Grayson Lockwood had survived two proxy battles, a whistleblower scandal, and three consecutive quarters of federal scrutiny—but none of that had ever left him stranded, towel-wrapped, in front of his own closet at dawn, panicking about which collared shirt wouldn't betray him.
At 7:02 a.m. on a Saturday, a woman—his wife, technically—stood silhouetted in his bedroom doorway, her arms folded, a coffee steaming in one hand and open rebuke in her eyes.
"You cannot wear that," Evangeline declared.
He assessed her reflection in the closet mirror. Evangeline Hart. Coffee-balanced, wild-haired from sleep, alive in a way his penthouse never was. "It's a suit," he replied, adjusting his cuffs.
"It's a wall," she shot back, glancing past him at the phalanx of charcoal, slate, and black tailored armor. "Let me guess—one for each day of the disaster-response calendar?"
"These are professional commitments, not costume parties."
She stalked into the closet. "What are you—five shades of midnight? Did a Scandinavian spy agency sponsor your entire wardrobe?"
He arched a brow, fighting a smirk he refused to give her. "My wardrobe projects discipline and consistency."
She pressed his hangers apart with a critical sigh. "It projects nothing but avoidance. The board is meeting your wife today, Grayson. You might try looking like the kind of man who likes his own life."
He didn't roll his eyes, but only because his head was already pounding from a night spent answering Asia-market emails. "I'm not trying to look 'likeable,' Evangeline."
"That's fine. I've got the likable part covered. You can lean into—" she waved a hand, indicating his general aura, "—thundercloud chic."
She yanked out a navy suit. Still severe, but not funereal. "Wear this." She pressed it to his chest before he could protest.
He blinked. When had anyone last dared to order him around like this since—he didn't want to think about that.
She plucked out a slim silver tie next, then a crisp ice-blue shirt. "Trust me. Corporate, but not 'Remember me in your will.'"
He gave up, dropping his towel and donning the outfit under her watchful gaze. Evangeline watched like a set designer auditioning back-up dancers for her own musical.
"You're good at this," he muttered.
"You have no idea," she replied. "Now hurry. Your board likes punctuality more than you do."
He reached for his watch, stilling his hands just before they could betray nerves. Her gaze dropped to his mouth for just a second.
"What?" he asked, half-annoyed, half-disarmed.
She shook her head. "Nothing. Just... I've never seen you look human in the daylight."
He almost smiled. Almost. "Don't get used to it."
---
Town Car — 7:45 a.m.
In the back seat of the Lockwood town car, Grayson reviewed his email, triple-checking for press leaks and last-minute donor snafus. Evangeline, beside him, adjusted her pale blue skirt and tried to still her bouncing foot. Outside, Aurelia's skyline glittered in the watery morning sun. Inside, the tension built with every block they cruised.
She'd chosen quiet elegance—satin blouse, simple gold studs, hair twisted up—her armor softer than his, but no less intentional.
Lost in thought, Evangeline traced the rim of her coffee cup. She caught her own reflection in the car window: unmarred, composed, and yet—utterly fake.
"Don't look so tense," Grayson murmured without looking up.
She nearly snorted. "I'm about to play your smiling wife in front of half the city's elite. Sorry if I lack your sociopathic calm."
He set his phone aside. "You'll do fine."
"That's not reassurance. That's—what's the word? Oh right. Pressure."
A pause. Then: he reached out—hesitating as if he, too, were studying a wild animal—and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
She went perfectly still.
"So they believe it," he said, almost apologetic. "You should look like someone I touch without flinching."
She hated how easily that line found every unpatched crack in her. Her pulse stuttered at his touch—just a brush, just a performance, and yet...
"Points for method acting," she managed, voice lighter than she felt.
He looked away. "We do what we must."
She watched his profile: sculpted, shuttered, somehow both confident and completely vulnerable in that tiny gesture.
Outside, the Lockwood Group's foundation banner unfurled at the garden rooftop. Evangeline exhaled. Showtime.
---
The Armitage Foundation Charity Brunch – 8:10 a.m.
The rooftop was a riot of emerald grass, linen-draped tables, and a skyline that looked painted-on. String quartet music drifted over the crowd. Waiters poured orange juice like it was champagne. Money, power, and manufactured goodwill buzzed in the air.
