Elena's POV
The doorbell rings at exactly 7:00 AM.
I'm still shoving clothes into Adrian's closet when I hear it. My things look ridiculous next to his—cheap department store dresses beside thousand-dollar suits.
She's here, Adrian calls from the hallway. Get out here. Now.
I smooth my hair and rush to the living room. Adrian already has the door open.
A woman in her fifties stands there with two suitcases and a briefcase. Steel-gray hair pulled back tight. Sharp eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She looks like a principal who enjoys giving detention.
Mr. Blackwell. Her voice is crisp. Professional. I'm Patricia Werner. The board sent me to monitor your living situation.
Of course. Adrian's smile is perfectly pleasant. Perfectly fake. Please, come in. This is my wife, Elena.
Patricia's gaze cuts to me. Studies me like I'm a bug under a microscope.
Mrs. Blackwell. She doesn't offer her hand. I'll be staying in your guest room for the next three weeks. I hope that's not an inconvenience.
Not at all, I lie.
Patricia walks past us, already taking notes in a small notebook. She examines everything—the kitchen, the living room, the hallway.
Which bedroom is yours? she asks.
The master suite, Adrian says smoothly. Down this hall.
He takes my hand. Leads Patricia to his, our bedroom. The bed is still unmade from where I slept alone last night. My suitcase sits open on the floor.
Patricia's eyebrow raises slightly. Still unpacking?
We just got back from our honeymoon yesterday, Adrian lies without missing a beat. Haven't had time to organize everything yet.
I see. She writes something down. And you've been married how long?
Three days, I answer.
Quite new then. Patricia's smile doesn't reach her eyes. I'll try not to intrude on your newlywed bliss.
The way she says it makes my skin crawl. She doesn't believe us. I can see it in her face.
Breakfast is torture.
Patricia sits at the kitchen counter with her notebook, watching us like a hawk. Adrian makes coffee—two cups, both black.
I take a sip and immediately make a face. This is awful.
You don't like coffee? Patricia asks, pen poised.
I do. Just not black. I reach for the sugar.
Adrian's hand catches my wrist gently. Two sugars, no cream. That's how you take it, remember?
I stare at him. We've never had coffee together. How does he know
Oh. He's testing me. Seeing if I'll play along.
Right. I force a smile. I forgot.
You forgot how you take your coffee? Patricia's pen moves across the page.
I'm not awake yet, I snap. Too defensive. I need to calm down.
Adrian adds two sugars to my cup. Stirs it. Slides it back to me with a small smile.
Better? His voice is gentle. Loving.
I take another sip. It's still terrible, but I nod. Perfect. Thank you, honey.
The word honey feels foreign in my mouth. Adrian's eyes flash with something—amusement? Approval?
Patricia watches us over her glasses. How sweet. You take care of each other.
Always, Adrian says, his hand finding mine on the counter.
The moment Patricia looks away to write something, he drops my hand.
The entire day is like this.
Patricia follows us everywhere. When Adrian works in his home office, she sits in the corner. When I read in the living room, she happens to walk by every ten minutes.
We have to touch constantly. Adrian's hand on my back as we pass in the hallway. My fingers brushing his shoulder when I bring him coffee. Small kisses on the cheek when Patricia is watching.
But the second she leaves the room, Adrian steps away like I'm contagious.
By evening, I'm exhausted from pretending.
I'm making dinner, I announce, desperate for something to do with my hands.
You cook? Patricia asks, following me to the kitchen.
Of course. Another lie. I can barely boil water.
I pull out ingredients randomly. Pasta. Tomatoes. Garlic. How hard can this be?
Very hard, apparently.
Twenty minutes later, the kitchen is a disaster. Sauce everywhere. Pasta stuck to the ceiling somehow. The smoke alarm is screaming.
Adrian rushes in, yanks the pan off the stove. What are you doing?
Cooking! I shout over the alarm.
You're burning the building down! He waves a towel at the smoke detector until it finally stops.
I was trying to make dinner
Elena, you can't cook. Why are you pretending you can?
Because Patricia I stop. Look over.
Patricia stands in the doorway, watching us with interest.
Sorry, I say quietly. I wanted to make you a nice meal. I guess I'm not very good at it.
Adrian's expression softens. He steps closer, tucking hair behind my ear in a gesture that looks tender but feels mechanical.
It's fine, he says gently. I'll order takeout. You tried. That's what matters.
But his eyes say something else: Stop improvising.
Patricia smiles. How lovely. Even your arguments are cute.
That night, I get ready for bed in the bathroom. Put on the most modest pajamas I own—long pants, long sleeves. Try to delay the inevitable.
When I finally come out, Adrian is already in bed. Shirtless.
Of course he sleeps shirtless.
Left side or right? I ask awkwardly.
You choose.
I climb onto the left side. Put a pillow between us like a barrier.
Adrian raises an eyebrow but says nothing.
We lie there in the dark. Miles of space between us despite sharing a bed.
Today was exhausting, I whisper.
It's only day one, Adrian says. Three more weeks of this.
I can't do three weeks.
You have to. His voice is firm. We both do. There's no other option.
Silence falls. I stare at the ceiling, hyperaware of him beside me. His breathing. His warmth.
Adrian? I say quietly.
What?
Why does Patricia really hate us? It feels personal.
He's quiet for a long moment. Because Marcus is paying her to find proof our marriage is fake. She's not a neutral observer. She's a spy.
My blood chills. So we can't slip up even once.
No. We can't.
I close my eyes. Try to sleep. But every nerve in my body is screaming that there's a stranger in my bed.
Eventually, exhaustion wins.
I wake to warmth.
Strong arms wrapped around my waist. Body heat surrounding me like a cocoon. Someone's breath against my neck.
Adrian.
He's pulled me against his chest in his sleep. Our bodies pressed together. His arm heavy across my stomach, holding me close.
I should pull away. Wake him up. Remind him this is just business.
But he's so warm. And I haven't been held since Derek left. Haven't felt safe in days.
Just for a minute, I tell myself. Just one minute.
I let my eyes close again. Let myself pretend this is real.
Adrian shifts, pulling me closer. His lips brush my shoulder—unconscious, instinctive.
My heart pounds.
Elena, he murmurs. Still asleep. Lost in dreams.
Then his body goes rigid. He jerks awake.
For three seconds, we don't move. His arm still around me. My back against his chest.
Then he pulls away so fast I almost fall off the bed.
Sorry, he says roughly. I didn't mean
It's fine. My face burns. You were asleep.
It won't happen again.
He gets out of bed. Disappears into the bathroom without looking at me.
I lie there, cold where his warmth used to be.
My phone screen glows on the nightstand. 3:47 AM.
A notification flashes:
New message
Unknown number: Check the cameras. Patricia installed three yesterday. One in the bedroom. Smile, you're being recorded.
I sit up, heart racing.
Cameras? In our bedroom?
I look around frantically. Notice a tiny light blinking near the bookshelf. Another by the closet.
They're watching us. Recording everything.
Even now. Even this moment.
The bathroom door opens. Adrian emerges.
We have a problem, I whisper, showing him the message.
His face goes white.
Then we both look up at the cameras.
And realize we've been sleeping in separate sides of the bed.
Looking exactly like strangers pretending to be married.