Artemis's POV
The penthouse suite was a cathedral of silence.
Glass walls overlooked a skyline so opulent it seemed fake—like a painting designed to mock the poor. Crystal fixtures dripped from the ceiling. Rose petals were scattered across a bed too big for two strangers.
Everything was elegant. Luxurious. Hollow.
I stood in the middle of the room, lace clinging to my skin, trying not to breathe too deeply. Not because the corset still dug into my ribs, but because I didn't know what would happen next.
Isaiah was behind me. I could hear him—keys dropped into a crystal bowl, shoes kicked off without ceremony, the crack of a bottle cap twisting open.
"You look like someone walked you to the gallows instead of a wedding," he said lightly.
I didn't answer.
Not because I didn't have words, but because all the ones I could think of were weapons—and I didn't feel like drawing blood yet. My fingers clenched around the edge of my veil. I hated the way it felt—like a spider's web that had settled over my life, fragile and suffocating all at once.
I heard his footsteps approach behind me, soft against the marble floor.
"Here." A bottle of water appeared in front of me. Chilled. Unopened.
I glanced at it, then at him.
He wasn't smirking this time. No teasing. Just that strange, unreadable calm in his eyes—like still water over something deep.
I took the bottle. Our fingers brushed, and a jolt passed through me, small but sharp.
"Thanks," I murmured.
"You look like you haven't breathed in hours," he said. "Might help."
Still no pressure. No touch lingering too long. No sultry invitation to 'consummate the contract.'
Just... Isaiah.
Too relaxed. Too quiet. Too careful.
I hated that it disarmed me more than any demand would've.
I took a sip of water, the cold running down my throat, grounding me slightly.
Isaiah walked over to the couch and began unbuttoning his jacket. "You can have the bed. I'll take the couch."
I blinked. "What?"
He glanced over. "The bed," he repeated. "All yours. I'm not a savage."
"I didn't say you were."
"You didn't have to."
There it was again—that strange way he had of reading between my words, like he was listening not just to what I said, but what I didn't.
I crossed my arms, still not moving. "So, that's it? You're not going to try anything?"
He looked at me evenly. "Would it make you feel better if I did?"
I faltered.
"Didn't think so," he added, tossing his tie over the armrest. "Look, I'm not in the habit of forcing intimacy. Least of all on a woman who looks like she's been holding her breath since breakfast."
"I'm not—"
"You are," he said gently. "You're bracing. Like you're waiting for a war."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. The air felt thicker now.
"I've fought enough wars in my life, Artemis," he said, lowering himself onto the couch. "I don't need to start another one tonight."
He picked up a book from the side table—of course he read, because why not make this harder?—and settled in like it was just another night. No tension. No false seduction.
Just silence.
And that, somehow, rattled me more than anything.
"I'm going to change," I said stiffly, turning toward the bathroom.
He nodded without looking up. "Take your time."
The bathroom was all white marble and soft lighting, the kind of place built for spa dreams and socialite selfies. It smelled faintly of lavender and luxury, the scent too clean, too detached—like it didn't belong to anyone real.
I shut the door behind me, and the click of it echoed like a verdict.
My knees threatened to buckle. I leaned against it, pressing my spine into the wood, grounding myself through the cold sting.
My hands trembled as they reached behind me.
Get it together, Artemis Kali Xu, I whispered inside my head, the voice as sharp and tired as I felt.
This was your choice, wasn't it?
It was. At least on paper.
Was this what marriage looked like?
No. This was what damage looked like. This was what happened when you were the collateral child, the sacrificial daughter.
My throat tightened. My wedding wasn't the product of love. It was the aftermath of scandal. My scandal. My mistake. The one thing that had finally tipped the Xu family legacy onto the edge of humiliation. And now here I was, shoved into a white dress, tossed into the arms of a stranger like some kind of half-hearted redemption arc.
The sacrificial lamb, bleached and gift-wrapped.
No one forced me into the scandal. No one told me to self-destruct at the worst possible moment. No one asked me to fall apart in public and drag the Xu name down with me. That had been all me—my recklessness, my fire, my refusal to stay in the pretty little cage they built.
And now here I was. Marrying Isaiah Jiang, the surgeon prince, to repair the brand. To keep the board happy. To prove to my father that I could still be an asset.
Not a liability.
Not a disappointment.
Not the daughter who couldn't keep herself out of the tabloids, who said the wrong thing during that interview, who exposed too much. Felt too much. Lived too loudly.
I tried to unzip my dress, but my fingers fumbled, the nerves beneath my skin twitching with leftover adrenaline.
I exhaled, sharp and shallow. My corset felt tighter by the second. My head throbbed under the weight of hairpins and expectation.
I finally peeled the gown off me like it was armor after battle—scraps of satin and lace falling to the floor with a sigh. Red indentations carved into my skin. Corset bruises like fingerprints. Pressure seams across my ribs and hips.
They hadn't sewn me into a wedding dress. They had packaged me. Marketed me.
And I had agreed.
Because saying no meant exile from the family name. Saying no meant watching my sister replace me. Saying no meant losing my inheritance, my influence, my last chance to convince my father I was still worth something.
I stood in front of the mirror, cold and silent. The woman who stared back at me looked haunted.
Bare shoulders. Shadowed collarbones. Eyes too tired for twenty-six.
I didn't look like a bride.
I looked like collateral.
I unpinned my hair, letting the curls fall in uneven spirals down my back. The bobby pins clicked into the sink like tiny bones, a pile of brittle, discarded elegance.
This—this version of me—was the one they didn't want in the wedding photos. The girl with the scars and the rage and the bruised softness she kept locked behind her tongue.
