Victoria's presence spread through Leon's penthouse like smoke—poisonous, elegant, lingering even when you wanted it gone.
She sat there on the velvet sofa, legs crossed like she owned the place, wine glass balanced between her fingers like she had practiced for a photo shoot. Emerald silk draped over her body, expensive and deliberate.
Her eyes swept over me—my wrinkled dress, my exhausted face, the wedding band I still wasn't used to wearing. Her smile sharpened.
"Oh, sweetheart," she murmured, voice sweet as venom. "You're smaller than I expected."
My stomach tightened.
Behind me, Leon stepped forward. His voice dropped into the kind of cold that silenced rooms.
"Victoria. Put the glass down. Then leave."
She didn't. Of course she didn't. Women like her didn't obey. They performed.
She rose gracefully, sauntering toward him with the confidence of someone who believed the world still revolved around her.
"It's been what? A few days since I left for Milan?" she said, tilting her head. "Three? Four? And you replaced me with your secretary?"
I blinked.
Secretary?
Oh, Leon was absolutely going to hear about that comment later.
"That's enough," Leon said.
She touched his suit lapel, the gesture intimate and practiced. "You're angry. I understand." Her voice lowered. "I shouldn't have walked out. I should've stayed. I should've—"
"Victoria."
Just her name. Nothing more.
But the way he said it—ice, warning, final—made her hand freeze.
Slowly, she lowered it.
The temperature in the room dropped another ten degrees.
She turned toward me, smiling like she found me adorable… like a child playing dress-up in her mother's heels.
"So you're the new Mrs. Hale."
I swallowed. "Yes."
"Temporary, I assume," she said casually, swirling her wine.
The jab hit harder than expected.
Leon stepped between us. "You don't get to assume anything."
That surprised her. She blinked.
Then… she laughed.
"Oh my god, you're serious?"
Leon didn't smile.
Victoria's laughter died quickly.
"You can't be serious," she whispered. "Leon, this is me."
"No," he said. "This was you. Past tense."
Her face twisted. "I left because I needed time. Because you refused to propose. Because you refused to show affection publicly. Because you can't handle—"
"Stop." His voice sliced through her words.
But she didn't stop.
"You can't handle emotion. Or intimacy. Or commitment. You hide behind work. Behind logic. Behind that ridiculous detached executive persona. And now I come back, ready to talk, ready to fix things, and you're—"
"I'm married," he said.
Silence.
Not even the air dared move.
Victoria looked at him like she'd been slapped.
"No," she whispered. "You didn't. You couldn't have. You don't do anything impulsive."
"I do what's necessary," Leon said.
She stared. Then slowly turned toward me again, assessing me with a colder, sharper gaze now.
"This was for a reason," she said softly. "A business reason. You don't love her."
I opened my mouth—but Leon beat me to it.
"This isn't your concern."
"It is," she snapped. "Because you and I—"
"There is no you and I."
Her lip trembled. "You can't just erase five years."
"You erased them," Leon said, voice controlled but edged with something I'd never heard before. "When you walked out."
My heart thudded.
Victoria flinched. For the first time, she didn't look like a polished goddess—she looked like a woman who realized she'd lost something she thought she owned.
"Leon…" she whispered.
He didn't respond.
She set her wineglass down with trembling fingers. Then she returned her gaze to me.
"You," she said bitterly, "have no idea what you're getting into."
Her heels clicked sharply as she strode toward the elevator.
"Victoria," Leon said suddenly.
She paused.
"Don't come back," he said.
Her shoulders stiffened.
Then the elevator doors closed.
My breath finally released, shaky and loud.
The moment she vanished, Leon's body relaxed—but only slightly. He raked a hand through his hair once, exhaling slowly.
I braced myself for the interrogation. The tension. The awkward explanation.
Instead, he turned to me and said, very softly:
"Are you alright?"
I blinked. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"
"No."
Of course not.
He walked past me, loosening his tie, heading for the bar. He poured himself water—not alcohol. Interesting.
I crossed my arms. "So. That was your ex-fiancée."
"No."
"Leon. She claimed—"
"She was someone my family wanted me to marry," he corrected. "Not someone I chose."
I hesitated. "Did you… ever care for her?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Then:
"I respected her," he said. "But that isn't the same."
"Hm."
He glanced at me. "You have something to say."
"Not at all."
His brows lowered. "Amelia."
I sighed loudly. "Fine. She clearly thought you two were still together."
"She was wrong."
A beat.
"Did you ever tell her you weren't together?" I challenged myself.
Silence again.
"Oh my god," I said, incredulous. "You didn't."
He set his glass down a fraction too firmly. "I don't owe her explanations."
"You kinda do when she shows up here expecting to continue a relationship!"
He met my eyes.
"She walked away. I didn't chase her. That was the end."
I opened my mouth—then closed it.
Because truthfully… I understood.
More than I wanted to.
I cleared my throat. "So now what?"
"Now," he said, "you eat."
"What?"
"You haven't eaten since yesterday."
"I'm not hungry."
He gave me a look that translated to Try again.
"I'm fine."
"You're shaking."
I looked down.
Damn it.
I was.
Emotions catching up. Shock settling. Adrenaline fading.
Suddenly, the exhaustion hit me like a wave.
Leon stepped closer—slower than usual, like he didn't want to startle me.
"Sit," he said gently.
Gentle.
From him.
