Chapter 1
Sydney
I woke up to the feeling of Hunter’s mouth on my neck, his hand sliding up my thigh beneath his obscenely soft sheets.
“Mmm,” I hummed, stretching like a cat. “Is this going to be a regular thing? Because I could get used to this wake-up call.”
“That’s the plan,” he murmured against my skin, his voice still rough with sleep in that way that made me want him again.
I giggled, threading my fingers through his hair as he kissed his way down my stomach.
“I really wish I didn’t have to go to work today… wife,” he lifted his head to grin at me with those stupidly blue eyes. “God, I love calling you that… my wife, Sydney Boyd.”
“Wells-Boyd,” I corrected, then paused. “Actually, shit. Am I Sydney Boyd now? Did I change my name when we got married? How does that even work?”
“Don’t know, don’t care,” Hunter said, pulling me closer. “Right now, all I care about is this.”
And then his mouth was on mine, and thinking became impossible.
We’d spent the past three days basically locked in this penthouse, existing in a bubble of takeout, tangled sheets, and getting to know each other in every sense of the phrase. It was like a honeymoon, except it was two months late, but I wasn’t complaining.
Morning sex was quickly becoming my favorite meal of the day, especially when it involved a man who looked at me like he did and knew exactly how to make me forget my own name.
“Hunter,” I gasped as he hit that perfect spot, my nails digging into his shoulders.
“That’s it, Mrs. Boyd,” he groaned, his forehead pressed against mine. “Love hearing you say my name.”
For those perfect minutes, everything felt right. No doubts, no questions, just us and this crazy, impulsive decision that had somehow led to the best sex of my life.
Afterward, we lay together, sweaty and satisfied, trying to catch our breath.
“We should probably get out of bed,” I murmured, though I made no move to actually leave. “Maybe later, go see the city. Do normal couple things.”
“This is a normal couple thing,” Hunter argued, pressing a kiss to my hair. “This is the best couple thing.”
I snorted. “Pretty sure normal couples also, like, go to brunch. Visit museums. Argue about whose turn it is to do the dishes.”
“We don’t do the dishes. We have housekeeping for that.”
“You know what I mean.”
He pulled me closer, and I could feel his heart beating. “Tomorrow I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. Show you all my favorite spots in the city. But today...” He trailed off as his phone alarm started blaring from the nightstand.
We both groaned.
“Ignore it,” I suggested, but Hunter was already reaching over to silence it.
“I wish I could,” he sighed, and I felt him tense slightly. “But I’ve got meetings starting at nine. I’ve already pushed everything back from Tuesday and Wednesday. If I miss today, the board might actually murder me.”
Reality, meet bubble. Bubble, reality.
I watched as Hunter reluctantly got himself up from bed, and I was already missing him. It was stupid. Of course, he had to work. He ran a massive company. But watching him start to transition from my rumpled, sexy husband to... the CEO of his company, it was like watching a stranger slide into place.
He caught me staring and grinned. “See something you like, Mrs. Boyd?”
“Wells-Boyd,” I corrected again, but I couldn’t help smiling back. “And yes. Very much. But you should probably shower. I don’t want to make you late.”
“Join me?”
Twenty minutes later, we emerged from the shower significantly cleaner and only slightly behind schedule. I wrapped myself in a towel, and settled on the bed to watch Hunter get dressed.
This was where things got weird.
I’d seen Hunter in a suit before. Hell, I saw him at his office. But watching him actually transform into CEO Hunter Boyd was something else entirely. His posture was focused and controlled, like he was becoming a different person.
He stood in front of his massive walk-in closet and selected a navy suit. He knotted his tie quickly, and I found myself thinking… god, I didn’t even know how to tie a tie.
“You okay?” Hunter asked, catching my expression in the mirror.
“Yeah,” I said quickly. “Just... you look so different.”
He turned, adjusting his cufflinks, and crossed to the bed. He braced his hands on either side of me, leaning down to kiss me.
“I’ll be home by seven,” he promised. “We’ll order in, open that bottle of wine you like, and continue where we left off. Deal?”
“Deal,” I agreed, trying to ignore the anxiety that started to creep in.
“There’s food in the fridge, or you can order anything you want. I’m leaving a credit card on the table in the foyer. Use it for whatever you need.” He kissed me again, quick and sweet. “Make yourself at home, okay?”
And then he was gone, leaving behind a silence so complete I could hear all my doubts.
I sat there for a minute, still wrapped in a towel, in this stupid expensive penthouse, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do now.
Right. Coffee. Coffee was a good start.
I got dressed in the leggings and oversized sweater I’d been living in for the past three days.
Note to self: I really needed to do laundry or buy new clothes or... something.
