Lara had spent exactly one night in Adrian Sinclair's penthouse, and she was already suffocating.
The space was sterile—too clean, too perfect, a museum of cold elegance that had no soul. The sleek, polished surfaces of the marble floors reflected the harsh, clinical lighting that bathed every room in a sterile glow. The furniture was modern, but there was no warmth, no personal touches. No photographs of family or friends. No signs of life.
It was the perfect metaphor for Adrian himself: an immaculate, pristine shell that hid a cold, calculating core.
She was given her own room. But it wasn't a room she could settle into. It was a space so cold and impersonal it might as well have been a hotel suite. There were no decorations, no familiar items, just a sparse, minimalist layout—an uncomfortable bed and a desk where a laptop sat waiting for her. The soft white bedding felt like it had been chosen for its starkness rather than comfort. The room was silent except for the occasional hum of the building's air conditioning, and the only view she had was a panoramic one of the city skyline—an endless sea of lights and steel.
In a way, she felt like she was just another part of the décor—an accessory to his perfect, carefully curated life.
But the worst part?
Adrian was everywhere.
At breakfast, he sat across from her at the sleek marble dining table, reading the news on his tablet like they were just another married couple enjoying a casual morning. There was no warmth in his words, no smile, no acknowledgment of the weight of the situation they were in. He spoke in clipped, mechanical sentences as if it were just business, a routine.
"How's the coffee?" he asked, barely glancing up from his tablet. His voice had the sharp edge of someone who wasn't used to asking, who didn't really care about the answer.
"It's fine," she replied curtly, not looking at him either. She had already grown accustomed to the strange formality that hung between them, like an invisible barrier they both refused to address.
The silence in the room felt oppressive.
At night, when she finally allowed herself to lie in the uncomfortable bed and close her eyes, she could still feel Adrian's presence moving through the halls of the penthouse. She heard his footsteps, the faint click of a door opening, the low murmur of a phone call. His existence was constant, like a shadow she couldn't escape. Even in the quietest moments, he was always just a step away.
She was trapped.
But she wouldn't let him see how much it bothered her. She wasn't going to let him win, not now, not ever.
So she held her head high, even though her thoughts were a jumbled mess of anger, confusion, and desperation. She refused to acknowledge the way his eyes followed her whenever she moved through the apartment, as though he was studying her every action. It made her skin crawl. His gaze was unnerving—always intense, always calculating. It made her feel like she was a specimen under a microscope, like he was trying to figure her out, piece by piece.
She hated it.
She hated the way he had taken control of her life with that cold, clinical precision. She hated the way everything had been arranged, how her future was now a series of carefully mapped-out steps that she was expected to follow without question. But most of all, she hated how she was beginning to feel a strange, gnawing ache inside her every time he came near.
It was subtle—just the way he moved, the way he spoke, the cold command in his presence that made her feel small and powerless. The way he seemed so unbothered by everything, as if nothing was ever a challenge for him. He didn't care about her feelings. He didn't care about her family's struggles. He didn't care about the debt that had nearly consumed her life.
He only cared about one thing—control.
Adrian Sinclair thrived on it. And he was going to make sure she understood just how powerless she was in his world.
Lara wasn't naive. She knew this arrangement wasn't about love. It wasn't about partnership. It was about convenience. It was about Adrian's need to prove something, to maintain his image, to keep everything running according to his rules. And she was just the pawn in his game.
But she wasn't going to let him control her. She wasn't going to become a puppet, a shadow of the woman she had been. She had too much pride for that.
So, every day, she fought it. Every day, she found ways to remind herself that she wasn't weak, that she wasn't going to lose herself in his cold, calculated world.
When she passed by him in the hallway, she didn't acknowledge him. She kept her back straight and her head high. When they had to attend public events together, she put on her best smile, playing the role of his picture-perfect wife while keeping her distance emotionally.
But inside, it was a different story. Inside, she was simmering with frustration, resentment, and an overwhelming desire to break free.
And every time she looked at him, she couldn't shake the feeling that he was enjoying every second of it.
Adrian never showed emotion. It was something she had come to realize early on. The man who had taken over her life with a mere contract had no room for softness or sentiment. His eyes were always cold, calculating, and guarded. He was always two steps ahead, his mind a fortress she couldn't penetrate.
One evening, after a particularly exhausting day of attending events and playing the dutiful wife, Lara retreated to her room, shutting the door behind her with a soft click. The silence in the room was almost deafening compared to the constant buzz of the outside world. She flopped onto the bed, exhausted from the effort of keeping up the façade.
She didn't know how much longer she could keep pretending.
Her phone buzzed on the bedside table, interrupting her thoughts. She glanced at it, half-expecting it to be one of her few remaining friends checking in. But when she saw the name on the screen, her stomach twisted.
It was Adrian.
He never called her unless it was business. He never made an effort to ask how she was doing, never took the time to acknowledge her as anything but a means to an end.
She picked up the phone, her thumb hesitating over the answer button.
"Lara," his voice came through the phone, smooth and unemotional, like the first time he had spoken to her in that boardroom, when everything had started. "We need to discuss the upcoming gala. I need you to be ready."
Lara's stomach churned. She had known this moment was coming, had known that he would expect her to be nothing more than a perfectly orchestrated part of his public image. She had known that her role in this marriage would never extend beyond what served his interests.
"I'll be ready," she said, her voice tight.
"Good. I'll see you at seven," he replied, and the line went dead before she had a chance to respond.
Lara dropped the phone onto the bed with a heavy sigh.
It was all part of the game. And she was trapped in it.
But she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of breaking.
One year.
One year, and she would find a way out.
No matter what it took.