The elevator hummed with a vibrationless, clinical speed as it ascended to the hundredth floor. When the doors finally slid open, Asher stepped into his foyer, his silhouette a sharp, solitary shadow against the city lights.
He had achieved a new status this afternoon—he was officially a married man, atleast on documents —but as he crossed the marble floor, there was no victory in his stride. Only a cold, sharpened frustration that seemed to hum in the air around him.
The penthouse was a cathedral of glass and obsidian, a monument to a man who preferred his world devoid of clutter and noise. He didn't bother with the lights; the fractured neon pulse of the skyline bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the room in shades of bruised purple.
He reached the master suite and began to dismantle the day. The blazer was cast aside, a discarded layer of armor. The cufflinks hit the nightstand with a sharp, metallic clink—a sound that felt like a gunshot in the sterile quiet. He unbuttoned his shirt with slow, methodical movements, his jaw set in a hard line.
In the bathroom, the steam rose in thick, white ghosts as he stood under the punishing heat of the waterfall shower. He leaned his forehead against the cool grey tile, letting the water roar over his shoulders. He was trying to wash away the memory of the afternoon—the salt of her tears, the trembling of her hand, and the way her eyes had turned into empty voids the moment the ink dried.
When he finally emerged, moisture still clung to the corded muscles of his chest. Clad only in low-slung black joggers, his hair damp and messy against his brow, he dried himself with a towel before hanging it back with an irritated snap.
He threw himself onto the massive bed, staring up at the dark ceiling as his chest rose and fell in heavy, rhythmic heaves. The silence of the penthouse was usually his sanctuary, but tonight, it felt like an insult.
"You acted like I was handing you a death warrant," he muttered, his voice a low, jagged rasp that cut through the stillness.
He rolled onto his side, his fingers digging into the silk linens, bunching the fabric in his fist. The image of Kaya's face replayed behind his eyelids, fueling a fresh wave of resentment.
"I have handed you an empire on a silver platter, Kaya. I have given you the protection of the Sinclair name—a name people in this city would die for," he hissed into the dark, his voice dripping with bitter irony. "And yet, you stood there shaking as if I were a monster. Why is it so impossible for you to just accept this? Even if it's a contract, is the idea of being my wife truly that repulsive to you?"
He sat up slightly, his eyes narrowing as he glared at the vacant space beside him.
"You think your tears are a protest, but they're just an insult to my logic. Any other woman would be celebrating, yet you look at me like I've stolen your soul. You want to stay 'dead' to me? Fine. But tomorrow morning, the dramatics end. You will be at that desk, and you will be the efficient assistant you've always been. If you think your sorrow is going to make me regret this, then you still don't know the first thing about the man you just married."
Asher was finally closing his eyes, the heavy silence of the room beginning to settle over him, when the sharp buzz of his phone on the glass nightstand cut through the dark. He reached for it with a low groan of irritation.
The screen illuminated his face, revealing a message that made his jaw tighten instantly:
"Mansion, tomorrow. 8:00 AM sharp. The family expects a full breakfast. Do not be late."
Asher tossed the phone back onto the nightstand with a muffled thud.
"Unbelievable," he hissed, staring at the ceiling. "Do they have nothing better to do than congregate over eggs and tea? Professional time-wasters. Every single one of them."
He rolled over, forcing his eyes shut, though the irritation continued to pulse behind his eyelids until sleep finally took him.
The next morning, the city was a blur of grey and gold as Asher's car tore through the streets toward the Sinclair estate. He sat in the back, his expression a mask of cold boredom. He knew exactly why this 'breakfast drama' had been staged. It wasn't about family bonding; it was a silent interrogation, a gathering of vultures waiting to see if he had finally bent to their will.
As the car pulled up to the grand entrance, Asher stepped out, adjusting his watch with a sharp, impatient flick of his wrist. He didn't even make it to the door before a familiar figure stepped out from the shadows of the porch.
Rowon greeted him with a grin that was far too bright for the hour. Before Asher could protest, Rowon stepped forward and pulled him into a quick, firm hug.
Asher shoved him back with a flat palm, his mood already sour. "Not now, Rowon. I'm not in the mood for your brand of physical affection."
Rowon laughed, unfazed. "Why not, brother? I didn't get to properly congratulate you yesterday for your... dreamy office wedding. I figured a hug was the least I could offer the happy groom."
Asher shot him a glare that could have withered stone. Rowon simply adjusted his collar, his eyes dancing with mischief as he looked behind Asher at the empty car.
"And by the way, where is my lovely sister-in-law?" Rowon asked, his voice dripping with mock concern. "Surely, at a family gathering of this magnitude, the new Mrs. Sinclair should be here to pay her respects to her in-laws. It's only polite, isn't it?"
Asher's lips curled into a slow, chilling smirk. "Soon, Rowon. Soon enough, she will be greeting every single member of this family." He stepped closer, his voice dropping into a tone that sounded dangerously like a promise. "And I'll make sure it's an introduction they never forget."
The smile dropped from Rowon's face. The mocking light in his eyes vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp instinct of protective dread. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"I mean she will greet her in-laws, brother," Asher repeated, his voice smooth and condescending. "Is the concept of family introductions becoming too complex for you to grasp, or have you simply forgotten how to speak English since yesterday?"
