1 Bennett Hayes and I met through our parents. We were both turning thirty, drowning under familial ultimatums, and pragmatic enough to treat matrimony like a sensible merger. We met for coffee three times, exchanged polite resumes of our lives, and signed the marriage license. I didn’t go into it looking for fireworks. Bennett was a tenured associate professor of modern literature—refined, impeccably educated, and steady. I figured mutual courtesy would be more than enough to carry us through the decades. What I hadn’t anticipated was that Bennett wasn’t just reserved; he was an absolute glacier. I wasn’t much warmer myself. By nature, I kept my walls high and my voice level. Under the same roof, we were two solitary icebergs drifting in a silent apartment, rarely exchanging ten words from dawn to dusk. When my best friend, Vivian, came over for wine on a Sunday afternoon, she spent twenty minutes glancing between the living room and the study before finally letting out an exasperated sigh. “Bennett is sitting out there on the sofa with a hardbound book, and we’re practically hiding in the guest room like runaway teenagers,” Vivian whispered, leaning across my desk. “It feels weird. Shouldn’t we go out there and hang out with him?” I bristled immediately. “God, no. I don’t know him well enough for that.” Vivian stared at me, her jaw slack. “You don’t know him well enough? Nora, you’ve been married for six months.” She assumed I was being dramatic. But by dinner, after watching Bennett and me eat our roast chicken in total, impenetrable silence, she realized I hadn’t been exaggerating. The moment Bennett carried the plates to the sink, Vivian dragged me by the wrist into the hallway. “Okay, spill,” she hissed, keeping her voice to a breathy whisper. “If it’s this icy out here, how is it behind closed doors? Are things… you know… working?” Heat rushed straight up my neck. I shook my head. “We don’t really do that.” “What?” Vivian’s eyes widened to dinner plates. “You’re newlyweds. You’re supposed to be tearing each other’s clothes off.” I glanced nervously toward the kitchen, coughing pointedly to cut her off. Vivian lowered her voice another octave, leaning in close. “Wait. Is he having performance issues? Because if it’s medical, I know a specialist over at Presbyterian—” Mortified, I slapped a hand over her mouth. “Vivian, shut up.” 2 Vivian had every right to be bewildered. She had recently started dating a former military rescue specialist named Gavin, and their chemistry was practically a fire hazard. Listening to her gush about him always stirred a quiet, hollow envy in my chest. But real passion felt like a luxury good I had neither the currency nor the talent to acquire. Bennett was an academic through and through, and I was perpetually buried under cross-border portfolios at a boutique private equity firm. All our lives, we had been the quintessential “good kids”—straight-A students, obedient, devoid of teenage rebellion, never stepping out of line. It was deeply unfair, really. The very traits our parents had praised us for—emotional restraint, hyper-focus on career, zero distractions—suddenly became our greatest flaws the moment we crossed thirty without a partner. So we had yielded to the matchmaking, walked down the aisle, and six months later, I still had no idea how to talk to the man sharing my home. After Vivian left, Bennett and I retreated to our separate bedrooms. We had been sleeping apart for four months now. Bennett was a creature of strict biological clockwork—in bed by eleven, up by seven. I, on the other hand, handled overseas clients across twelve-hour time differences, frequently glued to a glowing monitor past two in the morning. Bennett was an exceptionally light sleeper; my typing kept him tossing and turning, leaving him with bruised shadows under his eyes before morning lectures. Feeling guilty, I had suggested the spare room. I still remembered the sharp, visible relief on his face when he agreed. But moving into separate beds had stripped away our last sliver of casual contact. We had hardened into polite roommates. I had accepted this as our permanent reality. Yet lying in bed that night, staring up at the dark ceiling, Vivian’s radiant smile flashed in my mind. Is it really okay to go through an entire life without ever once losing your head over someone? I drifted off with that dull ache behind my ribs. When I opened my eyes the next morning, a sharp, synthetic ping echoed inside my skull. [System initialized. Every time you cause Bennett Hayes’s heart to flutter, $10,000 will be deposited directly into your personal account.] It was completely absurd. But the neural clarity of the voice felt impossibly concrete. I made good money in private equity, but the brutal hours were steadily eroding my health. I had already been dreaming of an early exit to build an independent consultancy. And extra money, however supernatural the source, was impossible to turn down. I brushed my teeth, threw on a cardigan, and walked out into the living room. Bennett was already at the coffee table, a cup of Earl Grey steaming beside him as he turned a crisp page of his book. “No office hours today?” I asked, lingering near the corridor. He didn’t lift his eyes. “It’s Saturday.” “Right. Of course.” The silence snapped back into place, suffocating and vast. 3 Bennett wore a pristine white button-down, sleeves rolled precisely to his forearms, gold-rimmed reading glasses perched on his straight nose. Sitting there in the morning light, he looked so aristocratic, so entirely self-contained, that approaching him felt like trespassing on sacred ground. I bit my lower lip, pulled my phone from my pocket, and typed out a message. [Do you want to see an x-rated photo of me?] The phone beside his teacup buzzed with a dull hum. Bennett didn’t look up, his fingers poised to turn another page. Two minutes ticked by in excruciating silence. Unable to hold out any longer, I cleared my throat. “Um… your phone buzzed.” “Ah.” He picked up the device with