What alternate universe was this?
I sank onto the nearest bar stool.
He opened the fridge, pulling out ingredients. Actual ingredients. Not packaged meals. Leon Hale cooked? Since when?
"You cook?" I asked.
"I'm capable."
"That's not an answer."
He ignored me.
Within minutes, he had vegetables chopped, noodles boiling, chicken sizzling in a pan with garlic and ginger.
My jaw dropped. "Is this real? Should I film this as evidence?"
He shot me a flat look. "I cook when necessary."
"For who? Yourself?"
He sliced green onions with ruthless precision. "For family."
The word hit me square in the chest.
Family.
Not business.
Not colleagues.
Not partners.
Family.
I didn't know why that made my throat tight.
When he set the bowl in front of me—simple stir-fried noodles with chicken—it was steaming, fragrant, comforting.
"You made this for me?" I whispered.
"You're my wife," he said simply.
My heart did something reckless.
I picked up the chopsticks, hands slightly trembling. The first bite hit my tongue—warm, savory, unexpectedly perfect.
A ridiculous sound escaped me.
He paused. "Good?"
I nodded, cheeks burning. "Really good."
His shoulders loosened, tension easing just a little.
We ate in silence.
Not awkward.
Not heavy.
Just… quiet.
The good kind.
When the dish was empty, I set down the chopsticks and leaned back.
He watched me carefully, measuring my breathing, my exhaustion.
"You should rest," he said.
"I'll sleep in the guest room."
"No."
I blinked. "What do you mean, no?"
"There are no paparazzi inside the penthouse," he said calmly. "But if we're married, sharing a room is expected."
My throat tightened. "Expected by who?"
"The world."
"That's not the world. That's your imagination."
He held my gaze. "Amelia. People are already tracking us. The wedding was sudden. Suspicious. We need to appear aligned."
"I'm not sharing a bed with you."
He didn't look offended.
Or surprised.
"Fine. I'll sleep on the couch."
I blinked. "What?"
He shrugged lightly. "I've slept in worse places."
"No, Leon, I didn't mean—"
"Then take the bed."
"What about you?"
He began clearing dishes. "You're the one who needs sleep."
I stared.
He didn't try to touch me.
Didn't try to push.
Didn't guilt me.
Didn't manipulate.
He just… let me breathe.
Unexpectedly.
Unnerving.
And disarming.
After a long pause, I whispered, "Thank you."
He didn't look at me as he said, "You're welcome, Amelia."
And my stupid heart reacted again.
THE BEDROOM
When I stepped into the master bedroom, I expected cold marble, minimalist furniture, and clinical design.
Instead, it was warm. Soft lighting. Deep navy bedding. A bookshelf full of real novels. A window overlooking the city like a private universe.
The bed smelled faintly of cedar and something else… something like him.
I changed into one of the spare sleep shirts—a soft, oversized cotton T-shirt he must've set out for me—and slid under the covers.
Sleep came slower than expected. My mind raced.
Leon firing my ex.
Leon offers marriage.
Leon cooking.
Leon tells Victoria to leave and never come back.
Leon chose me.
Not for love.
Not romantically.
But still… choosing.
Sometime around dawn, exhaustion finally dragged me under.
I woke to a soft knock.
"Amelia," Leon's voice murmured through the door. "Breakfast is ready."
I blinked, disoriented.
Then everything flooded back.
I stepped out of the room, hair a mess, eyes half-open.
Leon stood there in a crisp dark suit, tie perfectly knotted, hair neatly styled…
…and holding a plate of waffles.
"You're awake," he said, as if confirming something important.
"You're… holding carbs."
He raised a brow. "You need energy."
"Are you trying to fatten me up? Feed me like livestock? What's happening?"
He almost smiled. Almost.
"Eat."
I took the plate, suspicious. "Why are you being nice?"
He paused. "Because yesterday was difficult."
My chest tightened.
"And today?" I whispered.
His eyes softened—barely. "Today will be easier."
He didn't promise it.
He simply believed it.
For some reason, that mattered.
I took a slow breath. "Leon?"
"Hm?"
"Thank you… for everything yesterday."
He nodded once. "You're welcome."
Then—before I could push further—his phone buzzed.
His jaw tightened as he read the message.
"What?" I asked.
He exhaled slowly.
"The press found out about the wedding."
My stomach dropped.
"And," he added, "your ex released a statement."
My fingers froze around the waffle plate. "What did he say?"
Leon's eyes met mine.
"He's claiming you were coerced into marrying me."
My heart plummeted.
"And," Leon continued, voice darkening, "he's requesting a police investigation."
My mouth went dry. "Into what?"
"Into your safety," Leon said. "He's implying I kidnapped you."
The plate slipped from my fingers.
Leon caught it with lightning reflexes. "Amelia."
I felt cold.
Numb.
Paralyzed.
"He's trying to ruin me," I whispered.
Leon's jaw flexed, eyes turning lethal.
"No," he said. "He just made a mistake."
"What… what do we do?"
He stepped closer.
"This," he said quietly, "is where our marriage becomes useful."
I stared at him. "What do you mean?"
His hand brushed mine—barely touching, just a whisper of warmth.
"We fight back," he said. "Together."
My heart pounded.
"Amelia," he murmured, "I told you yesterday everything would change."
His eyes locked on mine, sharp as a vow.
"Today," he said, "it begins."