Chapter 5 ~ Rules of the Penthouse

Talia Monroe had faced heartbreak, scandal, and a billionaire with the personality of an iceberg but nothing terrified her quite like an inbox full of missed deadlines.

Her laptop sat open on the kitchen island, half a mug of coffee cooling beside it. She squinted at the blinking cursor on her children's story draft.

"The Little Kite Who Wanted to Touch the Moon."

It sounded cute when she'd pitched it. Now it just felt ironic.

Because honestly? She was the kite.

And Adrian Voss? He was the moon cold, unreachable, and slightly allergic to joy.

"Come on, Talia," she muttered. "You've written dragons, pirates, and a talking carrot. You can handle a kite."

The cursor blinked back at her. Judgmental.

Her phone buzzed.

Maya: You alive, Mrs. Billionaire? Or did he freeze you solid?

Talia smirked and typed back:

Talia: Alive. Barely. He has rules for how I breathe, apparently.

Maya: Rules? Spill. I need content for our next gossip session.

Talia: You'll have plenty. Stay tuned.

Before she could send another message, a softer vibration lit her screen again - a different contact this time.

Dad.

Her stomach twisted.

She picked up immediately. "Hey, Dad."

"Sweetheart," came the warm, gravelly voice on the other end. "You're all over the news again."

She groaned. "I told you not to watch those gossip shows."

"How can I not when my daughter is apparently Mrs. Voss of London?"

"Fake Mrs. Voss," she corrected under her breath.

"What's that?"

"Nothing," she said quickly. "How's the café?"

"It's fine, same as always. The espresso machine still leaks and George still complains about everything."

She smiled faintly. "So, normal."

"Normal," he agreed. Then, gently, "You sure you're okay, Tally?"

Talia stared at the marble countertop, tracing her fingertip along the veined surface. "Yeah," she lied softly. "I'm okay."

There was a pause that quiet fatherly pause that always meant he didn't believe her but wouldn't push.

"You've always been strong," he said finally. "But you don't have to be alone."

"I know, Dad."

"Good. And if that Voss fellow gives you any grief, tell him I still remember how to throw a punch."

Talia laughed, blinking back the sting behind her eyes. "Thanks, Dad. I'll keep that in mind."

After they hung up, the apartment felt bigger - too big. The silence was the kind that hummed in your chest.

Then, right on cue, the elevator chimed.

Of course. Speak of the devil and he materializes in tailored black.

Adrian Voss stepped into the room, coat draped over one arm, phone in the other. His presence filled the space like gravity - quiet but impossible to ignore.

He set down a folder on the counter beside her laptop. "You're home."

"You say that like it's a crime scene."

He glanced at the mug beside her computer. "You've been working."

"Yes," she said, defensive. "Some of us have jobs."

His brow arched. "Jobs?"

"I'm a children's book writer," she said, chin lifted. "I work for a small publishing company. Maya's my editor-slash-emotional-support-human."

"Hmm." His tone was unreadable. "Does this... hobby affect our arrangement?"

"Hobby?" she repeated, jaw dropping. "Excuse me, my job involves deadlines, not doodles."

His gaze flicked to the screen. "The Little Kite Who Wanted to Touch the Moon," he read aloud. "Sounds ambitious."

"It's for kids," she said dryly. "You'd hate it."

"I don't hate things," he replied, flipping open the folder. "I evaluate them."

She groaned. "Do you ever not sound like a board meeting?"

He ignored that. "We need to discuss logistics," he said. "Now that the media has accepted our marriage, there will be expectations."

"Expectations like what?"

"Appearances. Dinner events. Staying in the same residence for credibility."

"Residence? You mean your penthouse."

"Our home," he corrected.

She snorted. "You make it sound like we picked out curtains together."

He ignored the sarcasm and took out a sheet of paper. "I've outlined a few basic rules to make this arrangement work."

Talia blinked. "You... wrote rules?"

He handed her the list. His handwriting was perfect. Precise. Terrifyingly neat.

She read aloud. "Rule one: No unapproved media interactions. Rule two: Maintain discretion in public. Rule three: Inform me of your schedule."

Her eyes widened as she reached the bottom. "Rule seven: No overnight guests?"

Adrian looked up. "Is that unclear?"

"Just confirming you didn't mean my father, because he's definitely visiting next week."

Something flickered in his expression - the faintest crack in the ice. "Your father?"

"Yes. He runs a café in Richmond. He's probably already packing muffins and parental concern."

"I see." He folded his arms, tone cooling again. "Fine. But I expect discretion."

"Oh, don't worry. He'll be too busy trying to figure out if you're a serial killer."

A muscle ticked in Adrian's jaw. "Delightful."

By late afternoon, Talia had retreated to her small writing nook - one corner of the glass-walled apartment that didn't feel like it was judging her. Her laptop glowed in the dim light, a blank page waiting.

Once upon a time, there was a kite who lived in a world too big for her string.

She paused. The metaphor was hitting a little too close to home.

She'd just started typing again when a sharp ding echoed from the elevator.

She didn't even have to look up. "If you've come to add more rules, I'm out of ink."

"I came to remind you of dinner," Adrian's voice said, smooth and unbothered. "Seven sharp."

"It's barely six!"

"Then you'll be early."

He stepped closer, glancing at her screen. "Still writing?"

"Yes, and before you ask - no, you can't edit it."

He leaned slightly, reading over her shoulder. "You're writing about a kite."

"Yes. Don't ruin it."

He didn't. But his voice softened unexpectedly. "It's... whimsical."

She turned, startled. "Did you just compliment something?"

"Observation," he said, though something in his eyes betrayed a flicker of warmth.

Then, as if catching himself, he straightened. "Dinner. Don't be late."

By the time she reached the dining table, he was already seated - posture perfect, tie removed, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The table was elegantly set for two.

She sat opposite him. "Wow. Look at us. Civilized humans sharing a meal."

"Don't get used to it," he said mildly, passing her a plate.

Halfway through dinner, she asked, "So what happens when your rules meet my reality?"

He looked up. "Meaning?"

"I have a father who visits. A best friend who texts constantly. A job that doesn't pause for your calendar."

"You'll manage."

"And if I don't?"

He set down his fork. "Then I'll manage for you."

Her jaw tightened. "You really can't help yourself, can you?"

He met her gaze, calm and cold. "Control is how I survive."

She leaned forward slightly. "And chaos is how I breathe."

The silence that followed wasn't just heavy - it crackled.

Neither looked away.

Finally, he said softly, "Just don't mistake freedom for recklessness."

"Don't mistake order for peace," she countered.

He almost smiled. Almost.

Careful, Talia, her subconscious whispered. You're flirting with the edge of something dangerous.

Later that night, she sat by her window again, laptop on her knees. Her story's kite was finally ready to fly.

And across the apartment, in his glass-walled office, Adrian Voss watched her reflection in the skyline - silent, unreadable, but no longer untouched.