, a relic of a shattered fantasy.

And now, he wasn' t just forgetting my birthday; he was actively choosing Kristin. It was a betrayal that felt sharper, even after all this time, because it chipped away at the last vestiges of dignity I clung to.

I felt a surge of cold fury, mixed with an aching sadness, washing over me. It was a vicious cycle of remembering what I once had, realizing what I' d lost, and confronting the bitter truth of what I was left with.

Suddenly, the bedroom door creaked open. Dayton walked in, towel around his waist, dripping water onto the polished floor. He moved with a languid grace, his body toned and lean. He glanced around, his eyes searching. "Have you seen my dark blue tie? The one with the subtle silver stripe?"

My breath hitched. That was his favorite tie, the one I had picked out for him years ago, the one he wore for important meetings, and sometimes, for our rare, private dinners. I knew exactly where it was. It was always in the third drawer of his dresser, tucked beneath his crisp white shirts. It was a small, intimate detail, one of the many I still knew about him, even though I wished I didn't.

A pang of bittersweet memory pierced through me. I used to lay out his clothes, iron his shirts, fuss over his ties. It was a silent act of devotion, a way to show my love when words failed. He used to let me, sometimes even with a small, appreciative smile. Now, that familiarity felt like a wound.

"Third drawer," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Under the white shirts."

He paused, then pulled open the drawer, finding it instantly. "Right," he muttered, as if surprised. He turned, his eyes briefly meeting mine. "You're still here? I thought you'd be off to your... temporary sanctuary by now." His tone was dismissive, almost challenging.

"I have a meeting this morning," I explained, my voice tight. "And I wanted to discuss Donavon's proposal again. He truly believes Project Phoenix is viable, and it would greatly benefit the York side of the merger."

Dayton, now fully dressed, his dark suit immaculate, scoffed. "Donavon's 'proposals' are always viable in his own head. The man has a knack for grand ideas and disastrous execution. I told you, Alyssa, I'm not interested in sinking Cole capital into another one of his vanity projects." He adjusted his tie, his gaze hard.

"It's not a vanity project, Dayton," I countered, a flicker of irritation in my voice. "It's a genuine opportunity. And it' s important to my family. To the merger."

He turned fully to face me, his hands going into his pockets. "And what's important to my family, Alyssa, is that I don't waste resources on ventures that have a 90% chance of failing, just to appease your cousin. Our family's reputation is built on sound investments, not charity." He paused, a cruel glint entering his eyes. "Unless, of course, there's something else you can offer."

My jaw clenched. My heart pounded with a mix of fury and devastation. He was suggesting I use my marital status, my body even, to influence his decision. The implication was clear, and it was a direct hit to my already bruised dignity. A stinging heat rose in my cheeks. He truly saw me as nothing more than a tool, a means to an end, a public accessory. My entire being vibrated with a desperate urge to scream, to lash out, but years of practiced restraint held me captive.

"Dayton," I said, my voice trembling slightly despite my best efforts, "this isn't about... personal favors. It's about a sound business decision that could benefit us both."

He smirked, a cold, sardonic twist of his lips. "Is it? Or is it about protecting your family's image, ensuring your cousin gets a leg up, while I fund it? I see the bigger picture, Alyssa. And right now, Donavon's project isn't it." He paused, then tilted his head, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Unless... you want to sweeten the deal. I could be persuaded to look into it, for the sake of 'marital harmony' of course. But it would require a certain... level of cooperation from you. Not just publicly, but in private."

The suggestion hung in the air, thick and suffocating. He was openly implying a transaction. My body stiffened, a silent scream trapped in my throat. The pain was so sharp, so sudden, it almost took my breath away. He was using our supposed reconciliation, the very thing I had agreed to for the sake of our families, as leverage against me. It was a fresh betrayal, colder and more calculated than any before.

"What do you want?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper, the words tasting like ash.

He smiled, a slow, deliberate smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Just a few more evenings of... shared space. Here. At the mansion. As the devoted couple. To truly sell the illusion. If you can manage that, I'll consider Donavon's project. A small price to pay for your family's advancement, wouldn't you say?"

I stared at him, my mind reeling. To share a bed with him? To pretend intimacy when my heart was screaming in protest? It was a cruel demand. But Donavon, my family... I was trapped. "Fine," I bit out, the word tasting like defeat. "I'll do it."

He nodded, a flicker of something triumphant in his eyes. "Excellent. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting." He turned, heading for the door.

I took a step, a sudden dizziness washing over me. My legs felt weak, my head light. I stumbled, catching myself on the edge of the dresser, a sharp pain shooting through my already bruised wrist. My body, usually so controlled, felt fragile, on the verge of collapsing.

