CHAPTER 2 ;Saparate Room
803 Words
Separate Rooms
The first night of my marriage ended with a closed door.
Adrian didn’t walk me to bed.
He didn’t say goodnight.
He didn’t even look back.
Instead, he stopped in the hallway and pointed to a door on the left.
“That’s your room.”
My room.
Not ours.
The word shouldn’t have bothered me.
But it did.
I forced a small smile. “And yours?”
He gestured to the door at the far end of the hall.
“Opposite side.”
Of course.
Maximum distance.
Very professional.
Very cold.
Very him.
The bedroom was beautiful.
Soft gold lights.
Floor-to-ceiling windows.
Silk sheets.
Everything expensive.
Everything untouched.
I stood in the middle of the room and let out a quiet breath.
This wasn’t a marriage.
It was a performance.
And tomorrow, the audience would arrive.
The next morning, I woke up to a knock.
“Mrs. Vale,” a maid said politely. “Sir asked that you be ready by ten.”
“For what?” I asked.
“Press conference.”
My heart skipped.
Press?
Already?
I quickly got dressed. A fitted cream dress was laid out for me — clearly chosen by someone who understood Adrian’s image.
Elegant.
Classy.
Controlled.
Just like the brand of his empire.
When I entered the dining room, he was already seated at the head of the long table, reading financial reports.
He didn’t look up immediately.
He noticed everything, but he pretended not to.
“Sit,” he said calmly.
I sat across from him.
The table was long enough to fit twenty people.
But only two of us were there.
Breakfast felt like a business meeting.
Finally, he looked at me.
“There will be questions today.”
“I assumed.”
“They will ask how we met.”
“Then tell me,” I said smoothly. “How did we fall in love?”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“We met at a charity gala. You were unimpressed by my money.”
I almost smiled.
“That’s unrealistic.”
“It’s believable,” he corrected.
Ah.
Everything with him was calculated.
He continued, “You value privacy. You dislike media attention. You agreed to marry me after a year of dating.”
A year.
Interesting.
“So we were in love for twelve months?” I asked.
His eyes met mine fully this time.
“No,” he said evenly. “We were convincing.”
The honesty in that sentence hit differently.
The press conference was chaos.
Flashing cameras.
Microphones.
Questions flying from every direction.
“Mr. Vale! When did you propose?”
“Mrs. Vale! Did you sign a prenuptial agreement?”
“Is this marriage connected to the inheritance clause?”
My heart dropped.
Inheritance clause?
I turned slightly toward Adrian.
His hand suddenly wrapped around mine.
Firm.
Warm.
Unexpected.
He leaned closer, his voice low enough only I could hear.
“Smile.”
And I did.
Not because I wanted to.
But because survival has always required performance.
He faced the reporters.
“My wife and I prefer to keep certain matters private,” he said smoothly. “But yes, I am the luckier one.”
The crowd reacted instantly.
Cameras zoomed in.
They loved that answer.
They loved the image.
The perfect billionaire husband.
The calm, graceful wife.
If only they knew we barely knew each other.
Later that evening, back at the mansion, I pulled my hand away from his the second the doors closed.
“Inheritance clause?” I asked quietly.
He loosened his tie.
“My grandfather’s will requires marriage for ownership transfer.”
So that was it.
Not romance.
Not destiny.
A condition.
“And I’m just… a requirement?” I asked.
His expression didn’t soften.
“You’re compensated.”
That word stung more than I expected.
Compensated.
Like an employee.
Like a service.
Like something rented.
I stepped closer.
“Tell me something, Mr. Vale… if I’m just part of your business strategy, what happens if I decide not to cooperate?”
For the first time, something sharp flickered in his eyes.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Challenge.
“You won’t,” he said confidently.
“And why are you so sure?”
He stepped closer now.
Close enough that I could feel the tension between us.
“Because you need this marriage just as much as I do.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
He wasn’t wrong.
And that made it worse.
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
I told myself this was temporary.
One year.
No feelings.
No attachment.
But as I replayed the moment his hand held mine in front of the cameras…
I hated how safe it felt.
And that scared me.
Because the most dangerous thing about contract marriages…
Is forgetting that they’re contracts.
- Writer
