Purchased Vows

Chapter 4: The Distance

The morning after the gala, I woke up with a headache and a heart that wouldn't stop racing.

I'd dreamed about him. About Marcus. About his hands on my waist, his lips close to my ear, the way he'd looked at me during that dance like I was the only person in the room.

It was just a dream. Just my mind playing tricks on me.

But when I went downstairs for breakfast, he was there. Sitting at the kitchen island, reading the newspaper, a cup of coffee steaming beside him. He looked... normal. Human. Not the cold, distant man from last night.

"Morning," I said, my voice still sleep-rough.

He didn't look up. "Morning."

I poured myself coffee, the silence stretching between us like a chasm. Last night, we'd been a team. We'd been in sync. But now, in the harsh light of day, we were strangers again.

"About last night," I started, not sure what I wanted to say.

"What about it?" He finally looked up, and his eyes were guarded. "You did your job. That's all."

The words stung, but I forced myself to nod. "Right. Just doing my job."

"Good. Keep it that way." He folded the newspaper and stood, his movements sharp, almost angry. "I have meetings today. Don't expect me for dinner."

"Okay." I watched him leave, his broad shoulders tense, and something twisted in my chest. Why did I care? Why did it matter if he was cold to me? This was the arrangement. This was what I'd signed up for.

But it didn't stop the ache.

I spent the day trying to distract myself. I called Mom, lying through my teeth about how happy I was, how perfect my new life was. I texted Sarah, who was still worried about me, still trying to convince me to leave.

*I'm fine*, I texted. *Everything's fine.*

But it wasn't. Because every time I thought about last night, about the way Marcus had touched me, the way he'd looked at me, my body reacted. My heart raced. My skin heated.

I was attracted to him. Dangerously attracted.

And that was a problem.

The next few days passed in a pattern. Marcus would leave early, come home late, avoid me completely. When we did see each other—usually at events or business functions—he was the perfect husband. Warm, attentive, charming. But the moment we were alone, the walls went back up.

It was driving me insane.

On Friday, I found him in his study, working late. The door was open, and I could see him at his desk, his head in his hands, looking exhausted.

"Marcus?" I knocked softly.

He looked up, and for a moment, I saw something raw in his expression. Something vulnerable. But then it was gone, replaced by that cold mask.

"What do you want?"

"I..." I didn't know what I wanted. I just wanted to talk. To understand him. To break through those walls. "I wanted to see if you were okay. You've been working a lot."

"I'm fine." He turned back to his computer. "Go to bed, Olivia."

"Marcus—"

"Go. To. Bed." His voice was sharp, final. "I don't need your concern. I don't need your... anything. Just do your job and leave me alone."

The words hit like a physical blow. I backed away, my throat tight, and closed the door behind me. But as I walked down the hall, I heard something. A sound that made me stop.

A glass breaking. And then, softer, a curse.

I almost went back. Almost knocked on the door again. But I didn't. Because he'd made it clear he didn't want me there.

Saturday brought another event—a charity auction at a museum. Marcus picked me up in the car, and the silence between us was heavy, suffocating.

"You look nice," he said finally, his eyes on the window, not on me.

"Thanks." I was wearing a black dress, simple but elegant. "You too."

He didn't respond. Just kept staring out the window, his jaw tight.

At the event, we fell into our roles automatically. Marcus's hand on my back, my smile, our practiced banter. We were good at this now. Too good. It felt natural. Real.

Too real.

During the auction, Marcus bid on a painting—an abstract piece that looked like chaos and color. When he won, the auctioneer announced his name, and the whole room turned to look at us.

"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Sterling," someone said, and Marcus's arm tightened around my waist.

"Thank you," he said, his voice warm, his smile genuine. But I could feel the tension in his body, the way he was holding himself rigid.

After the event, in the car on the way home, the silence returned. But this time, it felt different. Charged. Like something was about to break.

"Why did you bid on that painting?" I asked, breaking the silence.

He didn't look at me. "I liked it."

"Did you? Or did you just want to look generous?"

His head snapped toward me, his eyes flashing. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. I just..." I trailed off, not sure what I was trying to say. "I just wonder if any of this is real. If any of what you do is real, or if it's all just for show."

"Everything is for show, Olivia. That's the point." His voice was cold, but I heard something underneath. Pain, maybe. "I thought you understood that."

"I do. I just..." I looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the exhaustion in his eyes, the weight he was carrying. "I just wonder if you're okay. If you're happy."

"Happy?" He laughed, but it was bitter. "Happiness is a luxury I can't afford. And neither can you. Not in this arrangement."

"But—"

"Stop." He cut me off, his voice sharp. "Stop trying to get to know me. Stop trying to care. This is a transaction. Nothing more. Don't make it complicated."

"But it is complicated," I said, my voice rising. "Because I'm a person, Marcus. I have feelings. And you—you're not a robot. I see it. I see the way you look at me sometimes, like you want to say something but you don't. I see the way you touch me, like you actually feel something."

His expression shuttered, and I knew I'd gone too far. "You're imagining things."

"Am I?" I leaned closer, and I saw his eyes drop to my lips. "Because right now, you're looking at me like you want to kiss me."

He froze. For a long moment, we just stared at each other, the air between us thick with tension. I could see the war in his eyes—want versus control. Need versus distance.

And then he pulled away, turning back to the window.

"You're wrong," he said, his voice flat. "I don't want anything from you except what you're being paid to give. Don't mistake performance for reality, Olivia. Don't make that mistake."

The car pulled up to the house, and he got out without another word, leaving me sitting there, my heart racing, my body aching with something I couldn't name.

I was wrong. I had to be wrong.

But as I watched him disappear into the house, his shoulders tense, his steps quick, I realized something that made my stomach drop:

I wasn't imagining the attraction between us.

And that made everything so much worse.

Because if he felt it too, if there was something real between us, then this wasn't just a transaction anymore.

It was a disaster waiting to happen.