Arranged to a Playboy

Chapter 12:

[POV Ariel]

He didn’t come home until after midnight.

I heard the elevator chime, then the soft click of polished shoes on marble floors. I sat perfectly still on the couch, the television on low, my fingers curled around a lukewarm cup of tea I hadn’t touched in an hour.

When the door finally opened, Sloane stood in the entryway, jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes unreadable.

We stared at each other for a long moment.

“I’m not here to fight,” he said finally, voice cool, clipped. “I’ve thought it through.”

I braced myself. “And?”

“And the contract still stands.”

The breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding escaped in a quiet exhale. “You want to keep going?”

“It’s mutually beneficial. That hasn’t changed.”

He walked past me, heading straight for the kitchen. The scent of scotch followed him—faint, restrained. A single drink’s worth of control.

“I’ll have legal update the terms if needed,” he added. “But the arrangement stays.”

He poured himself a glass of water and didn’t look at me when he said, “From now on, we maintain boundaries. Clear lines. Formality.”

“Formality,” I repeated, the word dry in my mouth.

“No more personal conversations. No more late-night revelations. We do our jobs. We keep up appearances. And then, we move on.”

It shouldn’t have hurt.

But somehow, it stung more than his shouting would have.

“Understood,” I said.

He nodded once and disappeared into his room, closing the door with a soft, final click.

And just like that, we weren’t enemies anymore. We were strangers.

The next few days passed like clockwork.

At the office, we were flawless—syncopated smiles, rehearsed affection, a perfectly curated image of a couple on the rise. No one would’ve guessed that the man who brushed my hand in the elevator wouldn’t meet my eyes over breakfast.

At home, we barely spoke. Our schedules stopped overlapping. He left early. I stayed late. We passed each other in silence, like ghosts.

The space between us stretched wider with every word we didn’t say.

I didn’t expect to miss the arguments.

But I did.

I missed the tension. The fire. The way he looked at me like I was a challenge worth taking on. Now, he looked through me—polite, distant, guarded.

And I hated how I noticed.

When he left for a four-day trip to Chicago, I told myself I wouldn’t care.

But by the second night, I found myself pacing the penthouse, restless and agitated. I couldn’t focus. Couldn’t write. Couldn’t sleep.

That was when I called Charlie.

He arrived with takeout, paint on his sleeves, and a grin that made the space feel less sterile.

“God,” he said, flopping onto the couch. “This place is so clean it’s depressing. You sure he’s not a robot?”

“He’s extremely organized,” I muttered, handing him a beer.

He raised an eyebrow. “So... the wedding. The secrecy. The fake name. Are we going to talk about that, or am I just supposed to nod and eat dumplings?”

I hesitated. Then dropped onto the couch beside him with a sigh. “It’s complicated.”

Charlie gave me a knowing look. “You always say that when it involves emotions you don’t want to deal with.”

I groaned. “He hates me.”

“Do you care?”

“Not at first.”

He nudged me. “And now?”

I didn’t answer.

We ate in silence for a while. He made me laugh—God, I needed to laugh.

For a few hours, I forgot how cold Sloane’s eyes had become. How tight his voice was. How empty our penthouse felt at night.

Charlie left just after midnight, promising to keep the visit quiet. I cleaned up the takeout containers, tucked his sketchbook—which he’d forgotten—onto the coffee table, and went to bed with my chest aching in places I couldn’t name.

Sloane returned late Sunday evening.

I was in the reading nook when I heard the elevator open. I didn’t get up, but I heard the familiar sound of his shoes on the hardwood. Then the rustle of his coat being hung.

Silence. Then— “You had company.”

My head snapped up. He stood by the doorway, his tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his forearms, holding Charlie’s sketchbook in one hand.

I sat straighter. “My brother. He visited. Just for a few hours.”

He flipped the sketchbook open, revealing a pencil drawing of my profile—eyes sharp, expression distant, half-finished. His gaze flicked up to meet mine.

“You didn’t tell me he was an artist.”

I hesitated. “It never came up.” He looked back down, thumb brushing over the page.

“You used to paint,” I said quietly, surprising myself.

He blinked. “How did you—?”

“Richard mentioned it once. Said you stopped after... everything.”

He didn’t answer for a long moment. Then he closed the sketchbook and set it carefully on the table.

“I wasn’t bad,” he said softly. “But it reminded me too much of her. Zoe used to say she could tell how I was feeling just by the colors I used.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. He looked at me then, really looked at me—for the first time in days.

“I’m not ready to forgive you,” he said. “But I don’t want to hate you either.”

Something in my chest loosened.

“I don’t expect forgiveness,” I said. “Just honesty.”

He gave a small nod, then turned to leave. He paused at the doorway.

“Tell your brother I like his work.”

And then, like always, he was gone again. But something in the air had shifted. And this time, the silence didn’t feel quite so final.