Evelyn
She hadn't expected him in her room.
Not after his cold declaration last night that he had no interest in sleeping with a child.
Even though she was a 21 year old adult by every standard. But to him, she clearly didn't qualify. His eyes, his tone, his distance they all screamed the same thing:
You are not what I want.
And that was supposed to be a good thing for her.
So why had his sudden presence in her room made her heart thump so loudly ?
She exhaled, closing the door behind him as he left. The car keys sat on her dresser.
He wasn't wrong.
The penthouse was secluded and too far from the college. It wasn't her fault she ended up here. but now that she had, she needed to manage it. The car would help. At the very least it will give her a little bit of freedom.
Evelyn climbed onto the bed and let her body sink into the soft mattress. It was huge, almost too much for someone like her.
She turned on her side, pulling the sheets up to her chin, her thoughts drifting deeper into memory.
She didn't even remember her biological father's face.
Just fragments , a scent, a hand. Then he was gone, and he came. Mikhail Martinez, her stepfather. The man who gave her his name, and very little else. He gave her bruises when she was younger, rules when she was older.
Her mother, Lucy, had once been warm. But that warmth melted away under the golden rain of expensive bags, wine, and vacations Mikhail lavished upon her.
So when Evelyn cried, Lucy simply looked away.
She'd learned early that comfort came at a cost and silence was cheaper than truth.
And now she was married off like property. Sold into a contract with a man whose jaw was sharp enough to cut and whose stare felt like a glacier scraping through her bones.
Alexander Asimov. Cold. Powerful. Handsomely terrifying.
Evelyn didn't know what scared her more, that he could ruin her life in a single word or that he might be the first man in her life who never laid a hand on her in anger.
She turned her face into the pillow, closing her eyes.
"One day, I just want to have a place of my own. A place where no one owns me. Where I'm not a pawn or a price or a favor wrapped in lace."
She didn't want luxury.
She just didn't want to end up homeless again.
Morning light spilled softly through the windows as Evelyn sat up slowly, the vast bed beneath her reminding her again just how far from normal her life had shifted.
A soft knock came, followed by the gentle voice of the housemaid.
"Ma'am, Mr. Asimov already left for work. He asked us to tell you that he arranged a few things for your comfort. I have arranged them in the wardrobe next room"
She got up and walked over to the large wardrobe in the next room. Slowly, she opened it.
Inside were several dresses, soft fabrics, subtle colors, neatly arranged They weren't gaudy or showy, but one look, one touch, and she could tell: these were expensive.
She closed the door.
No. She couldn't.
Wearing those clothes would feel like a betrayal. Not to Alexander but to herself. To the small, frayed version of her that had learned to survive with almost nothing. To the girl who watched her mother lose herself under diamonds and perfume, drowning in luxury while Evelyn cried herself to sleep night after night.
She didn't want to become like Lucy.
Evelyn wouldn't make the same mistake.
Because this life, this penthouse, this marriage, this strange and distant husband, it was built on uncertainty. She didn't belong here.
There was no guarantee how long she'd be allowed to stay. No matter how expensive the dresses, if Alexander decided he didn't need her anymore, she'd be out.
All she wanted was to finish her degree, find a job and save enough money to built her own small bakery and her own small house.
Because when this all falls apart, and she knew deep down, it would ,she refused to be the girl standing barefoot on the sidewalk, with nothing but pretty clothes and no place to go.
Alexander
Two weeks.
Two long, silent weeks since that night I walked out of her room, still feeling the warmth of her presence clinging to my skin like something I shouldn't want.
Since then, I hadn't seen Evelyn. Not once.
Every night, I came home after she had already fallen asleep. Every morning, I left before she woke up. It worked. The distance was comfortable. I told myself that was how it should be. After all, she had her world, and I had mine.
Besides, Mikhail had gone unusually quiet.
That bastard wasn't done. I knew it. He didn't bleed a man dry with just one play. He was greedy, calculated . He was planning something.
And I needed to be ready.
The day was a filled with meetings after meetings, Just when I thought I could call it a day, Dmitri walked in.
His face was not giving a good sign.
"What is it?" I asked .
He placed a tablet on the desk, the screen already lit up.
Meme pages. Gossip blogs. Screenshot after screenshot. Posts with my face. With hers.
At first, I didn't understand.
Then I saw her. Evelyn, in those pictures. Candid shots of her at college, walking alone, head down, wearing the same worn-out clothes she had when she first arrived. The shots were taken without her knowledge.
And the captions were filled with criticisms and mockery.
"Even a mistress would dress better."
"Billionaire's 'wife' or social experiment?"
"Is Alexander Asimov hiding a secret scandal behind this fake marriage?"
Each post twisted with mocking tones, speculations, conspiracies. Laughing at her. Mocking me.
I stood up.
Stormed out of the room.
Dmitri called after me, but I didn't stop.
I pulled out my phone and dialed her number. It rang once. Twice. Then she answered,
"Hello?"
"Where are you?" I asked,
"College," she said hesitantly.
"Wait there. Don't move."
I ended the call before she could ask why.
Because I was done pretending this marriage was a business decision.
Someone had crossed a line.
And now, I was going to fix it.