As they emerged from the elevator, Grayson straightened his tie and scanned the crowd in a predator's sweep. Evangeline's hand settled on his arm—casual in the careful, slightly possessive way that convinced even the most cynical observers.
"Ready for Act One?" she whispered from the edge of her smile.
He didn't answer, but her fingers pressed reassuringly against his sleeve, anchoring him.
They navigated the gauntlet: board members, investors, socialites who glittered even at breakfast hour.
"Grayson!" A tall man with wire-rim glasses and a cosmetic-perfect tan approached, beaming. "And this must be the new Mrs. Lockwood. I'm Quentin Armitage. It's a privilege!"
Evangeline slid into the handshake with easy charm. "Evangeline Hart. Thank you for having us." Her voice was confident but low—a tone that made people lean in to hear, made them feel chosen.
Grayson let his hand rest lightly on her waist, a soft pressure encouraging her in closer.
The crowd built fast—directors, rivals, well-dressed sharks with beaming spouses. A woman in a skirt suit that cost twice Evangeline's rent curled an arm around her own husband, taking in Mrs. Lockwood with bright, careful eyes.
"So! Tell us, Evangeline, what's it like joining the most eligible bachelor in Aurelia?" she simpered, her smile sharpened at the edges.
Evangeline returned fire with perfect poise. "It's a shock discovering a CEO's life isn't all black-tie galas. I'm still getting used to the spreadsheets at breakfast."
Laughter rippled—diffusing the claws in the initial question. Grayson allowed himself the smallest nod of approval.
A portly board director with a lapel pin shaped like a yacht leaned over. "Children on the horizon, perhaps?"
Evangeline's smile never faltered. "Well, the boardroom is busy enough for now—I'd like to survive that first."
Someone else jumped in: "And what drew you to our Mr. Lockwood, Evangeline?"
She pretended to mull it over, then laid a hand on Grayson's chest. "He's actually more interesting off the record than on. Don't tell Forbes."
Genuine laughter, again. For a moment, even Grayson's guard slipped.
But in the gaps between these practiced lines, she monitored his tension: the flex of his jaw, the stillness in his shoulders.
For two endless hours, they wallpapered over every intrusive question. She fielded each with good-humored deflection. When a donor condescended—"I admire a woman who values ambition over domestic bliss"—she volleyed back, "Why not both? Grayson makes a mean cup of coffee and I build things that last. It's a modern marriage." The women smiled, a few men winced, and a handful of photographers caught her hand closing over his.
For one single shutter-clicking moment, their bodies were pressed close. He leaned toward her as the cameras snapped. Their hands touched, and for a heart-stopping beat, hers lingered where anyone could see.
She met his gaze. So close—too close. It wasn't just performance.
The cameras flashed. The board grinned. And her heart thundered in her chest, as if something wild and unplanned had slipped between them.
---
Interlude – Foundation Board, Aftermath
While the last photos were snapped and guests herded toward a scheduled "impromptu" Q&A, Grayson and Evangeline found a sliver of privacy beside a box hedge.
Her smile cracked for the first time.
"Are they always like this?" she whispered.
He didn't look at her, but his hand grazed the small of her back, an armored comfort. "Worse, some days."
She glanced back at the crowd, voice faintly panicked. "Did I do okay?"
He allowed himself a real answer. "You transformed a disaster into PR art. I'd offer a raise if you weren't already exorbitantly expensive."
She grinned, breathless with relief. "Wait until you see my overtime rates."
He readjusted his cuffs, voice lower. "You can drop the mask. For the next five minutes, you're reprieved."
She closed her eyes, exhaling, letting the mask slip. A small moment, barely a heartbeat of rest.
Overhead, the city buzzed on, indifferent.
---
Back in the Town Car – 10:22 a.m.
By the time the car doors thudded shut, Evangeline's feet throbbed and her smile muscles felt permanently strained.
She ripped off her heels, tossing them with reckless disregard into the far seat. "I'm never marrying up again," she groaned.
Grayson loosened his tie and arched a rare, wry eyebrow. "That would require divorcing down first. Not recommended for the market right now."
She let her head fall back. "I was one forced fertility comment away from flipping a table."
He almost, almost laughed. "Is this your breaking point? The cuisine's always worse at the winter gala."
She pitched a throw pillow at him, but he caught it one-handed—reflexes from boardroom brawls, it seemed.