"Stop the nonsense, Asher," Rowon snapped, stepping into his brother's path.
"You told us yesterday—you told her—that this was a contract marriage. You said no one needed to know. You said she was free to live her life. So why the hell are you planning to parade her in front of the family? Why are you dragging her into the middle of this minefield?"
Asher stopped, looking down at his brother with an expression of cold, clinical detachment.
"Don't be naive, Rowon. Contract marriages aren't born out of a desire for privacy; they are born out of a motive. I didn't marry her because I had a sudden curiosity about what it's like to have a secret wife hidden in the shadows."
He leaned in, his voice a sharp, icy whisper.
"She is the key to my ultimate freedom. With Kaya by my side, the Sinclair empire becomes mine on my terms, not theirs. I have no intention of letting Mother force that venomous bitch Jessica into my life just to satisfy a bloodline requirement. Kaya is the shield that ensures I never have to endure a woman like that."
Asher straightened his suit jacket, his eyes flickering toward the main doors.
"Now, if you've finished your introductory lesson in 'General Knowledge' from the archives of Asher Sinclair, move aside. I have enough to endure with this breakfast without you blocking the doorway."
The two brothers crossed the threshold of the Sinclair Mansion, an architectural marvel of limestone and glass that whispered of old money and ruthless ambition. The foyer opened into a grand hallway lined with Renaissance-era paintings and crystal chandeliers that threw fractured light across the polished mahogany floors. Every corner of the estate was designed to intimidate, a silent testament to the empire Asher now commanded.
They moved with practiced ease through the gilded corridors, the rhythmic click of their dress shoes echoing until they reached the formal dining hall.
The dining area was a spectacle of excess. A twenty-foot Carrara marble table stretched across the room, set with heirloom silver and bone china.
At the head sat their Grandfather, the patriarch whose obsidian eyes still missed nothing. Beside him, their Grandmother sat with regal poise, flanked by their Father, Mother, Uncle, and Aunt. The air was thick with the scent of Earl Grey tea and the stifling weight of family expectations.
Rowon offered a respectful, charming bow.
"Good morning, everyone."
Asher's greeting was a curt, almost imperceptible nod. He moved to his designated chair with the grace of a predator, his expression a mask of bored tolerance. He didn't look for warmth; he didn't expect it. He simply wanted to endure.
As the staff began the silent choreography of service, Asher checked his watch, the metal gleaming under the chandelier.
"If we've concluded the opening credits of this morning's soap opera," Asher drawled, his voice cutting through the soft clink of silverware, "can we actually eat? Some of us have an empire to run, while others simply have time to kill."
His mother, elegant and sharp-featured, set her teacup down with a deliberate clink. "You always have 'things to do,' Asher. And you should. A Sinclair is always working. So, let's start with the most vital task on your agenda: choosing a wife and securing the succession."
Asher's jaw tightened. He was about to deliver a scathing rebuttal when a voice, dripping with artificial sweetness, drifted from the doorway.
"Am I late for the festivities?"
The family turned as one, but Asher remained perfectly still. He didn't need to look. That cloying, sugary tone was unmistakable. It was Jessica. She stood there in a designer dress that cost more than a mid-sized car, radiating an aura of calculated innocence. While the rest of the family offered polite, lukewarm nods, Asher's mother beamed.
"Oh, Jessica, darling! Come, sit. You're just in time for breakfast," his mother chirped, gesturing to the empty chair directly beside Asher.
Jessica offered a coy, practiced smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair. It's always such a pleasure."
She moved toward the seat next to Asher, her hand reaching for the back of the chair. Before she could touch the velvet, Asher shot her a look of such concentrated venom it seemed to physically halt her mid-step. His eyes promised a slow, methodical destruction of everything she held dear if she dared to breach his personal space.
Jessica froze, her smile faltering into a mask of pale uncertainty.
"Asher!" his mother hissed, her eyes flashing with reprimand. "What is this behavior? Treat her with respect—she is your wife."
Asher finally turned his head, his gaze shifting to his mother with a look of genuine, mocking pity. "Do you have early-onset memory loss, Mother? Or perhaps a delusional fever? Tell me, in which lifetime did I ever stand at an altar with this woman?"
"You will. Soon," his mother countered, her voice hardening.
Asher let out a short, dry bark of laughter—a sound devoid of any mirth. "Your 'soon' is like the sun, Mother. It looks bright and reachable from a distance, but the moment you try to touch it, you realize it's a desolate, burning void that will turn you to ash before you get anywhere near it."
He stood up abruptly, his chair screeching against the marble—a jarring, violent sound in the refined room. He looked down at the untouched plate, then swept his gaze across the assembled family, his expression one of pure, unadulterated mockery.
"Thanks for the hospitality. The food looks as cold as the company," he said, the sarcasm dripping from every word.
He turned to leave, but stopped at the edge of the table, leaning in slightly. The room went deathly silent.
"Consider this my final warning regarding my marital status," Asher said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration that made even his grandfather look up. "I will choose my own wife. And let me be clear: the very first quality I am looking for in a woman is that she must be someone you absolutely loathe, Mother. If you like her, she's disqualified."
Without waiting for a response, Asher turned on his heel and strode out of the mansion, leaving a wake of stunned silence and simmering fury behind him.