✍️ Chapter 3: The Wife Blueprint
The elevator opened directly into the penthouse.
Aria stepped out onto black marble floors, each tile veined like lightning beneath her heels. The space was massive—open-concept, all glass and cold light, suspended high above the city like it didn't belong to the world below.
No family photos. No clutter. No soul.
Just perfection.
"This is where you'll live," Miss Yew said from behind her. "Your security clearance has been programmed. You'll receive a weekly calendar every Sunday. Mr. Ryuu prefers punctuality."
Aria turned slowly, eyes narrowing. "I haven't even moved out of my apartment."
"It's being handled. Your lease has been terminated, belongings transferred. Anything not approved for use in this residence will remain in storage."
"Storage?" Her voice pitched upward. "You mean confiscated."
The assistant blinked, unreadable. "Do you have any objections?"
"Plenty. But I'm guessing those don't matter."
Miss Yew smiled as if to say correct.
Then she gestured toward the hallway. "Wardrobe fittings are scheduled for three p.m. Dinner at seven. Mr. Ryuu will join you. Until then, please review the documents on the kitchen counter."
With that, she left—heels echoing down the elevator hall like punctuation.
The documents were stacked beside a bowl of perfectly green apples.
Three folders. Labeled:
Public Relations Response Protocols
Public Image Maintenance — Hair, Nails, Personal Style
Media-Approved Backstory
Aria opened the last one.
Aria Linh, age 25. Met Kade Ryuu three years ago at a tech gala in Shenzu. The two reconnected after a chance meeting in Aurium's financial district. A quiet relationship developed away from the spotlight. Shared interests include travel, minimalist design, and community investment. The engagement comes after a deeply private courtship built on trust, respect, and mutual growth.
She laughed.
It came out sharp. Dry.
She hadn't even been to Shenzu. She didn't care about minimalist design. And the only thing Kade had ever grown in her was resentment.
Still, the lie sat neatly in its folder, cleanly typed and pre-approved.
Her life wasn't just a contract anymore.
It was a script.
Dinner was served at exactly seven.
It arrived on a rolling silver cart—three courses, none of which Aria had ordered. Seared scallops, artichoke risotto, and some impossibly delicate dessert that looked more like sculpture than food.
She sat at the long, glossy dining table, alone at one end. The lights above cast her reflection onto the polished surface: pale, poised, artificial.
Like everything else in this place.
Kade arrived at 7:08.
No apology. No greeting. He wore a dark navy shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show the gold watch on his wrist. His cufflinks gleamed like little reminders of precision.
"You're late," she said, mostly out of defiance.
"Eight minutes isn't late," he replied, taking his seat without looking at her. "It's calculated arrival."
"And what's tonight?" she asked. "Calculated intimacy?"
He looked at her then—just briefly.
"There's no intimacy in this arrangement."
"Good," she said, stabbing a scallop with unnecessary force. "Because you forgot to schedule affection into my calendar."
That earned her something unusual: the faintest hint of amusement.
But it faded fast.
"You read the folders?" he asked.
"All of them," she said. "Very thorough. You even told me what hobbies I supposedly have."
"I did what was necessary."
"No—you did what was controlled."
He set his fork down. "This world eats the unprepared, Aria. What I did was armor you."
She leaned back in her chair, wine glass in hand. "Armor, or muzzle?"
He didn't answer.
The silence stretched between them, sharp as wire.
Finally, she stood.
"I'm not one of your board members, Kade. You don't get to dictate who I am just because I signed your damn contract."
"You signed away your freedom," he said quietly. "Don't act surprised that I'm keeping it."
She froze.
Their eyes locked again—and for the first time, she saw not power, but obsession. Not attraction, but something darker: the need to control what he couldn't forget.
"I'm not a memory you get to rewrite," she whispered.
"No," he said. "You're a mistake I'm correcting in real time."
She didn't finish dinner.
She didn't need to.
Because it was no longer about food. Or press. Or family.
It was a war of boundaries.
And neither of them planned to lose.