CHAPTER 2
1977 Words
The penthouse was too quiet.
Elena lay awake in the guest bedroom, eyes fixed on the ceiling, her thoughts louder than any city noise seeping through the windows. Every sound in this place was intentional: the whisper of the air vents, the click of the elevator in the distance, the faint hum of security systems buried beneath the marble and glass.
Julian Crane didn’t live in a home. He lived in a fortress.
It was 2:07 a.m., and sleep refused to come. Her brain wouldn’t shut off—not with the contract signed, the press tour initiated, and her new “husband” sleeping down the hall like this wasn’t a meticulously orchestrated train wreck.
She threw off the sheets and padded into the kitchen in bare feet and silk. The penthouse was dark, lit only by the glow of the skyline spilling in through the windows.
She found a bottle of wine and a glass that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe now. As she poured, the sound of footsteps stopped her cold.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Julian’s voice came from behind her, smooth and velvet-soft.
She didn’t turn. “Didn’t realize this place had ghosts.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” he said, stepping closer. “Only consequences.”
She finally faced him.
He was shirtless, in charcoal lounge pants, his hair slightly mussed—looking more human than he ever did in suits. A scar ran just below his left collarbone, faint but unmistakable.
“What happened there?” she asked before she could stop herself.
He looked down briefly, then shrugged. “Private school brawl. The kid thought I stole his girlfriend.”
“Did you?”
A faint smirk tugged at the edge of his lips. “Yes.”
Elena couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. “Of course you did.”
He moved toward the wine and poured his own glass. “So. First night of being Mrs. Crane. Thoughts?”
She sipped. “You snore.”
“I do not.”
“Loudly.”
“Liar.”
She smiled—small, real—and instantly hated that it happened. I hated that it felt easy.
They stood in silence for a moment, the air between them laced with tension that wasn’t just annoyance anymore.
“You never asked me why I offered the deal,” Julian said suddenly.
“I figured the answer didn’t matter,” she replied, watching him closely.
“Maybe not. But it’s not revenge, Elena.”
“Then what is it?”
He stared out at the city, glass in hand. “I needed a wife. One the media would admire, the board would approve of, and the public would love. Sofia... was never that. But you? You’re everything they want to see. Beautiful. Polished. Scandal-ridden but still sympathetic.”
Elena stiffened. “So I’m a brand asset.”
“You’re a partner. If you want to be.”
She raised a brow. “A partner who lives in a guest room?”
Julian met her gaze without flinching. “That part is up to you.”
The room grew warmer somehow. The tension is more fragile.
She looked away. “I won’t be your puppet.”
He stepped closer. “Good. I don’t want a puppet.”
She tilted her chin defiantly. “Then what do you want, Julian?”
He stared at her for a long moment. “I want someone who can match me move for move. Someone who can burn if I burn. And smile when I win.”
“That sounds like a threat,” she whispered.
“No,” he said softly. “That sounds like a warning.”
The Next Morning – Crane Enterprises
Elena walked into the boardroom wearing a white silk blouse tucked into high-waisted navy slacks, her long brown hair twisted into a low knot at her nape. Every head turned.
Julian had sent a car to pick her up. There was already a seat beside him. She sat without a word, unfolding the briefing file like she had been doing this for years.
He glanced at her from the side.
Composed. Brilliant. Dangerous in a way that thrilled him.
“Everyone, this is my fiancée, Elena Crane,” he said calmly.
A few eyebrows lifted. A few smiles were forced. One woman, seated near the far end—tall, elegant, and cold—let her red lips twitch into something that wasn’t quite amusing.
“Elena,” Julian added, “this is Sofia Marquette. My former business partner.”
Sofia extended a hand. Her manicured nails were like claws.
“So nice to finally meet the woman who so... quickly replaced me.”
Elena smiled coolly and shook it. “You must be thrilled.”
Julian’s lips twitched.
The meeting began, and as the numbers rolled across the screen, Elena found herself matching Julian’s pace, absorbing figures, asking intelligent questions, holding her own. She didn’t miss the way several board members exchanged glances—impressed. And wary.
When the meeting ended, Sofia lingered behind, sipping espresso as the room cleared.
“You’re smart,” she said to Elena. “I can see why he chose you. You’re prettier than I expected, too.”
Elena didn’t rise to the bait. “And you’re more venomous than I imagined.”
Sofia’s smile widened. “Careful, darling. Not all snakes rattle before they strike.”
Elena’s smile was cold. “And not all wives play fair.”
That Evening – Crane Penthouse
“You impressed them,” Julian said as the door shut behind them. He loosened his tie and dropped his briefcase on the console table near the entrance. “Even Sofia looked like she wanted to peel off her own skin.”
