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"Sometimes, the most dangerous kind of closeness is the one wrapped in silence, stitched with glances, and sealed by a contract neither heart agreed to."
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The moment they got into the car, the door slammed shut with a suddenness that had Keira feeling like she was sealed inside a vault, not a luxury vehicle.
The air conditioning was cold. Too cold.
Maybe it was just him.
Rayyan settled to the opposite side, one leg over the other in prim tidiness, his hand draped loosely across the armrest as if they had not just performed a perfect replica of love before a crowd of hundreds. His tie was unknotted, but the clench of jaw remained firm.
Keira stared out the window, watching the city blur by. She was still wearing her silver gown—the one his assistant had picked, the one Rayyan hadn't complimented, but couldn't stop glancing at during the gala.
She saw it.
She always saw it.
But now? Now he was back to being marble. Untouchable. Cold.
"I'm guessing that went terribly, in your perfect little rulebook," she muttered.
Rayyan didn't respond.
She stared at him. "You could thank you, at least."
"For what?"
"For playing your wife. So flawlessly. Again."
Rayyan's eyes finally moved to hers. Dark, impenetrable. "No one instructed you to improvise."
She blinked. "Improvis—?"
"The champagne toast," he cut in. "The smile you gave Anderson. The extra time you lingered on stage."
"Oh, certainly, the smile that gave your company a soul?" she snapped back. "You're welcome."
Rayyan leaned back on the seat, his eyes closing for an instant as if counting to ten or a hundred. "This isn't about you being well-liked."
"Oh, sure. God forbid your wife be a character."
"You're supposed to be a presence. Not a role."
That stung.
She spun away, her voice frostier now. "Hilarious. I thought that was the extent of all this marriage."
Rayyan did not reply.
The driver shifted gears in front.
The car rode smoothly through the city, but all of it inside was jagged angles and cold breath.
Keira crossed her arms, settling slightly away from him.
There were minutes.
Then
"You didn't have to touch me," she whispered. "On stage."
Rayyan moved his head. "It was good for the cameras."
"You think only in terms of optics."
"I think optics are the only thing that cause you to wear that dress, in this car, and in my life."
The words weighed.
They were meant to cut.
And they did.
But she did not permit him to see it.
Rather, she offered him the most brittle smile she could muster. "Then I hope I looked good, Rayyan. For your brand."
He remained silent.
And the rest of the ride was all quiet—not exhausted, not peaceful. Just the kind of quiet that chokes. The kind of quiet that makes you wonder if two individuals managed to sit inches apart from one another and still feel as though they were on different planets.
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The house was dark when Keira crept downstairs.
She didn't even switch the lights on. She knew the way well enough now eleven steps from the master bedroom to the grand staircase, seven down to the landing, thirteen to the study. The rhythm had become second nature, a soundless melody she stepped through in her head.
The study door was ajar halfway. Welcoming.
Or a trap.
Her fingers hesitated on the doorknob. Then she opened it with the quietest motion she could manage.
No bell. No squeak. Just quiet.
She stepped across the threshold.
The study was full of the scent of wood polish, leather, and the very faintest whiff of Rayyan's perfume subtle but sharp. It clung to her skin as she stepped across the doorstep.
It was all in order. Of course it was. Nothing in Rayyan's life was ever out of order. Not the pens on his desk. Not the books on his shelf. Not even her.
Keira's fingers hovered on the edge of the desk. She looked around once more no sound, no sign of movement and then yanked open the middle drawer.
In it: manila folders, alphabetically arranged. Contracts, reports, project deadlines. She riffled through them quickly, silently, and then
Her breath caught.
Her name.
"Davenport, Keira."
A folder.
Neat. Heavy.
She opened it.
Inside: photocopies of the marriage contract. The legal one. Stamped. Notarized.
And then
A second sheet of paper.
Clipped behind the first.
Addendum to Primary Agreement – PRIVATE.
Her heart racing.
She knew that she wasn't supposed to read it.
She also knew that she absolutely would.
She opened it up.
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Clause 6: Subject A (Keira Davenport) is not to be informed of Clause 10 until the end of the 12-month probationary period.
Clause 10: In the event of breach, Alverdine Corp will retrieve all tangible and intangible property of the Davenport family estate without negotiation.
Her fingers trembled.
She kept on reading.
Clause 14: Public affection to be displayed as required according to corporate appearance schedule.
