Matteo burst into laughter, nearly spilling his drink, when George finally confided in him about his problems.
"This is rich!" Matteo grinned. "Two days ago, the soon-to-be CEO of El Ecuador was living the dream… and now? The billionaire gets dumped by his own wife."
George exhaled heavily, rubbing his temple. "She's just… too hard-headed."
"And you," Matteo shot back with a teasing smirk, "are a control freak. You can't win against a woman like that by trying to cage her. If you want this to last another three months, you need to tame the tigress without breaking her spirit."
"This isn't working, bro," George muttered, slumping in his seat. "I don't even know where to start. We clash over everything."
He had just dropped Nerissa off and now found himself in a quiet corner of the bar with Matteo, hoping the alcohol would drown out his frustration. He cancelled their family dinner after that.
"That's because you're not giving her your best shot," Matteo said, leaning forward. "Why not start by forgetting Isabelle for a while and just focus on Nerissa? Isabelle's busy with her career, and she's not about to risk making your relationship public. If you can't be a husband to Nerissa… at least try being her friend."
George stared into his glass, Matteo's words echoing in his mind. Friend. Could he really do that?
He downed one shot. Then another. And another. The burn in his throat was nothing compared to the ache in his chest. By the time he set the glass down again, the room was tilting and his thoughts were drowning in amber.
Missing someone was painful—more so when that someone was still chasing her dreams. Isabelle was an actress, her life wrapped in cameras and secrets. Their relationship was a shadow she couldn't afford to reveal.
And then there was Nerissa. His wife. His infuriating, intoxicating wife—stirring emotions in him he didn't even understand. A hard-headed, beautiful woman who could drive him to the edge… and keep him there.
George woke to the sharp sting of daylight stabbing through the blinds. His head pounded in sync with his heartbeat, a steady, merciless drum. The bitter taste of last night's whiskey still lingered on his tongue.
He sat up slowly, gripping his temples. He didn't remember how he got home—only the vague blur of Matteo's laughter, the clink of glasses, and the words that still echoed like a whisper in the back of his mind.
Be her friend first.
He scoffed under his breath. Friendship with Nerissa? The woman treated him like an unwanted obligation, a deal she was forced into. And yet… he couldn't deny she had a hold on him. That infuriating spark in her eyes, that sharp tongue, the way she could get under his skin without even trying.
He dragged himself out of bed and stepped into the shower, letting the cold water jolt him awake. But even the icy sting couldn't wash away the memories. Isabelle's smile haunted him—the way she used to look at him like he was the only man in the world. But Isabelle belonged to a world of flashing cameras and red carpets, and he was a secret she could never afford to love in the open.
Then there was Nerissa—real, present, and maddening. She didn't hide behind fame or polite lies. She met him head-on, even if it meant clashing every time they spoke.
Pulling on a crisp shirt, George glanced at his reflection. He looked tired… but there was something else in his eyes. Something restless.
Maybe Matteo was right. Maybe being her friend was the only way to get close to her. But with a woman like Nerissa, friendship could be just as dangerous as love.
He grabbed his keys, determination settling in his chest. Whatever this was between them—war, truce, or something in between—he wasn't walking away. Not yet.
Nerissa sat by the balcony, a steaming cup of coffee cradled in her hands. The city was already alive beneath her—horns blaring, street vendors calling out their wares, the scent of morning bread drifting up from the bakery below. But her mind wasn't on the city.
It was on him.
George had dropped her off last night without a word, his jaw set, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. She didn't ask where he went afterward—she didn't need to. She knew he'd be drinking with Matteo or burying himself somewhere he could forget she existed.
She told herself it didn't matter. This marriage was nothing more than a contract, a transaction binding two stubborn strangers. But last night, when she climbed into bed alone, the emptiness in the room felt heavier than she expected.
She sipped her coffee slowly, trying to shake the thought. George was impossible—arrogant, controlling, and infuriatingly unreadable. One minute he was cold and dismissive, the next he was unexpectedly attentive, like he was trying to figure her out but didn't know where to start.
And Isabelle…
Nerissa's fingers tightened around the cup. She had seen the name flash on his phone once. She had heard the soft, almost tender tone in his voice when he thought she wasn't listening. She didn't know who Isabelle was exactly—but she knew enough.
Still, she wasn't about to ask. She wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of knowing she cared.
A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. She opened it to find the maid holding out a neatly folded note.
"From Mr. George, ma'am," the maid said softly before stepping back.
Nerissa unfolded the note, expecting another clipped instruction or a reminder of some social event she needed to attend for his sake. Instead, it was just five simple words, scrawled in his sharp handwriting:
Let's talk. Dinner. Tonight.
Her lips curved into the faintest smile—though she quickly forced it away.
"Well, well," she murmured, tucking the note into her robe pocket. "The control freak wants to talk."
But as she stepped back into the apartment, her heart was already betraying her, beating a little faster than it should.
The restaurant George chose wasn't the kind of place for business meetings or formal dinners. It was warm, intimate, dimly lit with soft golden lights reflecting off polished wood. The scent of rosemary and grilled steak drifted in the air, a quiet contrast to the tension between them.
Nerissa arrived fashionably late, gliding toward the table in a sleek black dress that clung just enough to make his jaw tighten. Her heels clicked against the floor, each step a reminder that she could command a room without trying.
"You're late," George said, but his voice lacked its usual sharpness.
She set her clutch on the table and met his gaze. "I didn't realize this was a board meeting. Did I miss the agenda?"