This was the Artemis who wrote photo essays about political unrest and mourning mothers. The one who stayed up for forty-eight hours straight in war zones. The one who refused to smile for cameras she didn't control.
And now? Now she was the obedient wife of a man she barely knew.
The silk robe was soft as I pulled it on, but it couldn't cover the ache that curled inside my chest. A hollow throb where my heart had once roared with ambition and defiance.
I'd married for damage control.
I'd married because I had something to prove.
To my father—who called me an embarrassment when the scandal broke.
To my mother—who said it should've been my sister, the real lady of the family.
To the board members—who watched my press conference with raised eyebrows and whispered questions about my "mental state."
But most of all, I married to protect the little sister who still believed in me. The one whose college tuition was paid by Xu capital. The one who couldn't afford for me to fall any further.
I swallowed down the sob that threatened to rise.
This wasn't about romance. It wasn't about hope.
It was about survival.
I took one last look at myself in the mirror. At the woman who made a mess of things—and was now trying to fix it by tying herself to a man with soft eyes and a reputation cleaner than anything in my world.
I didn't know if Isaiah would break me, or if I'd ruin him first.
But tonight, at least, he'd given me something I didn't expect.
Time.
Space.
A quiet chair in the dark, and no demands.
Maybe that was something. Maybe it wasn't.
But I wrapped the robe tighter around me and opened the door again, holding myself together with nothing but the fraying thread of my own resolve.
I stepped out of the bathroom—and he was still on the couch. Still reading, both of us, in our matchy red pajamas.
He glanced up.
Paused.
His eyes softened, just for a breath. "Better," he said.
I frowned. "Better?"
"You," he clarified. "You look more like yourself."
I didn't respond. I didn't know how to.
"I thought you were a playboy," I said flatly. "Silver-tongued, entitled."
"I am," he said, not missing a beat. "But I also know how to shut up and let people breathe."
That pulled a startled huff of laughter from me. Unwelcome. Unplanned.
He smiled. Not smug. Just… pleased.
"I don't sleep well in new places," I said suddenly, the words escaping before I could kill them.
He took the armchair a few feet away, kicked off his socks, and opened his book again like nothing was unusual about watching your wife fall asleep on your wedding night like she was a traumatized stray cat.
"I'm not pretending," I said suddenly into the dark.
He looked up again. "Pretending?"
"You said I don't have to pretend with you. I'm not. I'm just… tired."
"I believe you."
That stunned me more than anything. That he didn't question it. That he didn't push.
Silence fell again. This time, not oppressive. Just… still.
A few minutes passed. I could feel sleep pulling at the edges of me, slow and sticky.
"You're not what I expected," I murmured.
I felt him pause. Heard the whisper of a page turning.
"I hope that's a good thing," he replied softly.
I didn't answer. Couldn't. My chest felt too tight. Not from panic—but from the unbearable weight of being seen.
"Do you want the bed?" he asked.
I blinked, caught off guard. "I mean… it's big enough."
He nodded. "Alright. I'll keep to my side."
I didn't answer. Just climbed into the bed slowly, like it might break beneath me. The sheets were cool, the pillow softer than I expected—but I couldn't unclench my jaw. My entire body was wound tight, like I was waiting for something to snap.
Isaiah didn't follow me. He returned to his armchair, settled in, and opened his book again like none of this was strange.
That confused me more than any forward move would've.
I laid there in silence, fighting the weight in my chest.
Then, he spoke again. "Want me to stay nearby until you fall asleep?"
My heart stuttered.
I turned toward him sharply. "Why would you offer that?"
He didn't flinch. "Because you look like someone who hasn't felt safe in a long time."
The words hit me like a bruise I didn't see coming. No games. No flirting. No manipulation.
Just… truth.
My mouth parted, but no sound came out.
He didn't press. Didn't soften the blow with a joke. Just let the moment sit.
Then I heard myself ask, before I could stop it, "Have you ever just… stared at someone until they fell asleep?"
Isaiah tilted his head, considering. "Not unless I was in a romantic setting."
I snorted softly. "Well, we're not in one."
He smiled—small, dry, warm. "Uh-huh."
Silence stretched between us, but it wasn't sharp this time. Just still. Like the pause between tides.
He turned another page in his book.
From the corner of my eye, I watched him.
He didn't watch me back. Just leaned his head slightly to the side, like he was listening to something only he could hear. His breathing was slow. Steady. His presence is quiet, but solid. He wasn't looming. Wasn't expecting it.
He was just there.
And that unsettled me more than if he had reached for me.
Because when people are kind, it's always a prelude to a price.That was what life with my parents had taught me. Earn love. Buy silence. Perform for pride.
I shut my eyes. But the tightness in my chest didn't go away.
"Isaiah?" I said softly.
He looked up. "Hmm?"
"If I fall asleep, will you stay until I'm under?"
He nodded. "I'll stay as long as you want."
A lump formed in my throat. I hated how much that answer meant. How much I wanted it.
He wasn't romantic.He wasn't possessive.He wasn't pushing.
But somehow, in all that absence of pressure… was comfort.
I didn't know what to do with that. It felt like staring at a door I didn't know I had the right to open.
As I lay there, heart slowing, his presence nearby, something in me began to loosen—not trust, not yet—but something quieter. A breath I hadn't known I was holding. A need I hadn't dared to name.
I turned my head toward him, barely able to see his outline in the dark. "Do you think this will work?" I asked softly.
Isaiah didn't move for a long second. "I think… it will become whatever we're both willing to build."
Another pause.
"Even if that's just peace," he added.
And that was the moment I stopped bracing.
I sank into the pillow. And for the first time in months, my body didn't feel like it was screaming for escape.
Somewhere in that golden hush, I drifted.
And I didn't dream of falling.
Only floating.