My Fiancée Married My Sister

Chapter 16

The black car Noah sent pulled up to a sleek high-rise building that looked more like a sculpture than a home. I stepped out with one suitcase and a garment bag holding my favorite sketches and fabrics. The doorman nodded politely and led me to a private elevator. My heart beat steadily but loud as the floors climbed. This was real now. Moving into Noah Sinclair’s world for the next six months.

The doors opened directly into the penthouse. The space took my breath for a second. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the city sparkling below like scattered jewels. Marble floors. Clean lines. Expensive furniture arranged perfectly. It was obscenely beautiful, but cold. Like a museum after closing time. No personal touches. No photos. No warmth. Just perfect, empty elegance.

Noah stood near the windows, hands in his pockets. Dark shirt. Tailored pants. He looked like he belonged here in a way that made the space feel even more his. He turned when I stepped in.

“Jasmine. Welcome. Let me show you around.”

His voice was calm. Controlled. I followed him through the main living area. The kitchen looked like it had never been used for anything messy. Stainless steel. Marble counters. A dining table that could seat twelve but probably never did. Everything felt staged. Beautiful but distant.

He led me down a wide hallway to the right. “This is your wing. Full apartment. Private entrance from the main space if needed, but you have your own keycard for privacy.”

He opened double doors. The guest suite was bigger than Diana’s entire apartment. A living room with a deep couch and chairs. A bedroom with a king bed dressed in crisp white linens. A walk-in closet already empty and waiting. A bathroom with a soaking tub and a separate shower that looked like it belonged in a spa. Windows overlooked the city in three directions.

“You can change anything,” Noah said. “Furniture. Colors. Art. Whatever makes it comfortable. My team can handle delivery within a day.”

I set my suitcase down and looked around the space. It was perfect. Luxurious. Cold. Like the rest of the penthouse. “I won’t be here long enough to redecorate.”

He stood in the doorway watching me. “Six months is long enough to need a comfortable chair. At least consider it. I want you to be able to work here without feeling like a guest in a hotel.”

The words carried a small note of something almost warm. Almost. Not quite. I ran my hand along the back of a chair near the window. “I have my own style. Bold lines. Fabrics that feel alive. This place feels like it was designed to impress, not to live in. But I will think about the chair.”

Noah nodded once. “The kitchen is fully stocked. The cleaning service comes twice a week unless you prefer otherwise. Your studio space is through that door. I had them set up basic equipment based on what I saw in your portfolio. If you need anything specific, tell Lena. She handles details.”

I walked to the studio door and opened it. Inside was a large work table, good lighting, fabric samples on a rack, a mannequin in the corner, and sketch pads and pencils arranged neatly. It was thoughtful. Professional. Not personal, but clearly prepared.

“You did this for me?” I asked, turning back to him.

“It benefits both of us if you can create while you are here,” he replied. “Your work is part of the arrangement. I expect you to use the time well.”

We moved back to the main living area. He showed me the main kitchen again. The gym. The terrace with outdoor seating that overlooked the skyline. Every space felt expensive and untouched. Like no one really lived here. Just passed through.

I stopped by the windows in the living room. The city stretched out below us. “This place is incredible. But it feels lonely. No photos. No books left open. No evidence that someone actually lives here beyond sleeping and working.”

Noah stood beside me, hands in his pockets again. “Objects accumulate meaning. I prefer things to be clean. Easier to think. Easier to move when needed.”

I turned to look at him. “That sounds exhausting. Living in a space that never quite feels like home. I grew up in a house full of noise and comparisons. Messy in its own way. But it had life. This feels like a beautiful cage.”

A small pause. He did not disagree. “You are free to add life to your wing. Within reason. The arrangement requires the overall space to look cohesive for visitors.”

I nodded. “I understand. Public image. We need to sell the story. But in private, I will make my space feel like mine. Some color. Some fabric swatches on the walls. Things that remind me why I am doing this.”

We stood by the windows a moment longer. The sun was setting, painting the sky in deep oranges and purples. The first real moment of almost-warmth passed between us. Not friendship. Not attraction. Just two people acknowledging the strange situation we had entered together.

Noah broke the silence. “Dinner tonight? Nothing formal. Just to start the genuine time requirement. We can discuss schedules, boundaries, and how this works day to day.”

I felt the tension return. “Tonight? I thought I would have a day to settle.”

“Best to begin as we mean to continue,” he said. “Seven o’clock. I will have something simple prepared. No pressure. Just conversation.”

I agreed and retreated to my wing. The door closed behind me with a soft click. I sat on the edge of the big bed and looked around. Luxurious. Private. Mine for six months. But it still felt like stepping into someone else’s life.

I unpacked slowly. Hanging my clothes in the empty closet. Setting my sketch pads on the studio table. Placing a small photo of Diana and me from design school days on the nightstand. The only personal touch so far. It helped a little. Made the space feel less like a hotel room.

At six forty-five I changed into comfortable but nice clothes. Soft sweater. Tailored pants. Nothing too formal. I wanted to feel like myself, not a character in this arrangement. When I stepped into the main living area at seven, Noah was already there. Sleeves rolled up. Two plates set at the dining table. Simple grilled fish, vegetables, and rice. Nothing flashy.

He pulled out a chair for me. “I hope this is okay. I kept it light.”

“It is fine,” I said, sitting down. “Thank you.”

We ate in silence for the first few minutes. The food was good. Perfectly seasoned. But the quiet felt loaded. I finally spoke.

“So how does this work? The genuine time part. What does your grandmother expect to see?”

Noah set his fork down. “Eleanor is sharp. She raised me. She knows when something is a performance. We need to be able to talk about real things. Interests. Backgrounds. Enough that it feels natural if she asks questions.”

I nodded. “I can do that. But I have limits. I will not discuss my family situation in detail. Not yet. The betrayal. The pregnancy. The way my mother asked me to step aside. That stays private for now.”

“Understood,” he replied. “I will not push. My side is simpler. My parents died when I was fourteen. Eleanor took over. I built everything from there. Security was never guaranteed, so I made my own.”

The words carried weight. I saw a glimpse of the boy who lost everything and decided never to be vulnerable again. “That explains the cold office. The clean spaces. You built walls the same way I built gowns. Carefully. To protect what matters.”

He looked at me for a long moment. “Perhaps. Tell me about your designs. The capsule collection you mentioned. What drives it?”

I talked for a while, describing the frustration of clothes that never fit right when I was younger, the comments from my mother about shrinking, and the joy of finding fabrics that moved with curves instead of against them. Noah listened. Asked questions. Real ones. About construction. About customer pain points. About how I wanted to scale it.

The conversation flowed more easily than I expected. Not forced. Not completely comfortable yet. But present. Genuine enough for the requirement.

By the end of dinner, I felt exhausted but clearer. “Thank you for the meal…. And for listening. This is strange, but I think we can make the six months work.”

Noah stood and cleared the plates himself. “We will. Tomorrow I will show you the full building amenities. Gym. Pool. Whatever you need. Settle in tonight. Change whatever you want in your space.”

I returned to my wing and closed the door. The big bed felt too large. The city lights twinkled outside the windows. I sat at the studio table and sketched for a while.

Six months. Dinners like tonight. Conversations that would slowly reveal more of each other. A man who saw my talent when others had not. A deal that could give me back my work and launch my own vision.

I looked around the beautiful, cold space and whispered to myself, “I will make this feel like mine. For however long I am here.”

The first night in Noah Sinclair’s penthouse stretched ahead. Strange, tense, and full of possibility I could not quite name yet.