He exhaled through his nose, suppressing the retort that rose instinctively. Be her friend first, Matteo's voice echoed in his head.
"I just wanted us to talk," he said instead.
She arched a brow, signaling the waiter without breaking eye contact. "Talk? About what? How I should be a more… obedient wife?"
The waiter poured her wine. George waited until they were alone again before answering. "No. About… us."
Nerissa took a slow sip, letting the glass linger at her lips before she set it down. "There is no us, George. There's a contract. Paper. Signatures. Obligations. Nothing more."
He leaned forward, his voice low. "I don't want it to stay that way."
She tilted her head, feigning curiosity. "And what exactly do you want it to be?"
"A partnership. Friendship. Maybe even—" he stopped himself, glancing away briefly before his gaze locked back on hers. "—something that doesn't feel like we're at war all the time.
He stilled, eyes narrowing just slightly. "Let us just be friends."
George studied her across the table. She was still a fortress, still testing his defenses, but he could see something flicker in her eyes—a spark, faint but real.
"I'm not your enemy, Nerissa," he said quietly.
"Maybe not," she replied, lifting her wine glass again. "But you're not my friend either."
It wasn't a declaration. It was a challenge. And as she took another slow sip, George realized that whatever game they were playing had only just begun.
The next morning, George decided that if Matteo's advice was worth anything, he had to make the first move. No grand gestures. No controlling demands. Just… something simple.
He left the office earlier than usual, a brown paper bag in his hand and a ridiculous hope in his chest. Inside was her favorite strawberry shortcake from a patisserie she had once mentioned in passing. He remembered because she rarely talked about her preferences, and he figured this might be his way in.
The elevator doors opened to the penthouse, and he stepped into the living room. The sound of soft music drifted from the balcony, mixed with the faint aroma of Nerissa's perfume.
She was there—curled up on the lounge chair, wearing a silk robe, her hair falling loosely over her shoulder. A laptop rested on her knees, the glow of the screen reflecting in her eyes.
George cleared his throat. "I brought you something."
She didn't look up right away, just kept typing. "What is it? Another reminder of what time I should wake up? Or a schedule for when I'm allowed to breathe?"
His jaw flexed, but he kept his tone calm. "It's cake."
That made her pause. She glanced at him, eyes narrowing slightly. "Cake?"
"Yes. From that little bakery on First Street. You mentioned it once. Thought you might like it."
Her expression softened—just for a moment—before she set her laptop aside and rose to her feet. She took the bag from him, peeking inside. "Well… points for memory, I suppose."
He smirked faintly. "See? I can be thoughtful."
"Hmm." She took the cake out and placed it on the table. "So tell me, George… is this a peace offering, or are you fattening me up for the slaughter?"
He chuckled. "Peace offering."
She cut a slice and sat down, tasting the first bite. "It's good," she admitted, almost reluctantly. "But—"
"But?" he asked warily.
She leaned back in her chair, her lips curving into that infuriating smile. "You think bringing me cake erases everything else? That one sweet gesture changes what we are?"
His smirk faded. "No. But it's a start."
"That's your problem," she said, picking up her fork again. "You think you can 'start' on your own terms. Friendship doesn't work like that. Trust doesn't work like that."
He swallowed hard. "Then how does it work with you?"
She looked him straight in the eye, the bite of cake still on her fork. "It doesn't."
And with that, she turned back to her laptop, leaving the cake between them like a silent reminder that some walls can't be broken with sugar and good intentions.
For the rest of the day, George tried to brush off her words. He buried himself in meetings, signed papers without really reading them, and even forced a laugh or two with his staff. But every time his mind wandered, her voice returned, sharp and unyielding.
It doesn't work with you.
By evening, he couldn't hold it in anymore. The house was quiet when he stepped inside, the city lights spilling in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Nerissa was at the dining table, still working on her laptop, her face bathed in the cool glow of the screen.
"Do you even care?" he asked, his voice low but edged with something dangerous.
She didn't look up. "About what?"
He moved closer. "About anything between us. About this marriage. About trying."
Her fingers kept typing. "I told you before—this is a contract, George. You got what you wanted. I got what I needed. We coexist. That's it."
"Stop saying that," he snapped.
That made her pause. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to his, her expression cool and unreadable. "Why? Because you don't like hearing the truth?"
He stepped around the table, standing just inches from her. "Because it's not the truth. You don't just coexist with someone and remember the name of their favorite bakery. You don't just coexist and notice when they're upset even when they don't say a word. You—"
He stopped himself, jaw clenching. His chest rose and fell with his breathing.
She tilted her head, studying him. "You think that means something?"
"It means you feel something," he said, his voice hardening. "And you're too stubborn to admit it."
Her lips curved, but it wasn't a smile. "You want me to feel something for you? Is that it?"
He leaned down, close enough that she could feel his breath. "I want you to stop hiding behind your walls and actually try. Stop punishing me for things I don't even understand. Stop treating me like I'm the enemy when all I'm trying to do is—" He caught himself again, the word care caught in his throat.
She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face. And for the briefest second, he thought she might finally say something real.
Instead, she rose from her chair, brushing past him toward the balcony. "Careful, George," she said softly, her back to him. "You're starting to sound like you want me."
His fists clenched at his sides. He wanted to argue, to demand answers, but instead he just stood there, watching her silhouette framed against the city lights. And in that moment, he realized something chilling—
He already did. This woman makes him feel a rollercoaster ride, and it amazed him because she is so damn different.