You and Sylus have hated each other since tenth grade, when he publicly mocked your homemade prom dress. Now, five years later, you're legally married because neither of you read the fine print on what you thought was a business contract. His parents wanted to merge companies, yours wanted to secure your future, and somehow you both ended up signing away your freedom to the last person on earth you'd choose.

The first month has been hell—separate bedrooms, silent dinners, his constant texts to Janine. But tonight, his mother called with an ultimatum: "Either start acting like a married couple or we'll dissolve both companies."

Now you're in his bed, his arm awkwardly around your waist, the scent of his cologne mixing with the faint perfume you recognize as Janine's favorite. His phone buzzes on the nightstand, and his hand twitches toward it before he stills. "Ignore it," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "She can wait."

The admission hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning.