His Bride for a year

The Morning After

I woke up to silence.

Not the kind that comes with peace, but the kind that feels like a held breath — waiting to see who exhales first.

The sheets beneath me were too soft, the scent on them too expensive. Sandalwood, smoke, and something faintly bitter — him. Ethan Blake.

For a moment, I didn’t move. I lay there, staring at the tall glass window where the city shimmered in the early morning light, wondering if all of it — the contract, the wedding, his unreadable eyes — had been a dream.

But the thin gold band on my finger said otherwise.

I turned my hand slowly, watching the light catch the metal. It didn’t feel heavy, but it felt foreign, as if it belonged to another version of me — a woman who’d agreed to marry a billionaire she barely knew because her brother’s life depended on it.

And now, that woman was me.

The events of last night replayed behind my eyes: the quiet courthouse, the flash of a camera, the words “You may kiss the bride.” Ethan hadn’t kissed me — he’d just nodded, like it was a business transaction signed and sealed. I remembered his voice, low and steady when he told the officiant, “It’s done.”

Afterward, we’d driven here — his mansion that looked more like a museum of steel and glass. He hadn’t said much. Just opened the door for me, gestured toward the staircase, and told me the guest room was on the left.

Guest room.

His wife — in the guest room.

The thought almost made me laugh, except nothing about it was funny.

I slipped out of bed and wrapped the robe around me. The mirror caught my reflection — my hair a mess, eyes puffy from too little sleep. I didn’t look like a bride. I looked like a girl who’d made a deal with the devil.

When I stepped into the hallway, the faint sound of clinking dishes drifted from downstairs. My stomach tightened. I told myself it was just breakfast, but it felt more like walking into an interview I hadn’t prepared for.

The dining room was sunlight and glass — too bright for how heavy the air felt. Ethan sat at the end of the table, sleeves rolled up, scrolling through his phone. The sight of him like that — effortless power, control stitched into every gesture — made my pulse trip.

He didn’t look up immediately, but when he did, it was with the kind of calm that could cut.

“You’re awake,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah,” I murmured, taking the seat farthest from him. “I didn’t know what time breakfast—”

“Mrs. Collins will handle that from tomorrow.” His tone was neutral, almost polite, but there was an edge beneath it. “You’re early.”

I reached for the glass of water in front of me, needing something to do with my hands. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He hummed — just a sound, but somehow it filled the room.

“You’ll get used to it here,” he said, eyes on the phone again.

I doubted that.

Silence stretched between us, long enough for me to count the seconds. I stole a glance at him — the way the morning light carved along his jaw, the faint stubble that softened the sharpness of his face. There was something dangerous about how still he was, like a man always calculating three moves ahead.

Finally, he spoke again.

“I had the contract delivered to your lawyer. He should confirm receipt by noon.”

“Right.” I nodded, though my throat felt dry. “Everything… everything’s in motion, then.”

He looked up, and for the first time, there was something almost human in his expression — curiosity, maybe even guilt.

“Does it bother you?”

“What?”

“This arrangement.” His gaze pinned me where I sat. “Pretending to be my wife.”

I wanted to say yes. That it terrified me. That every part of me felt like I was standing on the edge of something I couldn’t see the bottom of.

But the words that came out were quiet, steady lies.

“No. It’s just… new.”

He studied me for a long moment, as if trying to see through the answer. Then he nodded once and went back to his coffee.

“New can be dangerous.”

Something about the way he said it made my pulse trip again.

The silence after that wasn’t empty — it was thick with all the things neither of us dared to say. I wanted to ask him why me, why this deal, why he’d chosen someone like me to wear his name — but I could feel the invisible wall between us.

So I focused on the breakfast spread I couldn’t taste and the rhythmic sound of his spoon against the cup.

It was strange, sitting across from him like that — married and yet oceans apart. And yet, every time his gaze brushed mine, something flickered there. Not warmth, not yet. But awareness.

After a while, he stood, pushing his chair back with slow precision.

“I’ll have someone show you around later,” he said. “There are rules to this house.”

“Rules,” I echoed.

“Yes. You’ll find that things work better when you follow them.”

He was already walking away when I spoke, my voice quieter than I intended.

“Do you always make people live by your rules?”

He paused at the doorway, his back still to me.

“Only the ones who matter,” he said.

And then he was gone.

For a few seconds, I sat there frozen, his words replaying in my head.

The ones who matter.

Was that a warning? Or something else entirely?

I didn’t know. But as I looked around the silent, perfect dining room — the city stretching wide and untouchable beyond the glass — I realized something I hadn’t last night.

I was no longer just part of a contract.

I was part of his world.

And Ethan Blake’s world, I suspected, was one that could either protect me… or destroy me.