I crept down the hallway. The hardwood froze the soles of my bare feet. The shadows in the penthouse felt heavy, pressing down on my chest. I reached the end of the corridor and stepped into the sprawling living area.

A single floor lamp cast a harsh, yellow glow. Shards of a shattered whiskey glass glittered on the rug.

In the center of the room sat a man in a wheelchair. His broad shoulders faced away from me.

"Clara."

The voice was rough, scraping like sandpaper against stone.

I froze. The name hung in the air. My real name died in my throat. I dug my fingernails into my palms, forcing myself to remember the lie. I was Clara now.

"Yes," I answered.

The electric wheelchair whirred. He spun around to face me.

A black fabric mask covered the lower half of his face, hiding his nose and mouth completely. Above the dark material, his eyes locked onto mine. They were ice-cold, piercing, and entirely devoid of warmth.

"You took your time," Rowan Gray said.

"I heard a crash."

"And you hesitated. Cowardice."

"I didn't want to intrude," I said, keeping my voice steady.

"Your father must be truly desperate," Rowan mocked. His gaze raked over my simple clothes. "Sending his prized daughter into the dark. Did you cry when he forced you into the car?"

"I made my choice," I replied.

"A martyr. How touching." He reached into the side pouch of his chair and tossed a thick manila folder onto the glass coffee table. It landed with a heavy slap. "The contract. Have you read it?"

I stepped closer, keeping a safe distance from the shattered glass. "My father explained the terms."

"One year." His eyes narrowed, analyzing my posture. "A marriage in name. But you will perform the duties required of a wife in this house. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Do you?" He rolled the chair forward. The wheels crunched over a piece of broken glass. "Because my caretaker walked out this afternoon. You will assist me."

Panic flared in my chest. "Assist you with what?"

"Bathing. Dressing." He tilted his head. "Or does the thought of touching a cripple turn your stomach, Clara?"

My cheeks burned. I wanted to run back to the elevator. I thought of Evelyn weeping, of Arthur begging. I had to survive this.

"No," I lied. "I can help."

"Then follow." He turned the chair around and rolled toward the master suite.

He led me into the bathroom. The space was enormous, lined with dark gray slate and harsh fluorescent lights.

"Run the water," he ordered.

I turned the silver handle of the massive tub. Warm steam billowed into the cold air.

"Is this temperature acceptable?" I asked.

"Too hot."

I turned the cold dial. "Now?"

"Acceptable. Turn it off."

I shut off the faucet. Silence filled the room, broken only by the dripping of the tap.

"Take off my shirt," he commanded.

I turned around. He sat completely still, his arms resting on the armrests.

I stepped up to him. My fingers shook. I reached for the top button of his dress shirt.

"You shake like a leaf," Rowan mocked. "Are you terrified, or just incompetent?"

"I am merely cold," I lied.

"Liar. You look at me and see a monster."

"I see my husband."

He laughed. A harsh, grating sound that echoed off the slate walls. "Husband. A word on a piece of paper."

I kept my mouth shut. I slipped the button through the hole. Then the next. I peeled the cotton fabric back, sliding it off his broad shoulders. Jagged, raised scars marred his collarbone and chest.

I forced my expression to remain blank.

"Don't stare," he snapped.

"I'm not staring."

I reached up to unfasten the strap of his mask.

His hand shot out. His fingers clamped around my wrist like an iron vise. The grip sent a sharp ache up my arm.

"Keep the mask on," he growled. "Touch it, and you're out on the street. Your father's company will burn by morning."

I yanked my arm back. "I won't touch it."

"Wash my back."

I grabbed a sponge from the counter, applied soap, and moved behind his chair. I scrubbed the soapy sponge over his scarred skin. The tension in his muscles felt like coiled wire.

"Did your father promise you a massive payout for this?" Rowan asked.

"No."

"Another lie."

"I am doing what is required of me," I said.

"Does my skin repulse you?"

"I am just doing my job."

"A job. Right. A paid whore with a ring."

I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper. I rinsed the soap away with a handheld showerhead. I grabbed a thick towel and draped it over his shoulders.

"We are finished," I said.

I walked to the closet, pulled out a clean black t-shirt, and brought it back. I helped him guide his arms through the sleeves. He snatched the hem and pulled it down himself, adjusting the fabric over his chest.

"Get out," he muttered, turning his chair away from me.

"Do you need anything else?"

"I said get out."

I didn't wait for him to yell again. I spun on my heel and marched out of the bathroom, through the dark living room, and straight down the opposite hallway.

I slipped into my guest room and shut the door behind me. My legs gave out. I slid down the solid wood until I hit the floor.

I pulled my knees to my chest. One night down. Three hundred and sixty-four to go.

I climbed into the massive king-sized bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. The silence of the penthouse returned, heavier than before. I closed my eyes, exhausted to my bones.

Then, a sound broke the quiet.

*Click.*

It came from my bedroom door.

I sat up, my heart hammering against my ribs. I threw off the blankets and rushed to the door. I grabbed the brass handle and pulled.

It didn't move.

I twisted the knob harder. Nothing.

Someone had locked me in from the outside.

A sharp click echoed through the solid wood of my bedroom door.

I sat up, the morning sunlight burning my eyes. I threw off the heavy duvet and marched across the rug. I gripped the brass knob and twisted. It turned freely. The door swung open into the silent hallway.

An electronic timer. He had locked me in for the night and released me at dawn.

