His Ring Her Rules

This penthouse would be the sound of silence.

I woke up to a sunrise shining through the glass walls of Ethan Blackwood's opulent fortress after a restless night in a bed that was too big and fluffy, like I was sleeping on a cloud of money. Life was vibrant in the city below, but up here? as a museum, still.

Wearing the soft robe a housekeeper had left in the bathroom, I padded barefoot across the marble floors. Designer, of course. Most likely more expensive than my first vehicle.

I strolled through the labyrinth of subdued elegance, which included vaulted ceilings, squinting-inducing abstract art, and furniture so contemporary that it appeared more like set pieces than actual seating. It was eerily sterile, as if no one had ever lived there, but it was magazine-perfect.

No family pictures were present. No childhood trophies. The fridge had no magnets, and at first I couldn't find it because it was blending in like a minimalist ninja.

A formal dining room that appeared to have never been used for a dinner passed by. A study filled with unopened books on its shelves. And a sitting room so white that I thought I would be kicked out if I sneezed.

"Comfortable," I whispered to myself. "In a way reminiscent of a haunted art gallery."

I eventually came upon what I believe was intended to be a lounge. Low leather couches, floor-to-ceiling liquor shelves, and a shining grand piano that sat in the corner like a trophy no one had ever played.

I touched the piano's edge with my finger. It was immaculate. Naturally.

What sort of man occupied such a space?

I settled into silence as I sat on one of the couches. No music. No television. The sound of an air conditioner that costs a fortune.

In some ways, this place made me feel more isolated than my small Queens apartment, with its groaning floorboards and mismatched furnishings.

Despite its beauty, this place was lifeless.

I closed my eyes and tipped my head back.

Would my life now be like this? A crystal palace contract marriage with a man whose walls were thicker than his glass windows?

I touched my belly as the baby gave a little kick.

"I also have no idea what I'm doing," I muttered to it.

The elevator dinged at that moment.

I opened my eyes.

Steps. Self-assured. Perceptive.

Ethan.

My heart was already doing that annoying fluttering thing it liked to do around him, which was equal parts nerves and annoyance, so I sat up straighter.

As if he had just finished shouting at a Fortune 500 boardroom, he emerged in the doorway wearing a black suit with his tie loose.

His unreadable eyes swept over me. "You get up early."

"I couldn't sleep," I uttered. "It's quiet in your house."

He poured himself an amber after making his way to the bar. "Most people prefer silence."

"Most people are not accustomed to living in a spaceship that is sterile."

I noticed a slight twitch—almost a smile—at the corner of his mouth.

"You're getting used to it," he said plainly.

To what end? Is my contract husband treating me like a business associate while we live in a penthouse?

He didn't respond.

We gazed at one another. The air was heavy with that now-familiar tension.

I got up and turned to face the corridor. "Don't be concerned. I'll avoid getting in your way.

He said in a low voice, "It's not about you, Grace," as I passed him.

I stopped, but I didn't turn around.

"I understand," I muttered. "That is the issue."