HE BOUGHT MY BAKERY DEBT AND MADE ME HIS FAKE FIANCÉE, BUT WHEN I BROKE HIS ONLY RULE IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT, HIS DARKEST SECRET WAS UNLEASHED!

The Mercer estate did not look like a home; it looked like a fortress disguised as a European palace. Nestled behind wrought-iron gates on a secluded bluff overlooking Lake Michigan, the limestone mansion rose out of the Chicago fog like a dark, elegant specter.

Penelope spent her first forty-eight hours feeling like an impostor who had accidentally wandered onto a movie set. Her bedroom was the size of her entire apartment above the bakery, covered in silk wallpaper and furnished with antiques that probably belonged in the Art Institute. Every morning, two silent women in gray uniforms delivered breakfast on silver trays: poached eggs, fresh berries, and artisanal sourdough that made her fingers twitch with the desire to knead dough again.

"You're pacing," a voice noted from the doorway.

Penelope jumped, clutching her cardigan around her waist. Cassian was leaning against the doorframe, wearing a bespoke navy suit, his tie undone at the throat. It was seven o'clock on Thursday evening, forty-eight hours after she had signed the contract.

"I don't know what to do with my hands when they aren't covered in flour," she said, raising her chin. "And your house is terrifying. It’s too quiet. Even the grandfather clock sounds like it's calculating my net worth."

"Then you'll appreciate tonight," Cassian said, stepping inside. He gestured behind him, and three stylists rolled in two rolling racks loaded with haute couture gowns. "Tonight is the Autumn Gala at the Field Museum. Half the city's political elite will be there, including the special prosecutor who has subpoenaed my tax records. He expects me to arrive with a paid escort or a defense lawyer. Instead, I am arriving with the woman who spends her weekends feeding the homeless at St. Jude's."

"I am not a prop, Cassian," Penelope snapped, a spark of anger cutting through her anxiety.

Cassian stepped closer, his blue eyes narrowing as his gaze traced the curve of her collarbone down to the soft swell of her waist. "You are my fiancée, Penelope. And in five minutes, you are going to put on the emerald velvet gown hanging on that rack. It was tailored to your exact measurements."

"How did you—"

"I have eyes," he murmured, his voice dropping into that dangerous, velvety cadence. "And I don't hire tailors who make mistakes."

Two hours later, Penelope stood in front of the floor-length mirror, breathless. The emerald gown clung to every curve of her body without shame. It celebrated her wide hips, highlighted her soft cleavage, and draped over her skin like a second layer of liquid royalty. Her dark curls were pinned back in an artful, effortless chignon, and the giant diamond winked arrogantly under the chandelier light.

Cassian stood behind her. When his hands settled onto her bare shoulders, his touch was surprisingly gentle, though his grip held the power of a tempest.

"Breathtaking," he whispered into her ear. For the first time since they had met, there was no mockery in his voice, no corporate calculation. His breath felt warm against her skin, making a shiver dart straight down her spine. "Remember the story. We met six months ago at a private charity auction in Evanston. You dropped your coffee on my cuff. I couldn't stop thinking about you. We've been seeing each other in secret."

"Why secret?"

"Because a man like me destroys soft things if he isn't careful," Cassian said, his eyes meeting hers in the glass. "And I wanted to keep you safe from my enemies."