He turned back, his gaze narrowing on my pale face, my slightly disheveled hair, the raw vulnerability etched on my features. My silk blouse, slightly askew, revealed the faint scar on my collarbone from that night three years ago. For a fleeting moment, a shadow passed over his eyes, a flicker of something akin to concern, or perhaps just surprise at my uncharacteristic display of weakness.

He moved quickly, his hand reaching out, not to catch me fully, but to steady my arm. His touch, though brief, sent a jolt through me, a ghost of the intimacy we once shared. "Are you alright, Alyssa?" His voice was low, almost detached, but the question was there.

I pulled my arm away, regaining my balance. "I'm fine," I said, my voice a little rougher than I intended. "Just a little dizzy."

He watched me, his eyes unreadable. "You're living here now, aren't you?" It was a statement, not a question.

"For the next three months, yes," I confirmed, my gaze steady. "As per our agreement."

He studied me for another moment, then a ghost of a smile touched his lips, a sardonic twist. "I remember you used to prefer the guest room on the west wing. Always said the morning sun was too bright in the master." He paused, his eyes glinting. "Perhaps we should maintain the illusion fully, then? For Grandfather, for the cameras, for the sake of our families. Wouldn't want anyone to suspect our... arrangement."

My stomach dropped. He was suggesting we sleep in the same bed. My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate for escape. "Dayton, that's not necessary," I protested, my voice weak.

"Oh, but it is," he countered smoothly, his eyes cold. "What better way to show a 'united front' than to be seen entering and leaving the same bedroom? And besides, it's just for three months. A temporary inconvenience for a significant gain, wouldn't you agree?" He strode past me, heading for the door. "Unless you're afraid, Alyssa?" His words were a taunt, a cruel challenge.

I swallowed, my pride, my dignity, warring with my desperate need to secure my freedom and protect my family. "I'm not afraid," I lied, the words tasting like ash.

"Good," he said, turning the doorknob. "Then I expect to see you in the master bedroom tonight. Don't disappoint me." He walked out, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me in the chilling silence.

I stood there, trembling, the weight of his demand pressing down on me. To share a bed with the man who had systematically broken my heart, the man who still held another woman's hand with such tenderness, was a torment I hadn't anticipated. It was a cruel game, one he played with effortless precision.

That night, the bed felt vast, cold, and impossibly empty, even with Dayton beside me. He lay on his side, his back to me, the only sound his steady breathing. I lay stiff and still, staring at the ceiling, every nerve ending screaming in protest. It was a suffocating proximity, a physical manifestation of the emotional distance between us.

"You're awfully quiet tonight, Alyssa," his voice cut through the silence, making me jump. He hadn't moved, his back still to me. "Thinking about your next architectural masterpiece? Or perhaps your valiant efforts to secure your cousin's failing venture?" His tone was laced with a familiar, cutting sarcasm.

My heart ached. He always knew how to twist the knife. "Just thinking about how exhausting this all is," I replied truthfully, my voice flat. "The charade. The expectations. It's draining."

"Oh, you think this is draining?" he scoffed, a dry, bitter laugh. "Try living with the constant pressure of a multi-billion dollar empire, managing a public image that's always under scrutiny, while also trying to protect those you care about." He didn't elaborate, but I knew he was talking about Kristin. Always Kristin.

My eyes burned, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of tears. I closed them, willing myself to sleep, to escape the suffocating presence beside me. I pretended to be asleep, my breathing slow and even. It felt like hours before I finally drifted off, a fragile sleep haunted by fragmented memories and unspoken pain.

In the deepest hours of the night, I felt a shift beside me, a subtle movement that pulled me from my uneasy slumber. A gentle warmth spread over my shoulder, then a soft brush against my hair. I instinctively flinched, my eyes snapping open just in time to see Dayton' s hand retreat, his body shifting back to his side of the bed. He was awake, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He hadn't touched me, not truly. But the ghost of his presence lingered.

I lay there, heart pounding, unsure if I had imagined the brief, almost imperceptible touch. Was it curiosity? Or something else? I held my breath, waiting, but he remained still, a silent, unreadable presence beside me.

I woke with a start, the room bathed in the pale light of dawn. The other side of the bed was empty, the sheets cool beside me. He was gone. A familiar emptiness, a reminder of our disconnected lives, settled in my chest.

I reached for my phone, a habit born of loneliness. A quick scroll through social media. Kristin Goodwin had posted just an hour ago: a selfie, her face pale but serene, a faint smile playing on her lips. The caption: "Early morning calm. So grateful for quiet strength in tumultuous times."

My stomach clenched. He was with her. Again. The "quiet strength" was him. And I was left in the empty bed, the dutiful wife, waiting for my three months of freedom to tick by. The cold realization settled deep in my bones. This wasn't just a charade for the public. It was a charade for me. And I was tired of pretending.