Clause 15: Emotional attachment not encouraged. Physical intimacy at discretion. No obligation.
Her eyes were blurred.
She blinked hard.
A sentence from Rayyan's writing cold, slanted, sharp.
"Don't be trusted with full disclosure. Protect assets. Protect image."
Keira stepped back from the desk, breath stuck in her throat.
She was sick.
Sick to her stomach.
As if the floor had shifted under her.
This was not a marriage.
This was not even a partnership.
This was containment.
A white silk cage.
___________________________________________________________________________________She closed the folder.
Shoved it back precisely where it had been.
Her fingers worked with precision, but her mind was chaos.
Her breast was pinched. Her throat burned.
What is he hiding apart from?
And why. why did she still insist on believing there was something more to the manner in which he looked at her?
She did not cry.
Not yet.
She turned off the light on the desk, moved back out into the corridor, and ascended the stairs with the same dignity she used for public performances.
But the facade was starting to break down.
And Rayyan didn't know what hit him.
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Keira didn't sleep.
She rolled over and over, her mind reciting each sentence of that fucking report. Each phrase. Each clause.
"Emotional attachment discouraged."
Right.
Because apparently, her heart hadn't gotten the memo.
The sun was already visible above the curtains when she finally emerged from bed. She tiptoed into the kitchen in bare feet, hair pulled up into a sloppy twist, an oversized linen shirt, and short shorts that were barely decent.
Not that she cared.
Not that he cared.
Probably.
She approached the cabinet to grab it and nearly jumped when she saw the coffee machine already on.
Coffee was brewing.
And there was a cup of coffee on the counter.
With her name on it.
Her actual name—Keira—in tiny, tidy letters on a post-it note stuck to the side.
She blinked.
And blinked again.
"What the—"
"Don't overdo it," a voice said behind her.
She turned.
Rayyan was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, still dressed in a soft grey long-sleeve top that seemed to make him look infuriatingly expensive for 7 a.m. Hair pinned back. Just showered. Eyebrows exactly irritated, as ever.
She squinted. "You made me coffee?"
"I turned on the machine," he replied. "Gravity took care of the rest."
She picked up the mug, sniffed it mistrustfully. "So the note typed itself too?"
He ignored her and walked past, grabbing his own black mug—the one she saw him use every morning. The one that had a small crack near the handle, but he never replaced it.
Classic.
Unfixable.
Just like him.
She sipped the coffee. It was perfect. Slightly sweet, just how she liked it.
She refused to react.
"So," she said, setting the mug down casually. "Any reason you're being… vaguely human today?"
Rayyan raised a brow. "Vaguely?"
"Don't push your luck."
He took a sip. "I thought if I didn't give you caffeine, you'd set the house on fire."
"I still might."
He grinned. Just a fraction.
And that made her madder than she should have let it.
She leaned against the counter. "You always this nice in the morning?"
"Only when I regret not locking my study."
Her eyes went narrow.
His stayed impassive.
But there was a spark. A tiny one. Like he knew.
He knows I saw it.
But he wouldn't mention it.
Not unless she did.
Coward.
She stood upright again and walked toward the pantry. His eyes followed her, subtle but unmistakable. The shirt she wore swayed slightly as she moved, revealing more leg than necessary.
She didn't miss the way he shifted in place.
"Something wrong, Rayyan?" she asked innocently.
"No."
"You're staring."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"You're hallucinating."
Smiling, she pulled out a croissant. "Maybe. Or maybe you're not as cold as you sound."
He set his mug down gently.
Passed by her again.
But as he passed by, he brushed her hand—barely a second. Like a touch of contact.
She stood.
So did he.
They didn't say a word.
Then he spoke quietly, barely loud enough, "You may want to change before the staff comments on you being half-naked."
She turned, slow smile spreading across her face. "And if they do?"
Rayyan in the doorway, glanced back once.
His eyes dark. His voice low.
"Then I'll remind them to whom you belong."
And then he disappeared.
Just like that.
Leaving Keira standing there in the kitchen, steaming coffee mug in her hand, heart pounding in her chest
And the smallest, deadliest smile playing on her lips.
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END OF CHAPTER 4
"They're not touching. Not yet. But something touches them anyway—heavy, unspoken, undeniable. It's not love. It's not even trust. It's the beginning of a war between control and surrender."
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