Elena slipped off her heels, flexing her sore feet. “Glad I could add entertainment to your hostile boardroom takeover.”
Julian chuckled—low, amused, and genuine. She hated how much she liked that sound.
He turned to her, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “You played your role well.”
“I wasn’t playing,” she said. “You wanted a partner. I delivered.”
His eyes darkened with something unreadable. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Good,” she replied, walking past him. “I’d hate to be predictable.”
She poured herself a glass of water in the kitchen and tried not to notice how he was still watching her like she was a particularly complex chess piece.
“I got a call from Vogue,” Julian said. “They want to do a feature on us. Couple of the year, apparently.”
Elena blinked. “You’re kidding.”
“Dead serious. Photoshoot. Interview. Full spread.”
“And you said...?”
“That it depends on your schedule.”
She turned, stunned. “You gave me the choice?”
He shrugged. “You’re part of the deal. It’s only fair.”
Fair. From Julian Crane. That was almost laughable.
“I’ll do it,” she said after a pause. “But I chose the photographer.”
Julian smirked. “Fine. Pick anyone you want. Just no black-and-white moody ex-boyfriends who still write poetry about you.”
Elena gave a tight smile. “Don’t worry. I buried all those.”
Later That Night – Her Bedroom
She lay in bed staring at the ceiling again, the Vogue request swimming in her mind.
A feature.
Their engagement would be printed, photographed, and analyzed by half the world. Every smile curated. Every glance dissected. And somewhere in between the fake interviews and glossy spreads, people would start to believe the lie.
She wasn’t sure what scared her more—that the world might believe it… or that she might start to as well.
Her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.
“You’re playing with fire, Elena. He’ll burn you alive.”
No name. No context. Just the icy chill of warning.
Her breath caught. Was it Sofia? Someone else from the past? A bitter ex of Julian’s?
She typed back quickly.
“Who is this?”
No reply.
She stared at the screen long after it went dark, a creeping sense of unease tightening in her chest.
The Next Morning – Private Gym, Crane Tower
Julian was already there when she arrived, shirt clinging to his chest with sweat, focused and silent as he drove his fists into the boxing bag. She stood at the edge of the room for a moment, watching him move.
Controlled. Ruthless. Relentless.
The man fought like he had demons to kill.
When he noticed her, he didn’t stop. “Come to critique my form?”
“Came to ask if you have any stalkers I should be worried about.”
That got his attention. He let the bag swing and turned toward her.
“Why?”
She tossed her phone to him. He read the message, eyes narrowing.
“Blocked number?”
She nodded. “No name. No other messages.”
Julian handed it back. “Could be a troll. You’re trending now. People get obsessive.”
“But you don’t think it’s random,” she said, studying him.
“I think everything is calculated,” he replied coolly. “Especially threats.”
She crossed her arms. “So what’s the plan? Ignore it?”
He walked toward her, grabbing a towel and wiping his face. “No. I’ll handle it.”
“How?”
“I have people.”
“That’s not comforting.”
He smiled darkly. “It wasn’t meant to be.”
That Afternoon – Photoshoot Prep
The Vogue shoot took place in a luxury loft in Tribeca, with towering windows and stylists buzzing like bees around honey. Elena wore a crimson backless gown for the first round of shots, her skin glowing under soft lights, her expression regal.
Julian arrived in a tux, casual and infuriatingly calm, greeting the photographers like royalty. He adjusted his cufflinks as if the entire setup bored him.
The moment they stood beside each other, the room shifted.
The camera loved them. The tension. The elegance. The way he leaned in just enough, and she tilted her head just right. They looked devastating together.
But in between shots, his hand lingered on her waist just a second too long. Her gaze flicked up to his, and the flashbulbs fired—capturing something that wasn’t in the script.
Desire.
Real. Raw. Rising like smoke between them.
“You’re good at this,” she whispered.
“I’m good at everything,” he murmured back, his voice a breath against her ear.
Back at the Penthouse – That Night
She sat on the edge of the bed again, exhausted from the shoot, her body sore from posing, her nerves raw from pretending.
Julian entered her room without knocking. He carried a manila envelope and handed it to her.
“What’s this?” she asked, already opening it.
“Everything we have on the number that messaged you. The phone was a burner. Last pinged near the Upper West Side. Could be someone watching you.”
She stared at the file. “So what now?”
“Now,” he said, “you sleep in my room.”
Her eyes lifted sharply. “Excuse me?”
“It’s not safe. And the cameras don’t cover the guest hallway. You’ll stay in mine.”
“And you’ll stay where?”
He looked amused. “With you.”
She stood. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“Neither were death threats,” he said smoothly. “But here we are.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not afraid of you, Julian.”
“You should be,” he said softly. “But not for the reasons you think.”
- Writer
