Chapter 4
1211 Words
The wedding was over. The crowd was gone. The cameras are off.
Now it was just her and Alexander, alone in the silence of their shared penthouse—bound by a contract.
She kicked off her heels and dropped her clutch on the marble floor. “Don’t expect me to play the obedient wife now that the lights are off.”
Alexander, still loosening his ties, looked at her “You barely played her when the lights were on.”
She whirled around, eyes blazing. “Excuse me?”
He walked past her with practiced calm, removed his watch, and set it on the dresser. “You spent the reception glaring at me like I stole your puppy.”
“You stole my life,” she snapped.
“I saved your company,” he said
“ is this how you thank your savior, ”
Savior my foot
“You bought my silence.”
He paused.
then Looked at her with, gaze sharp. “You signed the contract.”
“I signed to save my father,” she shot back. “Not to be locked in a cage with the devil himself.”
He moved closer, but his voice remained steady. “Then stop acting surprised you’re in hell.”
She clenched my jaw, but he stepped even closer—close enough that she had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes.
“You think this is a battle you can win, don’t you?” she whispered.
He smiled faintly. “It already is a battle. The moment you walked down that aisle and refused to look at me, I knew what this would be.”
Their tension pulsed like a drumbeat.
“You may own the ring, shawn… but you’ll never own me.”
His eyes dropped to her lips before meeting hers again. “I don’t need to own you, Isabella. I just need you to stay. Play your part. Hold my hand when needed. And don’t set the apartment on fire.”
She scoffed. “You wish I’d be that predictable.” I wont set the apartment on fire
“it is so beautiful”
He smiled
“you noticed I thought you wouldn't”
She laughed who wouldn't notice such magnificent penthouse
“but that doesn't mean I can't set another thing on fire,”
He looked at her “like what”
She smiled broadly and walked up to him slowly “you, I will set you on fire boom”
They stood there in silence, staring at each other, eyes blue and brown, the air charged, their bodies too close and their hearts too stubborn.
She could feel it—under the anger, beneath the sarcasm. A spark. A curiosity. An itch she refused to scratch.
“I want the guest room,” she broke the silence.
“You’ll take the suite across the hall.”
“Why not let me sleep on the roof? I’m sure it’s quieter than you.”
He chuckled. “You’d throw yourself off after one night.”
“No,” she said, brushing past him. “I’d throw you.”
As she disappeared down the hallway, Alexander stared after her, loosening his tie completely now.
She was impossible. Infuriating. A storm in heels.
And God help him... he was starting to enjoy the storm.
That night, two people slept in two separate rooms.
Both restless.
Both pretending they weren’t listening for the other’s footsteps.
Both pretending they didn’t feel the heat building under all that ice.
The battle had only just begun.
And neither planned to surrender.
The first full day of married life in the Shawn penthouse began with the scent of freshly brewed coffee, soft jazz playing in the background, and a kitchen that looked magnificent.
But the air was laced with war.
Isabella walked into the dining room in pink pajamas and a matching robe—her head held high, eyes tired but defiant. She stopped short when she saw Alexander at the table, reading the paper with one hand, sipping his espresso with the other.
“Morning, wife,” he said without looking up.
“Don’t call me that like we’re the latest love couple in the city,” she muttered, grabbing a mug.
“I thought I’d start using the titles we paid for,” he replied dryly.
She poured her coffee, took one sip, and gagged.
“What the hell? did you switch the sugar for salt?” she demanded.
He finally looked at her with a perfectly neutral expression. “I believe in surprises.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re predictable,” he said. “Which is why I locked the wardrobe in the guest suite last night.”
Her eyes widened. “You didn’t.”
“I did.” He turned a page of the newspaper casually. “Your closet privileges are revoked until further notice.”
“You are a psychotic asshole.”
“And you, Mrs. Shawn,” he said coolly, “are behind this performance. No smiling, no hand-holding. The press is going to think I married a statue.”
She smiled sweetly. “Would you prefer I pretend to adore you? Shall I call you ‘darling’ honey or baby and kiss your cheek in public?”
“is that want you want, p*****t.
“If you can manage it without gagging, yes.”
She leaned down, placing her hands on the table and lowering her voice to a hiss. “You want performance? Fine. Just remember—I’m better at playing games than you are.”
Later that day, Alexander received a call from his personal driver.
“Sir… your schedule for today has been changed.”
“What?”
“Mrs. Shawn canceled your investor brunch… and sent them a spa voucher in your name.”
He stood abruptly. “She did what?”
From the hallway, Isabella’s voice echoed with innocent delight:
“Oh, Alex? I thought you needed a little self-care.”
That evening, Alexander responded in kind.
Isabella’s skincare fridge—full of luxury creams and rare serums—had mysteriously gone missing.
Replaced with a post-it:
“I believe in minimalism. You’re welcome. —A”
She was so angry,
She stormed into his study. “Return my products or I swear I’ll replace all your passwords with kpop songs.”
He looked up slowly. “Try it, and your favorite designer will suddenly ‘lose’ your next custom gown order.”
They stared at each other.
Chest heaving. Smirks twitching. Neither backing down.
Then—softly, annoyingly—he said, “We’re not even one week in.”
“Exactly,” she said. “And I already want to strangle you with a rope.”
His smile was maddening. “Then we’re right on track.”
That night, they slept in separate rooms again.
And neither one admitted they left their doors slightly ajar. Just in case.
To outsiders, they were picture perfect.
But behind those doors?
It was a daily, petty battlefield of who would c***k first.
Yet underneath the gam
es, beneath the control and coldness…
They were getting under each other’s skin.
Not with passion.
Not yet.
But with something even more dangerous:
Fascination
- Writer
