Moving into Michael Graze's penthouse felt less like stepping into a home and more like entering a high-security art museum. Everything gleamed with that specific shade of rich-person-white that somehow never gets dirty. The furniture—all hard edges and uncomfortable modern designs—seemed to whisper "don't you dare sit here" through invisible force fields.
Hazel's suitcase wheels left temporary indentations in the pristine ivory carpet. She found herself absurdly pleased by this small act of rebellion.
He stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, arms crossed, watching the skyline like it owed him money. The fading October light cast half his face in shadow, making him look like some pretentious cologne advertisement.
"I have rules," he said without turning around, his voice carrying that particular timber that came from too many years of people actually listening when you spoke.
Hazel snorted. God, her sinuses were acting up again in this sterile air. "Of course you do."
He turned then, face betraying absolutely nothing, though his left eye twitched slightly when he noticed her suitcase had toppled over.
"Rule one: No touching anything in the kitchen. It's professionally stocked, and I don't need a fire. Or another coffee incident."
"That happened once," Hazel muttered, resisting the urge to scratch at the small coffee-splash scar on her wrist from their first disastrous meeting. "And you startled me."
"Rule two," he continued as if she hadn't spoken, "this marriage is a contract. We'll present as a couple to the world, but there's no need to act like one in private. No cuddling. No kisses. No emotional entanglements."
Hazel lifted a brow and fought the hysterical laugh bubbling in her throat. "You think I'm dying to cuddle you? Please. I've felt more chemistry with my dentist."
The corner of his mouth twitched—amusement or annoyance, impossible to tell. Probably the latter.
"Rule three," he continued, fingers drumming once against his forearm before stopping abruptly, like he'd caught himself in an unauthorized human gesture. "We divide the space. You'll take the guest room. We'll rotate bathroom use. My work hours are off-limits for interruption."
Hazel walked over to the nearest velvet armchair—some ridiculous art piece that probably cost more than her student loans—and flopped into it with a theatrical groan. The fabric felt unexpectedly scratchy against her bare legs. Had anyone ever actually sat in this thing?
"Anything else, Captain Control? Do I need hall passes for the kitchen? Scheduled bathroom breaks? Permission to breathe the luxury air?"
Michael's jaw clenched, that muscle jumping just below his ear. "Just don't bring chaos into my routine."
Hazel smiled sweetly, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. Her grandmother's small opal earring clinked against her fingernail. "Too late."
She watched him as he tried very hard not to glare. Christ, was this man even real? Did he bleed if you pricked him, or just spurt out spreadsheets and timetables?
"Look, I get it," she said, voice softening despite herself. "This isn't what either of us signed up for. Your dad's will is insane, and I'm just the convenient stranger who happened to be there when the lawyers read it. But if we have to do this for a year, can we not make it feel like solitary confinement with better furniture?"
He stared at her—at the way her eyes glinted with stubbornness and just a touch of hope—and something in his expression shifted, like curtains briefly parting before being firmly yanked closed again.
"I'm not here to make friends, Hazel. Or entertain optimism." He turned away, dismissing her with his back. "The west wing bathroom is yours. I take conference calls between seven and nine."
"Well, joke's on you," she said, springing up and wincing as her knee cracked loudly. God, she was only twenty-nine. When had her joints started betraying her? "Optimism is my blood type. Along with caffeine and spite."
Michael sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between two perfectly manicured fingers. There was a tiny white scar there, she noticed. From what? A childhood accident? A bar fight? No, definitely not a bar fight. Michael Graze looked like he'd never set foot anywhere that served drinks in plastic cups.
That night, they sat on opposite ends of the long dining table, eating in silence. The catered food—some kind of deconstructed salmon thing—tasted expensive but weirdly empty, like eating the idea of food rather than actual nourishment. Hazel made the mistake of humming while chewing, some half-remembered song her mother used to sing in the kitchen.
Michael flinched like she'd scratched fingernails down a chalkboard.
"Sorry," she said around a mouthful, then swallowed. "Just thinking of a tune. My mom's old kitchen song."
"It's dinner. Not a musical." He cut his food with geometric precision, knife scraping against the plate in a way that set her teeth on edge.
She narrowed her eyes. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to make me hate you."
He looked up then, and for a second—just a flicker—something vulnerable crossed his face. "If that's what it takes to keep things peaceful, so be it."
Hazel stood abruptly, chair screeching against the marble. The sound lingered uncomfortably in the silence. "Fine. But just so you know, I don't do well in cages. Even ones with fancy cutlery and a skyline view." She gestured wildly at the window, nearly knocking over her water glass.
She stormed off to the guest room, the click of her shoes echoing like angry punctuation. Behind her, she thought she heard him mutter something that sounded suspiciously like "neither do I," but that might have been wishful thinking.
Michael didn't move for a long time after she left. He looked at her abandoned plate—half full, her fork askew, a smudge of lipstick on the water glass.
Messy. Uncontained. Human.
He looked out the window again, but the skyline didn't look the same anymore. It was quieter now. Emptier.
And for the first time in years—since before his father's death, before the strange codicil in the will that had thrust this stranger into his life—Michael Graze wondered if control was really all it was cracked up to be.
A door slammed somewhere in the distance of the apartment, followed by muffled curse as something fell. He found himself fighting a smile.
It was going to be a long year.