The CEO's Reluctant Bride

Ava's pulse still raced as she followed Adrian out of the café. Her thoughts swirled with the weight of the photo and the threat. She wasn't naive, but this… this was something else.

Adrian's phone remained glued to his ear, his voice a controlled murmur as he barked orders to his security team. Every step he took was calculated, like a man used to handling crises—but the set of his jaw spoke volumes. He was angry. Not the kind that exploded—but the type that simmered, dangerous and precise.

When he finally hung up, Ava folded her arms. "Well? Care to share with the class?"

"You're staying with me." His tone left no room for argument.

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"My penthouse is secure. Your apartment clearly isn't."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Wow, arrogant and presumptuous. I can take care of myself—"

"Really?" He pulled out his phone and showed her a live feed—security footage from outside her building. A figure, face obscured, was trying to pick her lock.

Her bravado crumbled. "How—"

"I have resources." He pocketed the device. "This isn't a game, Ava."

She hesitated. Pride battled with fear—pride lost. "Fine. But this doesn't make us friends."

He didn't smile. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Sinclair Penthouse – Later

The elevator doors opened to reveal Adrian's home—sleek, minimalist, and absurdly spacious. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the glittering skyline, while dark leather furniture and polished steel fixtures completed the picture of cold sophistication.

Ava stepped in, arms crossed. "Let me guess—decorated by someone who thinks 'comfort' is a dirty word?"

"Practicality trumps clutter," he said.

She shot him a look. "Bet you're a riot at parties."

He ignored the jab. "Guest room's down the hall. Stay there."

"Oh, thank you, Your Majesty." Sarcasm dripped from her words, but exhaustion tugged at her edges. Today had been... a lot.

Dinner – Tension Served Cold

Despite herself, hunger won out. Adrian had ordered takeout—gourmet, of course—but still food. They sat at the glass dining table, a chasm of tension between them.

"So," she began, stabbing at her pasta, "are you ever going to explain why I had to be your fake wife? Or are you just a fan of tormenting me?"

His fork paused mid-air. "I needed someone who wouldn't get attached."

The words landed like a slap. "Wow. Charming."

"It's business."

"Right. Because feelings are inconvenient for people like you."

His gaze darkened. "Careful."

"No," she shot back, leaning forward, "you dragged me into this mess. The least you can do is be honest."

Silence stretched—thick, heavy. Finally, he spoke. "There's pressure from the board. Rivals looking for weaknesses. A stable personal image makes things... easier."

"That's not the whole story."

He met her gaze. "No. But it's all you need to know."

Frustration simmered in her veins, but pressing further felt pointless—for now.

Later – A Shaken Foundation

Ava retreated to the guest room, grateful for space. The room, like the rest of the penthouse, was immaculate—soft gray sheets, minimalist decor—but it felt sterile. Cold.

She sank onto the bed, pulling out her phone. You've made a dangerous choice. The message played on a loop in her mind. Why me?

Before she could spiral, a knock sounded. Adrian stood in the doorway, expression unreadable. "Lock the door when you sleep."

"Wow, thanks for the bedtime story," she muttered.

He didn't rise to the bait. "Whoever's behind this... it's not just about me. They want to hurt you."

Her chest tightened. She hated the vulnerability clawing up her throat. "Goodnight, Adrian."

He lingered a beat before nodding and walking away.

Final Scene – Brewing Storm

Adrian returned to his study, closing the door behind him. His phone buzzed—a private line.

"Speak."

A voice, distorted and cold, answered. "If you value her life, call off the gala appearance."

His fingers curled into a fist. "Not happening."

The line went dead.

Staring out at the city skyline, Adrian's jaw tightened. Whoever was behind this had just made it personal.