Page 6 of Her Possessive Dominant Fake Husband

Her curiosity would've amused me if it hadn't felt so invasive. I considered ignoring her, but the night had been long, and I didn’t feel like keeping the walls up.

"You could say that."

Claire nodded, absorbing this without complaint. We lapsed back into silence, but it seemed loud. I couldn’t help but feel like my small admission had defused something.

Back at the penthouse, I found my mind already constructing the barriers I would need for the night ahead. Her calmness unsettled me; it saturated everything.

We entered the living room, its emptiness a stark contrast to the crowd we'd just left. Claire surveyed it like she was cataloging an exhibit, then turned to face me, patient and undemanding.

"So," she said, her tone deceptively casual. "What's next?"

"This way," I said, knowing the only certainty was the unknown we were both about to face.

My penthouse absorbed us like a waiting trap. I watched Claire navigate the unfamiliar space, each small glance at me a question she didn't voice.

She stopped in the center of my hallway, looking out of place and determined, like she might stake a claim or run for cover.

I offered the words as both explanation and challenge: "We're married now. Appearances matter." Her shock was almost beautiful in its sincerity, a wide-eyed refusal to accept the rules I’d set. But the contract was binding, and I wasn’t about to let her forget it.

I felt her hesitation like a force field we couldn't quite break through. Claire had walked through the wedding andreception with a grace that had unsettled me. Now, in my domain, the vulnerability crept back into her posture. It should've pleased me, this imbalance in my favor, but instead it crawled under my skin.

"Is this really necessary?" she asked, her voice catching on the space between each word as her gaze scanned my room and the bed she’d share with me.

I met her eyes, willing myself to stay as unyielding as I'd promised to be. "You agreed to convince everyone this is real."

Her look was incredulous, and for a moment, I thought she might laugh at the absurdity of it all. But the laughter never came, just a resigned nod that spoke volumes more than any protest.

"You could have warned me," she said, turning away with a tension in her shoulders I recognized as fear or defiance.

"It was in the contract," I said. She knew the terms. She'd signed on the dotted line.

Her steps were hesitant as we crossed into the master suite, and she fell slightly behind. She seemed smaller here, more fragile against the vastness of the room and the arrangement she couldn't escape.

"I didn't think you'd..." She trailed off, sounding almost strangled as she searched for the right accusation.

"Be serious about this?" I said, refusing to let her innocence soften my resolve. "Appearances matter, Claire. To everyone."

She seemed to absorb this, like a hit she should've seen coming but didn't. I watched her internally wrestle with the implications, the realization that the terms were not just ink on paper but walls she now lived within.

Finally, she retreated to the bathroom, and I watched her go. Despite her upbeat attitude, I could practically smell her discomfort, and the scent was… intoxicating.

The master suite felt larger than it had any right to be, and I couldn't escape the impression that I'd misjudged this negotiation. I removed my jacket, each motion more methodical than the last, a deliberate distraction from the woman in the other room.

What had I been thinking, involving her in this charade?

A billion-dollar gamble to gain the upper hand, yet here I was—uncertain. I don’t live in uncertainty. But Claire, so unpredictable and disarming, was a threat to everything I’d so carefully planned out. The ring felt more like captivity than I expected, and I messed with the gold band, wondering if I’d made a terrible mistake.

Then I remembered who I was. Alexander Reed didn’t make mistakes.

I heard the door open, and Claire stepped out. She wore modest pajamas that told me more about her than any words could. Her fresh, clean face was open, unguarded in a way I almost envied. I wondered if she knew how exposed she made me feel. She halted, the hollow at the base of her throat deepening as she took in the sight of me, shirtless and distracted.

"Um," she said, and it was more than I could handle—her awe, her innocence, the way she destabilized my carefully constructed world.

I glanced up, phone still in hand, pretending to be more involved in my work than her. "Problem?"

Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away, a gesture so innocent it struck me like a sledgehammer to the face. I endedthe email abruptly, more drawn to the puzzle she presented than the business at hand.

"We're… sharing this room, then," she said, a statement filled with question marks. I knew she was trying to ask a different question, but I wasn’t about to make this easy for her. Not when she’d made everything a challenge for me.

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