The First Night
874 Words
The mansion wasn’t just a house—it was an empire in stone and glass. Standing before it, Lily felt like an imposter. Massive gates had opened silently for her, and now she stood on the marble front steps with her suitcase clutched in one hand, her contract-bound future in the other.
The door opened before she could knock.
“You’re late,” Alexander said simply, standing in a black button-up shirt that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t even sound surprised. Just… cold.
“I missed the first cab,” she replied, stepping inside without looking at him.
The interior was breathtaking—high ceilings, dark hardwood floors, clean modern lines. It was the kind of place where you whispered without knowing why. It looked like it had been decorated by someone who didn’t believe in comfort—only status.
“I’ll show you to your room,” he said, his footsteps already echoing down the hall.
“My room?” she echoed.
He stopped, turned slowly. “This is a contractual arrangement, Lily. We’re not sleeping together.”
“I didn’t say we were,” she snapped, heat rising in her chest. “I just thought maybe… we’d pretend better if we shared a room.”
He raised an eyebrow, almost amused. “Is that what you want? To share my bed for the sake of authenticity?”
She felt her face burn. “No.”
“Then don’t make this more complicated than it has to be.”
He turned again.
And she followed, biting back the thousand things she wanted to say.
---
The room was beautiful. Spacious. A wall of windows opened to a city skyline that looked like something out of a dream. But it wasn’t her room. It wasn’t her home. Nothing here was hers.
“You’ll be expected to attend dinners, events, and public functions as my wife,” Alexander said as she unpacked. “We’ll coordinate our stories. You’ll wear what’s appropriate, speak when necessary, and avoid personal questions.”
She paused, holding a faded photo of her parents she’d tucked into her bag.
“What if someone asks how we met?” she asked quietly.
“We’ll say it was quick. Unexpected. Love at first sight.”
She snorted. “That’s ironic.”
He didn’t laugh.
“I’ll have my assistant send over a list of wardrobe expectations and upcoming events,” he added, glancing at his watch. “Dinner is at seven. We dine together. Always. It’s expected.”
Then he left, closing the door behind him with all the finality of a judge’s gavel.
---
Lily sat at the edge of her bed and stared at her reflection in the glass. Her face looked pale and unfamiliar. This wasn’t her life. This wasn’t the plan. But plans didn’t matter when your father was dying and every second was a borrowed one.
By the time she made it to the dining room, the sun had dipped behind the skyline. The long glass table stretched like a runway, empty except for Alexander at the far end, already eating with clinical precision.
She took a seat. Their plates were identical—some kind of grilled fish with lemon glaze.
“Do you even like this food?” she asked.
He didn’t look up. “I don’t eat for pleasure. I eat for fuel.”
“No wonder you’re so warm and friendly.”
That made his eyes lift to hers, a flicker of something dark and unreadable passing through them.
“You agreed to this arrangement, Lily.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t agree to lose my soul in the process.”
For a second, something cracked in his expression. But it was gone just as fast.
“You’ll adjust,” he said.
And she hated how sure he sounded.
---
After dinner, they sat in the living room like strangers forced into small talk. Or worse—like coworkers in a silent waiting room.
“What happened to you?” she asked suddenly, unable to hold the question in anymore.
He turned slowly. “Excuse me?”
“You weren’t born like this. So cold. So distant. So…” she paused. “Hollow.”
His jaw flexed.
“That’s not part of the agreement,” he said tightly.
“I didn’t ask as your wife,” she replied. “I asked as a human being.”
Silence.
Then, finally, he spoke. “You think asking a personal question makes this real? It doesn’t.”
She leaned forward, staring at him. “Maybe not. But for the next two years, we’re stuck with each other. Maybe pretending less will make it easier.”
His eyes locked with hers. “Don’t try to fix me, Lily. You’ll only end up broken.”
---
That night, she couldn’t sleep.
Not because of the bed or the silence.
But because of what she saw in his eyes.
Pain.
Real, buried, feral pain.
And suddenly, the man behind the contract didn’t seem so cold after all.
He seemed like someone who’d been burned too deeply to ever trust warmth again.
And Lily Carter—against all logic—wanted to understand why.
- Writer
