Chapter 3

It was two in the morning, and I was still reading in the study when I heard stifled moans coming from the master bedroom.

Charles lay curled on the bed, his silk pajamas soaked with cold sweat. His face was ghost-pale.

When I'd first married into the Lockwood family, he'd been rushed to the ER for acute gastric bleeds. Even then, he'd just gritted his teeth, refusing to admit the pain.

"Medicine's in the nightstand. Third drawer," he whispered, huge beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. But at least his mind seemed clear enough.

I handed him water and pills, but he turned away. His Adam's apple bobbled as he swallowed back another groan.

Honestly, there was a fragile allure to Charles tonight. He might shatter if you touched him. And you still wanted to.

Moonlight slipped through the second-floor window and white curtains, casting sharp shadows along his chiseled jaw. His cold profile reminded me of our wedding night when he'd said, "I don't love you." Whatever sympathy I'd felt evaporated. I shoved the pills into his mouth.

My sudden roughness caught him completely off guard. He glared at me, furious. "Lily..."

But before he could finish, his phone buzzed on the nightstand, lighting up with Scarlett's name.

His body went rigid, impatience bleeding through every muscle.

That look on his face reminded me of the garage, where I watched Scarlett rise onto her toes to kiss him. His hands stayed glued to his sides when he just stood there, never pushing her away.

My stomach churned. I couldn't tell who made me sicker, the flaunting first love, the play-acting husband, or myself, the wife who sold herself for status and still couldn't stomach the deal.

I handed him his phone, and our fingers brushed. His fingertips were rough with the kind of calluses you get from years of gripping expensive pens. But there was no warmth in his touch.

Charles looked up at me, and for a second, it was like he could actually feel the loneliness clinging to me. A flicker of guilt crossed his face, complex emotions churning in his eyes.

Finally, he silenced the call and took the water. The moment he swallowed, he started coughing violently.

I patted his back firmly. "Hospital. Now." I grabbed my coat, but he caught my wrist. "No."

His tone carried that familiar stubbornness, tinged with something almost like hurt.

Looking at the dark circles under his eyes, I remembered my father's words. "The Lockwood family looks glamorous, but it's all hidden reefs. Charles wants to climb, and so do we. You two have to support each other to go far."

For the first time, almost without thinking, I dropped my coat and went to the kitchen to make him some soup.

As morning light crept across the windowsill, Charles leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching me stir the pot through rising steam.

This domestic scene was a first in our villa. Charles felt unexpected warmth spreading through his chest. The woman before him was his wife.

Suddenly, he wanted to hear me say it. "Lily," he teased, "call me baby."

He spoke like a lover. But the air between us stayed sterile.

"Mr. Lockwood, we're only married on paper," I replied evenly.

He was caught off guard by my sharp response. For a second, he froze, memories of our wedding night flooding back before he forced himself back to the present. "So, why did you agree to marry me? For the Shaw family?"

"Partly," I admitted. "I also like your money, the respect that comes with being your wife, and, I'll admit, I have a soft spot for handsome men." He arched an eyebrow, surprised by my honesty.

Charles had always read my silence as judgment. He had assumed my cool gaze meant I despised him for his birth or his calculating nature.

"So when I said we'd just be married in name," he asked, "what were you thinking?"

The spoon clinked against the pot. My hand paused, but I didn't turn around. "I was thinking, even an arranged marriage should manage basic civility. I was wondering how long a relationship built only on mutual benefit could last."

Charles had never known his mother. With a father who treated marriage like a joke, "home" was just an empty concept for Charles, and "love" was a fantasy. For the first time, he started to think about his own marriage.

The soup bubbled, echoing the sudden flutter in his chest. "Do you like me?" he asked.

"Do you like me?" I shot back.

I turned to face him. We locked eyes silently, the unspoken answer hanging between us. At least, we had no feelings for each other.

The air went still except for the bubbles rising in the pot.

"Mr. Lockwood," I sighed, "maybe we should just be honest with each other."

His eyes narrowed. He cut me off before I could say what he didn't want to hear. "If you say you like me, don't take it back."

I blinked, stunned. What was he getting at?

"Maybe we could actually try," he said, "to be a real couple."

For just a moment, I thought maybe the best ending for Charles and me would be if we somehow, impossibly, fell in love.

I replied, "Deal with Scarlett first. Then we'll talk."