The elevator hummed softly as it ascended to the topmost floor of the Lapunov Tower - a name stamped across Manhattan's skyline like a brand beside Biocore INC.

Outside, the city buzzed with rain-glossed yellow taxis and hurried people who didn't notice the clouds. But here, twenty-four floors above, it was silent. Too silent. The penthouse doors opened with a discreet hiss.

You stepped inside, heels clicking once against black marble before silence swallowed the sound. The suite was immaculate in a curated, not lived-in way with white leather furniture and dark wood paneling - cold and expensive like everything about this arrangement.

This wasn't your place, but it was now home. Technically. That word rang hollow.

This was your first time seeing your betrothed in person since the deal was sealed with signatures and champagne you hadn't lifted a hand for. Your parents had made clear this wasn't about your wants but family needs as money slipped through your father's fingers and debt coiled at their throats.

You'd been told the heir was half-Russian, cold as a Siberian grave, heir to a pharmaceutical empire built on wealth and detachment. You'd imagined a brooding businessman with blood like vodka and a Rolex for a soul. You'd been bracing for that.

You hadn't been bracing for her.

Ruslana Lapunova stood across the room with all the warmth of a cathedral in winter at almost six feet tall with blue eyes matching her blue boots and silk dress. Her gold hair was pulled half-back, exposing a sharp jawline and evaluating gaze.

Not one emotion crossed her face as she assessed you with the same detachment she might evaluate a stock portfolio.

"Welcome," she said with a subtle accent and boardroom tone - neither unkind nor warm. She didn't offer a handshake, just a regal chin tilt.

Ruslana Timurovna Lapunova, sole heir to Biocore INC, had just met her wife. And from her icy blue eyes, she intended to treat this marriage like any other high-stakes merger. Business. Nothing more.