Chapter 6
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FREYA SINCLAIR
I lowered my eyes back to the page. My name waited at the bottom, printed neatly as if it already belonged there.
Freya Lillian Sinclair.
Beside his.
My hand trembled as I placed the pen to paper.
For a split second, fear surged so violently through me that I almost laughed. I was twenty-three years old, sitting in a penthouse with a man I barely knew, about to sign away my future because I had been too angry to walk away.
And yet… I didn’t stop. The pen moved. The ink flowed.
Rowan reached for the document, his fingers brushing the edge where my signature sat. He studied it briefly, then nodded once, as if confirming a calculation.
“Alright,” he said. “We’re agreed.”
He stood, straightening his cuffs. The movement was smooth, controlled like nothing monumental had just happened.
“I’ll have my legal team register this by morning,” he continued. “Until then, it stands as a private agreement.”
I forced myself to speak. “And… us?”
He looked at me then. Really looked at me.
“You move in today,” he said simply. “My people will collect your belongings and bring them here by evening. Essentials only. You don't need any furniture anyway. Anything else can follow.”
My heart skipped. “Today?”
“Yes.”
I nodded, though my mind was spinning. I felt as if we were moving a bit too fast. “Okay.”
“There’s one more thing.” His tone shifted slightly — not softer, but more personal. “Tomorrow is my mother’s birthday.”
My fingers curled into my palm. “Tomorrow?”
“I want you there,” he said. “Not as my wife. Not yet. As the woman I intend to marry.”
“Consider it… your introduction,” he added. “
I managed a small nod. “I’ll be there.”
“Good. But before that we need a reliable love story.” he told me with his business voice as I tilted my head to the side. “You don't plan to tell them that you were the one that proposed to me?” He raised his brow in question.
“But wasn't that what happened?” I asked.
“Yes but if they knew that I don't know anything about you, they will not allow me to marry you because you don't exactly fall into the criteria of a bride my family would choose for me.” He said as he looked at me from top to bottom, judging me silently yet loudly. “So if I have to get away from their choice then we have to convince them that we are insanely in love with each other."
“Okay so we can just say that you courted me for a couple of months and I finally said yes.” I told him.
“Anything is fine.” He said dismissing the situation. “Send me a list of your allergies and everything that I need to know. I expect to get the list by tomorrow morning. My secretary will send you a list about me.”
He gathered the papers, sliding them back into the envelope with methodical precision. The sound of it closing felt final. In the haste of everything I almost forgot that I have to seriously win this man over so that I won't be left on the side track.
“Will you be at your apartment?” I asked.
“Where else would I be if not in my apartment?” He asked with his brow raised.
“Then can we have dinner together tonight? It would be great way to get to know each other." I tried to resonate.
“I won't be home till midnight and I prefer to eat alone.” He said shutting me up completely.
As he turned away to make a call, I sank back into the chair, my pulse roaring in my ears.
The car ride to Rowan’s penthouse is silent in a way that presses against my chest.
The city blurs past the window, lights streaking like consequences I haven’t caught up to yet.
When the car finally stops, I look up and my breath catches.
The building is glass and steel, rising into the night like it owns the sky. No signboard. No excess. Just quiet power. Of course Rowan Carter would live somewhere like this. Somewhere that doesn’t announce itself because it doesn’t need to.
The elevator ride feels endless. Silent. Private. My ears pop slightly as we rise, higher and higher, until the doors slide open to reveal…
Nothing.
Or rather, too much.
The penthouse opens directly into a vast living space, all clean lines and muted tones. Marble floors that gleam like mirrors. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across an entire wall, revealing the city laid out beneath us like a living map. Sofas arranged perfectly. Art on the walls that looks expensive and emotionless.
Luxury without warmth.
It’s beautiful.
And empty.
“Welcome, Miss Sinclair.”
The voice makes me turn. A woman stands a few steps away, dressed neatly in a soft grey uniform. She looks to be in her late thirties, her expression calm, kind but professional.
“I’m Lisa,” she says with a small smile. “I manage the household.”
“Hello.” I greeted with a smile.
“Come,” she says gently. “I’ll show you around.”
I follow her, my heels clicking too loudly against the marble. Every sound echoes here, like the space isn’t used to being lived in.
“This is the main living area,” Lisa explains as we walk past the seating arrangement. “Mr. Carter doesn’t entertain often at home. Meetings are usually elsewhere.”
That… makes sense. But why is he not home usually? And why was he staying at the hotel if he has such a beautiful penthouse of his own.
We pass a dining area with a table long enough to seat ten people. Only two chairs are pulled out, perfectly aligned. No flowers. No place mats. Nothing lived-in.
“The penthouse is cleaned three times a week,” Lisa continued. “A professional team handles most of it. I oversee things and do the cooking.”
“You cook?” I ask, surprised.
She nods. “Yes. Mr. Carter prefers home-prepared meals. When he’s here.”
When he’s here.
I wonder how often that actually is.
She shows me the kitchen next, sleek, modern, intimidating. Everything is stainless steel and stone. Not a single magnet on the fridge. No notes stuck to the counter. No sign that anyone ever stood here at midnight, eating leftovers straight from the container.
No chaos.
No warmth.
We move down a long hallway, the lights dimmed just enough to feel intentional.
“This wing is private,” Lisa says. “Guests usually don’t come here.”
My pulse picks up, and I’m not sure why. But it was clear that that wing is off limits.
She stopped in front of a large door at the end of the hall. Dark wood. Minimal design.
“This is Mr. Carter’s room,” she says, opening it.
I freeze.
The room is massive. Larger than my entire apartment. A king-sized bed dominates the center, dressed in dark sheets, crisp and untouched. Floor-to-ceiling windows again, curtains drawn halfway. A sitting area by the window. A desk that looks like it belongs to a man who works even in his sleep.
Everything smells faintly like him.
And then Lisa turns to me and says, calmly—
“You’ll be staying here from now on. With Mr Carter of course.”
My breath stuttered.
“H-here?” I repeat, my voice is smaller than I want it to be.
“Yes,” she says, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. “Mr. Carter instructed that you take this room.”
“Your belongings will be delivered by evening,” Lisa adds. “If there’s anything you need adjusted clothing space, personal items please let me know.”
Personal items.
I step further into the room, my heart pounding as my heels sink slightly into the plush rug. The bed looks untouched, like it hasn’t been slept in for days. Maybe weeks.
I suddenly felt like an intruder in a life that was never meant to include me.
I walk to the window, staring out at the city below. From up here, everything looks small. Insignificant. Manageable.
“If you’d like to rest, I can prepare something light for dinner.”
I nod absently. “Thank you.”
When she left, the door closing softly behind her, the room felt even bigger.
Too big.
This penthouse is stunning. Perfect. Immaculate. And utterly lonely. I swallow hard, pressing a hand to my chest. I wanted power. I wanted revenge.
I didn’t realize it would come wrapped in silence this loud.
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