I swallowed the anger rising in my throat. I found my way to the massive chef’s kitchen. I cracked three eggs into a stainless-steel skillet, toasted two slices of bread, and poured black coffee into a ceramic mug. I arranged everything on a silver tray and carried it down the right corridor.

I knocked twice on the master suite door.

"Enter," Rowan commanded.

I pushed the door open with my shoulder. Rowan sat by the floor-to-ceiling window in his wheelchair, staring out at the waking city. He wore the same black t-shirt from last night. The fabric clung to his broad chest.

"Breakfast," I announced, setting the tray on a glass side table.

He spun the chair around. His dark eyes scanned the plate, then snapped up to my face. The black mask remained securely fastened over his nose and mouth.

"I didn't ask for food," he said.

"You need to eat."

"I need a clean shirt," he countered, ignoring the tray entirely. "Get one from the closet."

I walked into the walk-in closet and pulled a crisp gray button-down from a hanger. When I returned, he had already pulled the black t-shirt over his head.

I stepped closer to help him guide his arms into the sleeves. As he extended his left arm, harsh morning light illuminated his skin.

My stomach dropped.

Thick, pale scars crisscrossed his bicep, remnants of his accident. But layered over the old tissue were fresh, angry red gashes. They looked raw.

"What happened to your arm?" I asked, pausing with the gray shirt in my hands.

Rowan yanked his arm back. "Nothing."

"Those are fresh cuts."

"I bumped into a doorframe," he muttered, looking away.

"A doorframe doesn't leave parallel scrapes."

"Drop it, Clara."

I dropped the gray shirt onto the bed. I turned on my heel, marched into the master bathroom, and tore through the cabinets. I found a white plastic first-aid kit under the sink. I carried it back into the bedroom and knelt beside his chair.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Give me your arm."

"I said leave it."

I grabbed his wrist. His muscles immediately locked into solid stone. I expected him to shove me away, but he didn't. He just glared down at me.

I popped open the plastic latch. I pulled out a bottle of antiseptic and a cotton pad.

"This will sting," I warned.

"I don't feel pain," he mocked.

I pressed the soaked cotton against the angry red cuts. A tiny muscle feathered in his jaw. He didn't make a sound. I worked quickly, cleaning away the dried blood before unrolling a spool of white gauze.

"You have a surprisingly steady hand," Rowan noted. His rough voice lost a fraction of its usual venom. "And you know your way around a stove."

I kept my focus on wrapping his forearm. "Everyone should know how to cook."

"Your father parades you around high society as his ultimate prize," Rowan pressed, leaning forward slightly. "Heiresses don't fry eggs. They certainly don't know how to dress wounds without fainting at the sight of blood."

"People have hidden talents."

"This isn't a talent. This is practice." His gaze bored into the top of my head. "Who taught you?"

I tied a neat knot in the gauze. I couldn't tell him the truth. Evelyn never hired a doctor for me. If I fell, if I burned my hands cooking dinner for her real daughter, I fixed it myself. Clara got the private pediatricians; I got the expired drugstore bandages.

"I taught myself," I answered, keeping my voice entirely flat.

I stood up and grabbed the gray shirt from the mattress. I helped him slide his arms through the sleeves. He managed the buttons himself, his long fingers working with practiced efficiency.

His collar sat crooked, folded inward against his neck.

I reached out to fix the fabric. My knuckles grazed the bottom edge of his black mask.

Rowan’s hand shot up like lightning. His fingers clamped around my wrist, twisting it violently. He shoved my arm away with enough force to send me stumbling backward.

I hit the heavy oak dresser. The brass handles dug into my spine.

"Don't touch it!" he roared.

The sound vibrated against the glass windows. His chest heaved, pulling the fabric of his new shirt tight. The curiosity in his eyes vanished, replaced by pure, explosive rage.

"I was just fixing your collar," I stammered, rubbing my aching wrist.

"I gave you a rule last night!" he shouted, gripping the armrests of his chair. "You never touch my face. You never reach for the mask. Do you understand me?"

"It was an accident."

"There are no accidents in my house!" he snapped. "Get out!"

"Rowan—"

"Out!"

I didn't argue. I sprinted out of the bedroom, my bare feet slapping against the hardwood floors. I didn't stop until I reached the kitchen. I gripped the edge of the marble island, forcing air into my lungs.

The rest of the day turned into a battlefield.

Rowan didn't retreat into silence. Instead, he summoned me relentlessly.

"This coffee is lukewarm," he barked at noon, shoving the mug across the side table. Dark liquid sloshed over the rim, staining the rug. "Make it again."

"Yes," I replied, grabbing the mug.

"The blinds in the study are uneven," he yelled an hour later. "Fix them."

"Right away."

"You folded these towels wrong," he growled in the late afternoon, throwing a stack of pristine white linen onto the bathroom floor. "Do it over."

I remade the coffee. I adjusted the blinds. I picked up the towels from the slate tiles and refolded every single one. My hands cramped. My feet ached. I swallowed the sharp retorts burning my tongue.

I just had to survive the contract. I would nod, I would clean, and I would endure his torment.

Night finally fell, cloaking the city in darkness. The penthouse grew freezing cold again. Rowan dismissed me without a word, shutting his bedroom door with a heavy thud.

I retreated to my guest room. I locked the door from the inside this time.

I collapsed onto the mattress, my muscles screaming in protest. I stared up at the dark ceiling, counting the hours until morning.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

I frowned. It was past midnight. I grabbed the device. An unknown number flashed across the screen.

I swiped to answer and pressed the phone to my ear. "Hello?"

"Lila?" a male voice whispered.

Not Clara. My real name.

My blood ran completely cold.