Chapter 3

Our wedding night was supposed to be a formality.

Separate bedrooms. That was the agreement.

I showered, changed into silk pajamas — modest, soft pink, deliberately un-seductive — and was heading to my designated room when Ethan's voice stopped me in the hallway.

"Iris."

I turned. He was leaning against his doorframe, tie loosened, top button undone. The hallway light carved shadows under his cheekbones.

"Yes?"

"My mother put cameras in the common areas. The staff talk. If we sleep in separate rooms on our wedding night, the board will know this marriage is fake by Monday."

I blinked. "So...?"

"So come in. I'll take the couch."

He stepped aside.

I hesitated — performed hesitation, really — then walked in.

His bedroom was massive, minimal. A king-sized bed that could fit four people, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. It smelled like sandalwood and something sharper, like cold air before a storm.

Ethan grabbed a pillow and a blanket.

"Bathroom's through there if you need anything. I wake up at five. I'll be gone before you're up."

"Okay."

He settled onto the couch — which was too short for his frame — and turned off the lamp.

In the dark, I lay in his bed, surrounded by his scent, staring at the ceiling.

My father used to tuck me in like this. Lights off. A quiet "goodnight."

I pressed my nails into my palm until the memory retreated.

...

Three weeks into the marriage, I had mapped the entire Blackwell household.

Staff rotations. Security codes. Ethan's schedule down to fifteen-minute increments. Victoria's weekly meetings. Lucas's gym hours.

I was a ghost in a champagne dress.

During the day, I played the quiet, grateful wife. I attended brunches with Victoria's social circle, smiled at the right moments, and never, ever outshone anyone in the room.

At night, after Ethan left for his study, I worked.

Mara had embedded a contact inside Blackwell Empire's legal department — a paralegal named Tom who owed her a debt.

Through Tom, I was slowly pulling financial records from the year of the takeover.

The pieces were assembling.

But the picture was more complicated than I'd expected.

Because the hostile takeover of Hartwell Pharmaceuticals hadn't been Ethan's idea.

It had been his father's — Richard Blackwell, who died two years ago.

Ethan had merely... executed it.

The question burning in my chest: Did he know what the takeover would do to my father? Did he know about the forged documents? Or was he just a weapon someone else aimed?

It mattered.

Not for forgiveness — I wasn't capable of that.

But for knowing exactly how much pain to deliver.

...

One evening, I was in the kitchen making tea — another performance of domesticity — when Ethan came home early.

He looked exhausted. His tie was gone. His hair was pushed back like he'd been running his hands through it.

He sat at the kitchen island without a word.

I placed a cup of tea in front of him. Chamomile. I'd learned his preference from the housekeeper.

He looked at the cup, then at me. "You didn't have to."

"It's just tea."

A pause. Then, "How was your day?"

He'd never asked me that before.

"Quiet," I said. "I reorganized the library. I hope that's okay."

"You reorganized—" He almost smiled. Almost. "The library hasn't been touched in years."

"I noticed. Your first editions were stored next to the heating vent. The humidity would've damaged them within a year."

Ethan studied me. Really studied me, the way he had at the gala.

"You know about book preservation?"

"My father was a collector."

The sentence slipped out before I could stop it.

True. Unscripted. Dangerous.

Ethan's gaze sharpened. "Was?"

"He passed away." I looked down. "A few years ago."

"I'm sorry."

Are you?

I wrapped both hands around my mug. "It's fine. It was a long time ago."

He didn't push further.

But that night, when I passed his study on the way to my room — our room — I heard him on the phone.

"Run a deeper background check on Iris Lane. Employment history, family records, everything."

My blood ran cold, but my feet kept walking, steady, silent.

He was looking into me.

The clock had just started ticking faster.

And I hadn't even gotten to the part where I needed his DNA to prove what his family had really done to mine — a forged paternity document that had been used to invalidate my father's original ownership claim.

The only way to disprove it was to test Ethan's bloodline against the document.

Which meant I needed to get closer.

Much closer.