Hannah’s pov

I woke up to sunlight bright, cold, and too clean , pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the guest suite. For a second, I forgot where I was. Then it all rushed back in a dizzy wave:

The penthouse.

The dress.

The judge.

Sebastian’s mouth brushing mine like an obligation he didn’t want to admit was a kiss.

The way he walked away from me like closing a door.

My stomach tightened.

I sat up slowly, the sheets cool against my legs, the air-conditioning humming softly. Everything in this place felt intentional. Controlled. Untouched by actual human living.

My phone buzzed.

Jess.

I answered immediately. “Hey.”

“Finally,” she exhaled. She sounded half worried, half furious , which was her normal setting when it came to me. “Are you okay? Did he lock you in a panic room? Do I need to call the police?”

I rubbed a hand over my face. “Good morning to you too.”

“Oh my God, Han, don’t joke , seriously, how is it? Did you sleep? Did he,”

“Jess.” I let out a shaky breath. “I’m fine. I promise.”

She went quiet for a second. “I still think this is insane. But I’m here. If anything feels weird, if he even breathes wrong, call me.”

A painful, grateful smile tugged at my lips. “I know. And thank you… for yesterday. For staying. Even though you hated every second of it.”

“I didn’t hate it. I hated him. There’s a difference.”

My laugh came out low and tired. “Jess…”

“Whatever. Did you eat? What’s the kitchen like? Does it even have food or is it just, like, stainless steel and rich-people air?”

“I haven’t checked yet.”

“Well go. Before you pass out in that mausoleum you now live in.”

I swung my legs out of bed. “Okay, okay. I’ll call you later.”

“You better,” she said, then hung up like she was afraid I wouldn’t.

I padded into the hallway barefoot, the marble cold under my feet. The penthouse was quiet , cathedral quiet, museum quiet. Even the light felt expensive. I tried to remember the way to the kitchen, turning left, then right, passing rooms that probably had names like “study” and “east wing lounge.”

When I finally found it, I stopped in the doorway.

The kitchen looked like no one had ever cooked in it. All sleek lines and polished black counters, the kind of space where a person like Sebastian Wolfe probably grabbed vitamins instead of meals.

I opened the cabinet.

Nothing.

Another cabinet.

Still nothing.

Finally, a drawer , bingo: coffee pods. I grabbed one, grateful for something normal, and slipped it into the machine. The low hum and clicking sound was comforting, grounding.

I leaned against the counter and closed my eyes for a second.

Yesterday had been too much.

Today was already too much.

And then,

Footsteps.

Slow. Heavy. Controlled.

I straightened as Sebastian walked in, sleeves rolled, tie loose, hair still slightly damp from a shower. He looked like he belonged in a magazine spread titled “Intimidating Men in Expensive Kitchens.”

He stopped when he saw me.

For a moment, neither of us said anything. The coffee machine hissed behind me like it was trying to fill the silence.

“You’re up early,” he said finally, voice low, unreadable.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Understatement of the year.

He studied me, eyes flicking from my messy hair to the oversized T-shirt I’d slept in. Something flickered across his face , not softness, not quite , more like… noticing me. Against his will.

I pointed vaguely at the coffee machine. “I tried making coffee, but it made this awful dying-walrus noise, and I panicked. So if it’s broken, I swear it wasn’t intentional.”

“You can’t break it,” he said, stepping past me.

His arm brushed mine , barely , but he stiffened like I’d just set him on fire.

I jerked back too, heat rushing up my neck.

“Sorry,” I whispered, then immediately regretted sounding so small.

“It’s fine.”

Fast. Clipped. Not fine at all.

He wouldn’t look at me now, which somehow felt worse.

I watched him adjust the machine like it was a bomb he needed to defuse. Everything he touched, he touched with precision , straight lines, sharp edges, hard boundaries.

The silence between us stretched, thick and stupid.

I tucked hair behind my ear, wishing I didn’t feel like a walking disruption.

“You really don’t like people touching your stuff, huh?”

I tried to sound light, teasing, but it came out softer, more curious than I meant.

“It’s not about liking,” he said , sounding exactly like a man who did care about liking. “It’s about… order.”

I smiled before I could stop myself. “And you’re very attached to your order.”

He didn’t deny it. Of course he didn’t.

He just stared at me like I’d stepped into a part of his life he didn’t want anyone seeing.

I had to go back to my room cause the silence was awkward.

By noon, I’d officially invaded the billionaire’s penthouse.

I didn’t mean to.

But when you move into a place that looks like a luxury panic room, your brain starts trying to make it… less terrifying.

So yes. I left a book open on the couch.

Spine cracked. Pages down.

In my world, that’s normal. In his, it looked like a crime scene.

Then I draped my pale blue sweater over a chair because I was cold.

And dropped my bag by the stairs because my shoulder hurt.

None of it felt rebellious.

Just… human.

Sebastian didn’t say a word. Didn’t even walk in like a person,more like a ghost who got trapped in a space that suddenly wasn’t calibrated to his standards.

He just stood there, staring at everything like my belongings were multiplying on their own.

Meanwhile, I hummed while I unpacked because if I didn’t, I might start crying from the sheer weirdness of being married to a stranger with better jawlines than emotional capacity.