"You handled yourself well," he offered, almost grudging.
"I had no idea head-patting comments were in your wheelhouse."
He shrugged and vanished into the kitchen briefly, returning with a glass of water. He set it within her reach, not making eye contact.
Evangeline blinked. "Did you just... mother-hen me?"
He didn't blink. "I'm maintaining hydration so you survive long enough to fulfill your contractual obligations. Standard risk management."
She grinned, the exhaustion loosening something inside her. "You are, by far, the weirdest man I've ever not-married."
---
Quick Flashback – Grayson's Study (Earlier That Morning)
After the event but before the next social ambush, Grayson retreated to his office for ten minutes of controlled breathing and damage assessment.
He reviewed photos from the morning, his mouth tightening as he saw the image of them, caught unguarded, hands touching. There was softness in his eyes he didn't recognize.
He turned them away. Locked the tablet. Reminded himself: six months, no more.
Just as he told himself to forget it, Evangeline's laugh from the kitchen drifted in—unpolished, honest. Like music he'd almost forgotten he liked.
He shut the door and, just for a second, pressed two fingers to his temple, wondering what the hell he was really risking.
---
Penthouse – Noon
The front door shut with a definitive thud. Shoes sailed across the entryway. Evangeline, hair tumbling from its once-perfect knot, collapsed face-down onto the living room couch.
"Next time you're required to parade me for charity, warn me first. I'll invest in more insincere smiles."
Grayson hovered in the kitchen, pausing only to pour two glasses of cold water.
He set one within arm's reach, as if hydration could fix existential exhaustion.
"You performed," he said. "They bought it."
"Maybe, or maybe they're just grateful you found someone who hasn't already sued you for emotional damages." She rolled over, grilling him with cautious hope. "Am I... okay at this?"
He leaned back against the counter, watching her. "You were the highlight of the event. PR's already requesting more photos for the foundation site. If you keep this up, we might actually survive until quarter two."
A beat.
"High praise," she said, arching a brow, "from the ice king himself."
He considered. "Temporary thaw. Don't get used to it."
---
Lunch — The Interrogation
Half an hour later, Evangeline rallied enough to boil pasta while Grayson, to her shock, hovered in the kitchen with a legal pad.
"What is that?" she asked, peeking at his scribbles.
He didn't look up. "I'm drafting guidelines for our next function. I consider the 'impromptu affection' clause ambiguous."
She laughed. "You're writing intimacy KPIs?"
He shrugged. "I believe in metrics."
She leaned over, peering at his list:
Frequency of touch: at least 1 per public interactionSmiles: aim for 0.6 per five minutes (adjustable)Familiar address: Use first name at least twice per conversation
She snatched the pad away. "If you quantify marital affection, you'll lose the only thing making this vaguely fun."
He reached for it back, blocking her with a gentle but inescapable grip.
"Return it," he said, his expression half-joking, half-predatory.
She dangled it just beyond his reach, then relented, laughing.
"Okay, fine, boss man. But let me teach you something. Sometimes lightness is a stronger defense than steel."
He paused. "Is that why you joke when you're uncomfortable?"
She looked away, suddenly serious. "Yes. And it's why I cook, too."
He allowed a pause. Then: "What's for lunch?"
She grinned. "Something you can't make in a conference room."
---
Domestic Interlude: The Burnt Lasagna Incident – 7:18 p.m.
Evening brought its own script—Evangeline hovering around the oven, Grayson lurking at the counter, watching with narrow-eyed caution.
"You're hovering," she accused, balancing a lasagna pan with practiced ease.
"I'm supervising," he retorted, folding his arms.
"This isn't a crisis acquisition. It's noodles and cheese."
"I'm just... observing. For risk mitigation."
She peered at him. "You want to learn to cook?"
He looked faintly horrified. "Absolutely not. But if I'm ever blackmailed into hosting another donor soirée, I want to understand lasagna's appeal."
She snorted. "Here's the trick—patience. And not overloading the mozzarella."
A moment later, the oven hissed and—whoosh—a plume of smoke erupted.
Grayson stepped back so fast his wrist hit the counter. "That's not part of the demonstration, is it?"
She wheezed with laughter, waving a towel frantically. "I might've gotten...overambitious with the cheese—"
The fire alarm split the silence, a shrill shriek.
"Oh, hell," she gasped, jabbing the oven with the towel.
