Yvette's pov

The silence in this car was so thick. I hate this kind of silence, I prefer the noise that Manhattan brings and now it feels like I'm about to choke.

His scent—dark, clean, expensive—slipped across the space between us. Even the leather of the car felt warm because of him, like the whole vehicle belonged to his body heat.

He hasn't looked at me once since he told the driver to stop. He was completely focused on his tablet, his fingers swiping through whatever. He was the picture of perfect, unbothered control.

And me, I had just about two hundred bucks to my name and a supply of stubbornness.

My brain was spinning, trying to find a way out. What are my options?

Maybe I would scream at the top of my voice and bang the windows but anyone seeing a woman screaming in a Maybach might think I was begging my husband not to take a second wife.

Reasoning with Joachim Knight feels like trying to argue with an earthquake. It's pointless. Or I could just wait. But I know, I just know, he'd sit here until the sun burned out if he had to.

He was going to win. I know it. He knows I know it.

I adjusted my glasses and took a deep breath.

The only choice I have left is how I lose. I can go down in a blaze of glory, all fury and noise or I can make a tactical retreat.

Or maybe smack his head and run out like I did the other day at the restaurant

I take a deep, shaky breath. God, I hate the taste of surrender. But it's the only move I have.

"Fine," I snapped. The word cracked through the silence like a whip. "You win. Tell your statue to drive."

We waited for a good ten seconds, just to let me sit there and stew in it. Then, so slowly, he lifts his eyes from the tablet.

He leaned forward, and I hated that my pulse skipped. It was infuriating how his voice could stroke my nerves like silk, even when he was threatening me with nothing but a smirk.

"A wise decision," he murmured.

I rolled my eyes and snorted.

I swear I saw a tiny smirk as he gave the driver a little nod and the car glided into the traffic like nothing ever happened.

We didn't talk for the rest of the ride. The car headed down into a private underground garage and we took an elevator.

It didn't open into the lobby. It opened right into his home.

And whoa. The penthouse is breathtaking and absolutely terrifying. I have never seen this part of the penthouse before.

It was so magnificent that it didn't fall into the category of a home, it was a monument of power and emptiness. The main room was two stories high with windows for walls, and the whole of Manhattan is just there laid out below looking so tiny as if it was in a display case. And the kind of furniture here would pay my entire generation's monthly allowance even down to the fifth generation.

Apart from the art and furniture, there was nothing human or belonging to a human here.

A photograph? A stack of mail? A forgotten coffee mug? Nothing. Not a single thing out of place.

Yup, perfect name.

He cleared his throat and I jumped, he had been watching me the entire time. “Your suite is on the second floor.”

“I—I have a suite now?” I gasped in excitement.

He furrowed his brows. “Where do you expect to sleep? On the kitchen island?”

I rolled my eyes.

“East wing," he said, his voice kind of echoing in the huge space. "My chambers are in the west wing. You will not enter them. Ever."

“Yes, Your Royal Highness.” I said with a mock bow.

Ignoring me, he led me into this massive, dark office that overlooked the city. There was this giant desk in front of the window, like an altar to some corporate god. He pointed to a chair. I felt less like his fake girlfriend and more like I'm here for a very scary job interview.

He put a thick, leather binder on the desk between us. It landed with a heavy thud.

"Our agreement," he said. "Read it. I require your complete understanding."

I opened it up and I have never read anything this much before, not even in literature class, this might be a hundred pages or more. He was staring at me quietly as I began to read and each page I turned, I could feel myself getting angrier and angrier. It was the most insane, controlling and ridiculous document ever.

*Clause 17: He has to be the one to touch me in public, to 'maintain the narrative.'*

*Clause 22: His PR team has to approve any of my social media posts about 'us' 48 hours ahead of time.*

*Clause 31: There's a list of 'approved' things we can talk about in public.*

It was all nuts. Is this how his brain works? In clauses and sub-sections and controlled variables. But I keep reading and then, about halfway through... there it is.

My heart does this little flutter. It was small, buried in a section about personal conduct. Just one, poorly worded sentence.

I exhaled after reading and closed the binder softly, keeping my face a total blank mask.

I peered at him through my glasses and he was so still that he freaked me out. He has been watching me, his blue eyes not missing a thing.

“I presume you understand the terms?”

"I do," I said, my voice steady. "It's very thorough. You've thought of almost everything."

"Almost?" One perfect eyebrow goes up. The corner of his mouth twitches. Oh, he's enjoying this.

“Okay. Here we go.” I took a breath. "Page fifty-seven. Clause 4B, sub-section three," I said, and my voice was getting stronger. "It's about 'unscheduled personal time.' The language is ambiguous. It says I get a 'reasonable allotment' of time to myself. But 'reasonable' isn't defined anywhere in the contract. It's subjective."

I leaned forward, the fear totally gone, replaced by that old thrill of finding a weakness.

"I could argue that twelve hours a day is 'reasonable.' And you'd have no contractual grounds to stop me, as long as I show up for our appointments on time." I let that hang in the air for a second. "You of all people should know a contract is only as strong as its weakest clause. And that one? It's really, really weak."

The silence that followed was different. It was not heavy anymore. It was sharp. He just stared at me. I had challenged him in his own arena.

I took his own weapon and found a chink in it. I half expected him to be furious.

But he was not.

Instead, this slow, dangerous smirk spread across his face.

I hated how perfect his mouth looked this close—like a sin waiting to happen. If the devil ever kissed, it would probably feel like honey of more.

He circled the desk with predatory grace, the sound of his footsteps soft but deliberate. Then his hands landed on the arms of my chair—warm, heavy—and suddenly there was nowhere for me to look but at his mouth.

“Okay, that's true.” He said, his voice so seductive.

"It is a flaw. A rather embarrassing one." He leaned down, putting his hands on the arms of my chair, boxing me in. He leaned forward and his handsome face was just inches from mine.

His scent—dark, clean, expensive—slipped across the space between us. Even the leather of the chair felt warm because of him, like the whole vehicle belonged to his body heat.

“You amaze me,” he murmured, his breath brushing my ear. “Intelligent. Defiant. Dangerous. I don’t know yet if I want to tame you or keep you exactly like this.”

“Th-thank—”

“It was a compliment, please.”

I snorted.

His thumb traced the edge of my glasses, almost touching my skin, before retreating. “You really do surprise me, Yvette.”

Then he took a step back.

“You see, a loophole is only useful if you have a very good lawyer to exploit it.” He whispered and paused. "And it's a very good thing for me that I happened to be the best lawyer in this city, isn't it?"