THE CEO SERECT WIFE

CHAPTER 3: MOVING INTO HIS WORLD

The driver didn’t talk to me the whole ride.

I watched Lagos blur past the tinted windows. From my neighborhood

to Victoria Island. From pain to... this.

The car stopped in front of a building that touched the clouds.

Glass. Steel. Security guards in black suits.

"Miss," the driver said finally. "We’re here."

This was Jake Sterling’s penthouse.

And starting tomorrow, it was my home too.

My stomach dropped.

The elevator opened straight into his apartment.

And I forgot how to breathe.

Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. Floor-to-ceiling windows showing

the entire city at night. It looked like a 5-star hotel. Except colder.

No photos. No plants. No warmth. Just money.

"You're late."

Jake’s voice cut through the silence.

He was standing by the bar, in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

No tie. No jacket. For the first time, he didn’t look like a CEO.

He looked dangerous.

"I said 7AM," he continued, checking his watch. "It’s 7:02."

"I’m sorry," I whispered. "Traffic—"

"I don’t care about excuses, Isabella."

He said my name like it was a weapon.

"Rule number 4. Be on time. Or don’t come at all."

Before I could answer, a woman in her 50s walked in.

Uniform. Stern face. She looked me up and down like I was dirt.

"This is the new wife?" she asked Jake, not me.

"Mrs. Ade, this is Isabella," Jake said flatly. "She’ll be staying here."

Mrs. Ade sniffed. "I’ll prepare the guest room."

"The master bedroom," Jake corrected.

Mrs. Ade’s eyes widened. "Sir?"

"She’s my wife," Jake said. "She sleeps in my room. That’s the contract."

My face burned.

Sleep in his room?

Mrs. Ade walked away, muttering under her breath.

Great. The housekeeper already hated me.

"Follow me," Jake ordered.

He led me down a hallway to double doors. His bedroom.

King-size bed. Black sheets. A view of Lagos that probably cost millions.

And one closet. His closet.

"Where do I put my things?" I asked quietly.

Jake turned to me. "Do you have things?"

The question was so dismissive it hurt.

"My bag," I said, holding up the small duffel I brought.

Everything I owned.

Jake stared at it. Then at me. For a second, something flickered in his eyes.

Pity? Annoyance? I couldn’t tell.

"There’s space," he said finally, pointing to half the closet. "Don’t touch my side."

"Okay."

Silence stretched between us. Awkward. Heavy.

"Do you need anything?" he asked. It sounded like the words physically hurt him.

"My mom," I said. "Can I call her?"

Jake nodded once. "10 minutes. Then dinner. With me."

"Dinner?"

"We have to practice," he said. "For when people ask. Married couples eat together."

He walked out and closed the door behind him.

I sank onto the bed. It was softer than anything I’d ever felt.

And I was sharing it with Jake Sterling.

I called the hospital. Mom was stable. The payment went through.

Tears fell again, but this time from relief.

10 minutes later, there was a knock.

"Dinner," Jake said from the hallway.

The dining room was huge. One table. Two chairs. Miles apart.

Candles were lit. Food I couldn’t name was on the plates.

Jake sat at the head of the table,