I left the bedroom into Hunter’s kitchen.
Correction: Our kitchen? No, that didn’t feel right.
The space was gorgeous: all gleaming marble countertops, top-of-the-line appliances, and a coffee maker that made me question if I should even try to use it. I stared at the sleek machine, searching for something resembling a power button.
“Okay, fancy coffee maker,” I muttered. “I can do this. I’m a sophisticated adult.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’d managed to flood the drip tray, was unable to grind the beans, and somehow engage a cleaning cycle that filled the kitchen with steam and ominous hissing sounds.
“Abort, abort,” I hissed, frantically pressing buttons.
The machine made a sound like it was dying, then went silent.
I stared at it. It stared back, judgmentally.
“I don’t suppose you have instant coffee hidden somewhere?” I asked the now-disgruntled kitchen.
Silence.
Fine. I’d find a coffee shop. New York had coffee shops on every corner, right? I’d just... go outside. Get some air. Explore Hunter’s neighborhood.
Except I didn’t have keys, or whatever the hell rich people used to access their buildings.
I checked the table in the foyer where Hunter said he’d left his credit card and found it along with a note in his handwriting:
Use this for whatever you need. See you tonight. -H
Sweet. Also vaguely impersonal. Was I being weird?
I pocketed the card and decided to explore the penthouse instead. I’d been so focused on Hunter the past few days that I hadn’t really looked at the space. Our space. His space. God, I didn’t even know what to call it.
The living room had modern furniture in shades of gray and navy, abstract art on the walls that I definitely didn’t understand, and those enormous windows overlooking Central Park. It was beautiful. Intimidating. Nothing like my cluttered studio in St. Louis.
I wandered over to examine the art more closely. One piece looked like someone had thrown paint at a canvas during a temper tantrum. Another was just... black. Like, completely black. A black square on the wall.
“I don’t get it,” I told the black square. “But I’m sure you’re very expensive and important.”
The bookshelf was more familiar to me. Hunter had an impressive collection: business books, some fiction, a whole section on telecommunications history. But they were arranged by size and color, like they were decorative objects rather than things to actually read. I pulled out a Tom Clancy novel and found the spine uncracked, pages pristine.
Did Hunter actually read these, or were they just for show?
God, I was being such a judgmental bitch. Just because someone kept their books neat didn’t mean they didn’t read them. I was projecting my anxiety onto innocent literature.
I moved on to his bedroom closet, drawn by morbid curiosity about just how deep the wealth rabbit hole went.
Holy. Shitballs.
The closet was extremely organized. Suits were arranged by color (navy, charcoal, black, gray), shirts perfectly pressed and hanging in neat rows, shoes lined up like soldiers. I pulled out a suit jacket at random and checked the label: Tom Ford.
I googled the price on my phone and promptly felt faint.
Six thousand dollars. For one suit. There was at least twenty suits in here.
I did the math and couldn’t believe it.
My entire undergraduate education cost less than Hunter’s closet.
I carefully put the Tom Ford back, making sure it hung exactly where I’d found it, and backed out of the closet, feeling like I shouldn’t have been snooping around.
This was fine. This was totally fine. So Hunter was rich. I’d known he was rich. I’d seen him in his office, for Christ’s sake. Boyd Telecommunications wasn’t exactly a mom-and-pop shop.
But knowing someone was wealthy and living in their space, surrounded by their things, seeing the daily evidence of just how different your worlds were... that was something else entirely.
I retreated to the living room and tried to focus on my laptop. I had my thesis to work on: mathematics didn’t care if I was having an existential crisis in a Manhattan penthouse.
But I couldn’t concentrate. The silence was too heavy, the space too big, the couch too perfect to actually sit on. I felt like a guest who should not be touching anything.
My phone buzzed with a text from Hunter: “How’s your day going?”
I stared at the message. How was my day going? Well, I’d broken the coffee maker, had a panic attack about suit prices, and was currently feeling like an imposter in my husband’s home. But sure, let’s go with:
“Great! Just working on my thesis. How are your meetings?”
His response came quickly: “Boring as hell. Missing you. Can’t wait to get home.”
I smiled. That was the Hunter I thought I knew. The one who made terrible jokes and looked at me like I was the only person in the room. Not CEO Hunter with his perfect suits and color-coded closet.
But weren’t they the same person?
God, I was spiraling.
I forced myself to open my thesis document and stared at the equations I’d been working on before coming here.
I tried to focus for five minutes until I gave up.
I couldn’t do this. Not today. Not in this space that didn’t feel like home.
I closed my laptop and moved to the windows, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. Central Park stretched out below, a green oasis in the urban jungle. People were jogging, walking dogs, living their normal New York lives.
