His Ring Her Rules

It was somewhat like being dropped into a luxury catalog when you moved into Ethan Blackwood's penthouse, but without the coziness.

Since I had officially just become Mrs. Blackwood, it was only slightly startling when the doorman called me by name. It felt like a slow descent into a gorgeous, artificial purgatory during the elevator ride up. I had practiced my fake smile and my courteous "thank you" at least five times by the time the doors to the top floor opened.

However, nothing could get me ready for the room.

It was... breathtaking.

windows with wide glass that encircled the skyline of the city. Marble floors that gleamed as if they had never seen a scratch. Shelves full of first-edition books that no one has likely ever read. And everything was adorned with stark neutrals, like gray, black, and white, and it was colder than the quiet of an ex.

I said, "Wow," and entered with my unassuming luggage in tow. "You live like Batman."

Ethan threw his blazer over a sleek leather chair; he had just arrived home minutes before me. "The guest room is located down the hall."

"A room for guests?" I arched an eyebrow.

He looked at me as though I had inquired about toothbrush sharing. "We decided that this was a contract. It's not necessary to be close."

Yes, exactly. The Blackwood Great Wall.

I nodded, still admiring the scenery. "All right. I enjoy having my own space.

For a beat, we stood there, two people clumsily feigning comfort as we were engulfed in silence that was thick enough to pierce his jaw.

Finally, I wheeled my suitcase to the guest room, which had a more hotel-like appearance than a home, and opened the door. pillows that are fluffy. large bed. No individuality. It was mine, though.

I couldn't help but wonder as I unpacked: How could someone who was so successful and in control live in a place that was so... empty?

No pictures. Not a trace of life. No warmth.

Pure perfection.

We found ourselves in the same kitchen at the same moment later that evening. He was preparing himself a drink, probably something dark and brooding and neat, while I was elbow deep in a box of cereal, for pregnancy cravings had no manners.

He watched as I ceremoniously poured chocolate cereal into a bowl.

"What?" I yawned as I asked.

"You are dining at ten o'clock in the evening?"

In a technical sense, it is the second dinner. The infant is hungry. The baby wins.

Even though he didn't smile, there was a slight softening of his gaze. "All right. The infant.

Once more, there was only the faint hum of city lights outside and my munching as we stood in silence.

Finally, he turned to face the hallway and said, "I'm going to bed."

I was a bit too upbeat when I said, "Sleep well, husband."

Without missing a beat, he paused, looked over his shoulder, and answered. "Wife, try not to raise your blood sugar."

I gave myself a smile.

Maybe this marriage wouldn't kill me.

But surviving Ethan Blackwood?

That was another story.