And then I put a plant,my one tiny piece of comfort,on his shelf.

It looked painfully out of place. But so did I.

I left the room for maybe two minutes.

When I came back, the plant was… slightly to the right.

Suspiciously to the right.

“Huh,” I said, squinting. “I could’ve sworn I put that in the center.”

Sebastian didn’t even blink. “You did.”

“So you… moved it?”

“It wasn’t centered.”

“Yes, it was.”

He looked at me like I’d insulted the blueprint of his soul. “It wasn’t, Hannah.”

Oh, we were not doing this.

I walked forward, picked up the plant, and moved it back to the center.

Dead center.

Precision Olympic medal level.

He watched. Expression neutral. Eyes sharp.

Like a hawk deciding whether to eat the mouse now or later.

Then he walked away.

I should’ve known.

Ten seconds later, I heard the tiniest scrape of ceramic.

I turned.

He’d moved it again.

I gasped. “Are you kidding me?”

He kept his back to me. “I prefer symmetry.”

“This is symmetrical!”

“It wasn’t.”

“Sebastian.”

“No.”

Oh my God.

I marched over, shoved the plant back into place, and folded my arms. “There. Perfect.”

He moved it again.

Immediately.

I stared at him, mouth hanging open. “You’re actually insane.”

“It’s my shelf,” he said, sounding like someone defending their country’s border.

“It’s a plant.”

“It’s a living organism that requires maintenance in a space designed for inanimate objects.”

“You mean it needs sunlight and water? Calm down, it’s not a puppy.”

“I’m not watering something.”

“God forbid you show a plant basic kindness.”

“I don’t have to be kind to plants.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Loudly.

Because the man argued like a five-year-old wearing a three-thousand-dollar watch.

He stared at me with this mix of confusion and,maybe,bemusement. It was hard to tell with him. But something softened around the edges.

“You know,” I said, still grinning, “for someone who acts like he doesn’t care about anything, you’re really territorial over shelf placement.”

“It’s not territorial,” he said, defensive and stiff. “It’s order. Structure. Things have places.”

“It looked dead in here.”

“It looked intentional.”

“Yeah. Intentionally depressing.”

We locked eyes.

And for half a second, he almost smiled not even almost he did smiled he just didn’t want me to notice.

he shut it down so hard I felt the emotional whiplash.

“This isn’t going to work,” he muttered.

“Great start to a marriage,” I shot back, though I didn’t mean it cruelly.

His eyes flicked away, jaw tight, shoulders tense , like he wanted to say something but didn’t have the language for it and he walked away.

I shook my head and continued unpacking.

I had been picking ingredients at random, trying to make something,anything,with what little was in the fridge. My stomach had been growling for nearly an hour, loud enough that i prayed Sebastian couldn’t hear it from wherever he’d hidden himself all evening.

I’d tried to ignore it. Tried wandering the penthouse without touching anything, tried pretending I wasn’t completely out of place in this museum-meets-fortress he called a home. But eventually, the hunger won.

The fridge wasn’t much help. Water, berries, eggs, and a collection of neatly labeled jars that looked like they belonged on a cooking show.

Fine. Eggs and something. Whatever.

I pulled out a tomato and onions I cut the onion first,fine. Then reached for the tomato.

It rolled.

I tried to grab it.

My grip slipped.

And the knife sliced the side of my finger.

“Ah,shit.”

Before I could even register the blood welling up, I heard footsteps. Fast ones.

Sebastian.

He moved into the kitchen like he’d been waiting for something to go wrong. His eyes went straight to my hand.

“What happened?Let me see.”

“I just it’s nothing.”

It wasn’t. Blood was already starting to pool.

He didn’t ask again.

He just took my wrist.

Not gently.

Not roughly.

Just like his body made the decision before he did.

My breath caught.

His thumb steadied the back of my hand as he lifted it toward the light. His face was inches from mine,too close,and suddenly my heart was doing something completely unhelpful in my chest.

“You should’ve been more careful,” he said, but the usual bite wasn’t there. It sounded more like… concern. Hidden. Forced down.

“I was hungry,” I muttered.

“You could’ve told me.”

I snorted. “You weren’t exactly radiating approachability today.”

His jaw clenched, but he still didn’t let go of me.

And then something shifted,small but impossible to ignore.

His fingers were still wrapped around my wrist. I could feel my pulse thudding against his skin, and from the way his gaze flickered… he felt it too.

Everything stopped for a second.

The air.

My breathing.

Him.

He looked at my mouth.

Just for a heartbeat.

And then,

He dropped my hand like it burned him.

The sudden absence of his touch felt louder than the knife hitting the counter.

“What… what was that?” I whispered.

He shook his head once, hard. “Nothing.”

But it didn’t sound like nothing.

It sounded like a lie he was desperate to keep intact.

He stepped back,one, two steps,like distance was the only safe option.

“It’s late,” he said, refusing to meet my eyes. “Don’t use the knife again.”

And then he turned and walked out.

Just… left.

Leaving me standing in the kitchen with a throbbing finger, a half-chopped something on the board, and my pulse still racing where his fingers had been moments ago.