And here I was, trapped in a glass tower like some kind of modern-day Rapunzel, except instead of letting down my hair, I’d apparently let down my common sense when I decided to try to make a marriage with a man I barely knew work.
What the hell had I been thinking?
No, I knew what I’d been thinking. I’d been thinking about the way Hunter looked at me. The way he made me laugh. The connection that felt cosmic and inevitable, like the universe was screaming THIS ONE, YOU IDIOT, THIS ONE.
But the universe hadn’t mentioned the part where I’d feel completely out of my depth in his world. Where I’d spend my days wandering around his penthouse like a ghost, unsure if I was allowed to move anything or sit anywhere or even breathe too loudly.
My phone buzzed again. Addie this time: “How’s married life in the big city???”
I considered my options. I could tell her the truth: that I was having second thoughts, that I felt like a fraud, that I was pretty sure I’d made a terrible mistake.
Or I could lie.
“Amazing! Hunter’s at work but the penthouse is gorgeous. Living the dream!”
“Pics or it didn’t happen!” Addie shot back, followed by a string of demanding emojis.
I took a selfie in front of the window, Central Park visible behind me, and sent it off. Look at me, living my best life in Manhattan. Definitely not having a quarter-life crisis.
The afternoon crawled by. I tried to work, tried to read, tried to just exist in the space without feeling like an intruder. Around four, I ventured back into the kitchen, thinking maybe I could cook dinner. Do something useful.
The fridge was stocked with things that looked expensive and intimidating: truffle butter, aged cheeses I couldn’t pronounce, vegetables so perfect they looked fake. I stared at the contents, trying to figure out what I could make that wouldn’t result in food poisoning or accidental arson.
My phone rang. Hunter’s face filled the screen. It was a photo I’d taken of him yesterday, mid-laugh, looking rumpled and happy and like mine.
“Hey,” I answered, trying to inject enthusiasm into my voice.
“Hey,” he replied, and I could tell he was smiling. “So, slight change of plans. I have a client meeting that’s going to run long, and I’m not going to make it home by seven. Probably closer to nine or ten. I’m really sorry, Sydney.”
My stomach sank. “Oh. That’s... that’s fine. No problem.”
“You sure? I can try to…”
“No, it’s fine,” I interrupted, forcing myself to not sound disappointed. “Work is work. I totally understand. I’ll just… I’ll see you when you get here.”
“I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Tomorrow night, we’ll do whatever you want. My full attention.”
“Sounds great,” I said, already knowing tomorrow would probably be another late night, another reminder that his life didn’t actually have room for a wife he’d picked up in Vegas on a whim.
After the call, I stood in the kitchen, phone in hand, trying not to feel like I’d been abandoned.
He was working. It was his job. I was being ridiculous.
I ordered Chinese food using my own bank card. It didn’t feel right to use Hunter’s credit card. I ate it alone on the couch, and tried not to think about how I’d gotten here.
By the time nine o’clock rolled around, then ten, then eleven, I’d given up waiting and crawled into bed. I heard Hunter come in sometime after midnight, felt him slip under the covers and pull me against him.
“Sorry I’m so late,” he murmured into my hair.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, and I wasn’t sure if I was lying or not.
He fell asleep almost immediately, his breathing evening out, his body warm against mine.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, and wondered if I would be able to survive this.
Three days ago, I’d stood in Hunter’s office with the divorce papers in my hand, asking him to give us a chance. To try. To see if the connection we’d felt—twice now, in two separate drunken Vegas incidents—was real.
But real life wasn’t an impulsive marriage in Vegas.
Real life was wondering if I’d be able to make this work past a week.
Hunter’s arm tightened around me in his sleep, and I felt tears prick my eyes.
I thought I loved him. I knew I loved the version of him I’d met in Vegas, the one who’d danced with me and married me in a tacky chapel and made me feel like I was the only person in the world who mattered.
But did I love this version? CEO Hunter with his important meetings and his perfect penthouse and his life that seemed to have no space for someone like me?
Did he even want me here, or was I just... part of his window dressing? A fun impulse buy that looked good in theory but didn’t actually fit with the rest of the decor?
I closed my eyes and tried to silence the doubts creeping through my brain.
I’d give it time. I’d adjust. This was just day one of Hunter being back at work. Of course it felt weird. Of course I felt out of place. That was normal, right?
Right?
Down below, people were living their lives, pursuing their dreams, figuring out their shit one day at a time.
And here I was, above it all, feeling more lost than I’d ever felt in my life.
My last thought before I fell asleep was:
Did I really make the right decision? To come to New York, hoping to give this thing a real shot?
***
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— Cat