Grayson took command. "Open the windows! I'll grab the fan."
In sixty seconds of pure chaos, she balanced a smoking pan on the sink, Grayson prodded the alarm with a mop, and together they looked every inch the disaster couple.
He caught her expression—tears streaming down her face, wild-haired, clutching a lasagna pan like a trophy.
"This," she crowed, breathing hard, "is what domestic bliss actually looks like."
For one second, Grayson—a man who'd never so much as cracked a smile in a public quarterly report—let out a reluctant, deep laugh. The sound surprised them both.
They surveyed the wreckage: lasagna ruined, kitchen smelling like defeat, dignity at a low ebb.
"Should I order pizza?" he ventured.
"That," she said, mock-solenn, "is the nearest thing you've said to an I love you."
He ignored her, but she saw the flush along his collar.
---
Later – Candlelight Pizza & Confessions
They sat on the living room floor around a cardboard pizza box, a glowing candle between them (her idea), bare feet tucked under designer tables.
Evangeline lifted her soda can. "To our first public disaster."
Grayson clinked his glass. "To short-lived fame and burnt cheese."
They both drank. For the first time, the silence wasn't awkward.
She munched on a slice. "You know, in an alternate universe, we'd be miserable right now."
He took a sip of water. "Luckily, I do my best work in alternate universes."
She grinned. "You didn't flinch when I almost set your flat on fire. I respect that."
He shrugged. "I've faced worse. Hostile auditors once locked me out of my own office for three hours."
"That's... bleakly impressive."
She sank back against the couch, exhaling. "So, Grayson Lockwood, what do you actually do for fun?"
He paused, almost sheepish. "I work."
She laughed so hard she nearly choked. "That's tragic."
He tried to muster offense. "Efficiency is its own joy."
She leaned her head back, eyeing him. "You know what would really scandalize your board?"
He waited.
"If you learned to relax. Even just... for a moment."
He shrugged. "Maybe you'll run out of cheese before then."
They shared another smile, this time less guarded.
---
Penthouse Balcony – Midnight, Unscripted Vulnerability
Later, Evangeline found herself drawn to the balcony, city lights shimmering below, a breeze tugging at her hair. Grayson joined her, standing beside but not too near, sipping coffee.
"Truth?" she said, voice tinny in the night.
"Always," he answered, surprising her.
She wrapped an arm around her ribs. "I didn't think I'd make it through today. I almost walked out halfway through the brunch."
He turned toward her, shadowed.
"I see you're still here," he said quietly.
She looked at him, meeting his dark gaze. "Because I realized... I want to win. Not just for me. For us. For this weird, broken arrangement."
He searched her face. "That's more than I asked for."
She shrugged, forcing a smile. "You can take the girl out of hope, but not the hope out of the girl."
He didn't laugh, didn't scoff. "That's why you're here. You hope, even now."
She considered. "And you don't?"
Grayson was silent, then risked honesty. "I used to. Before I learned happy endings are a marketing gimmick."
She stepped closer, careful not to push. "You do know the best stories are the ones that surprise their writers, right?"
He glanced at her, and it was as if some tectonic fault line between them had shifted a tiny increment. Not a quake. Just a warning.
"I'll keep that in mind," he said.
The city buzzed below, neither of them speaking, possibility coiling quietly between them.
---
Epilogue – New Rules
Grayson had just finished reviewing his last file of the night when he found a Post-it note stuck to his laptop, written in Evangeline's looping hand.
House Rules:
1. No suits at Sunday breakfast.
2. The next disaster must be dessert-based, not cheese-related.
3. You owe me one fake anniversary present (minimum retail value $5, max effort required).
He looked over the desk divider. Evangeline was curled on the couch, blanket pulled over her knees, sketching something in a battered spiral notebook. The lamp painted her face in soft, forgiving gold.
He realized he was... happy she was here. Not for optics. Not for press. For him.
"Evangeline?"
She looked up, half-asleep. "Yeah?"
He cleared his throat, unable to say what he meant. "Tomorrow. Coffee on the balcony at eight?"
She smiled, slow and real. "Sure, Grayson. I'd like that."
He would never admit—certainly not to her, not yet—that a single morning invitation felt riskier than any takeover he'd ever faced.
But in his chest, something unfamiliar and hopeful flickered.
And for the first time, he wondered if a contract could ever be enough.