lazy indifference, tapped the screen, and froze. Bennett had beautiful hands—long, pale, with lean, sculpted knuckles. As his gaze locked onto the screen, his fingers tightened around the glass casing so violently that the blue veins across the back of his hand surged to the surface. Buzz. My own phone vibrated in my palm. I looked down. [Alert: $10,000.00 has been transferred to your checking account ending in 4482. Available balance: $26,543.88.] My breath caught. Just like that? Did the stoic, untouchable Professor Hayes really possess such a low threshold for scandal? Bennett abruptly tossed his book onto the sofa and turned to look at me, his eyes dark, intense, and completely unreadable behind his lenses. Panicking under his gaze, I frantically texted him a follow-up image: a full-body medical X-ray of a human skeleton. [Haha, found it on Reddit. Pretty funny, right? X-rated. Get it?] Bennett glanced down at his screen, then looked back up at me. A subtle, deeply complex twitch passed over his jawline. “Hilarious,” he said flatly. He was looking at me as though I had suffered a mild traumatic brain injury. Flustered, I turned on my heel and scuttled back into my bedroom. 4 Staring at my bank balance over the next hour, I couldn’t quite decipher the system’s algorithm for “heart fluttering.” We had zero romantic foundation. Judging by his glacial demeanor over the last six months, Bennett clearly felt no deep emotional attachment to me. Which meant the sudden spike had to be rooted in something far more primal. Was he really thinking about something explicit? The mere thought made heat scorch my cheeks. I kept my distance for the rest of the weekend. On Monday, disaster struck the firm. My managing director went on sudden medical leave, dumping his entire workload onto my desk. Already swamped, I was thrown into a relentless fortnight of eighty-hour weeks. Not once did I leave the high-rise before midnight. Every night I stumbled through our front door, only the dim foyer lamp would be glowing. Bennett’s bedroom door remained firmly shut, his steady breathing tucked away in sleep. I would collapse onto the sofa, every muscle aching with bone-deep exhaustion. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city skyline glittered with indifferent grandeur. It was the classic white-collar trap: trading youth and nervous systems for brief, hollow prestige. I felt like an insect trapped under glass, running out of oxygen. On Saturday morning, staring at the $10,000 balance notification, I made up my mind. I needed to build my escape fund, and Bennett was my only asset. I woke early. True to form, Bennett was sitting on the sofa, immersed in an academic journal. I deliberately loosened the belt of my silk robe, walked over, and sank onto the cushion beside him, our thighs inches apart. “Bennett?” I murmured, my voice intentionally soft. “Could you… help me strip down?” Sputter— Bennett choked violently on his morning tea, barely swallowing in time to prevent a spray across the coffee table. He set the porcelain cup down with a sharp clatter. “What did you just say?” Doing something so shamelessly provocative in front of him made my stomach knot in panic. I kept my gaze dropped, staring fixedly at his pristine collarbone. “I asked… if you’d help me strip down.” A long, heavy silence stretched between us. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick, dropped an entire register into something dark and rough. “Alright.” Buzz. My phone vibrated in my pocket. Another $10,000. I exhaled in relief, preparing to deliver the punchline, when a strong, cool hand suddenly caught the loose belt around my waist. My mind went completely blank. “What are you doing?” 5 Late summer was lingering, leaving the mornings warm despite the autumn chill at night. Beneath my beige cotton robe, I was wearing only a low-cut silk slip dress. The belt had already been undone; with the slightest tug from Bennett, the fabric parted and slid down my shoulders like shedding petals. I looked down at my exposed neckline, my heart leaping into my throat. I wasn’t wearing a bra. The air above me grew thick and ragged. Bennett reached out, his long fingers cupping the curve of my bare shoulder, his thumb tracing the delicate hollow of my collarbone with deliberate, burning friction. Goosebumps erupted across my skin in an instant wave. The memory of our awkward, disastrous wedding night flared in my mind, triggering an instinctive spike of panic. I shoved against his chest. “I—I meant the fruit! The peaches in the fridge! I asked if you could help me strip the skin off the peaches!” Bennett froze. “Never mind, I’ll do it myself!” I snatched the robe, clutched the lapels tightly against my chest, and scrambled off the sofa in pure, cowardly retreat. Standing by the kitchen sink, my calves were trembling so hard I had to grip the marble counter for support. I turned on the faucet, letting the cold water run over my wrists until the pounding in my ears finally subsided. I washed the peaches, sliced them neatly onto a crystal platter, and pulled out my phone. Reading the bank notification twice, a helpless smile crept onto my face. Twenty grand in two days. Bennett was never a man driven by base impulses—except on our wedding night, when he had arrived in our hotel room smelling of heavy scotch. Neither of us had any prior experience. It had been clumsy, painful, and utterly jarring for both of us. Ever since, we had settled into this unspoken truce of mutual non-interference. Which meant teasing him verbally remained a relatively safe, high-yield enterprise. I popped a slice of peach into my mouth. Crisp, sweet, and bursting with chilled juice. Satisfied, I picked up the platter and carried it back to the living room. 6 Bennett was back in his reading posture, though his knuckles were whiter than usual against the spine of the book. I set the platter down and offered him a slice with an appeasing smile. “Try some? It’s really good.” Bennett didn’t take it. Instead, he pushed his glasses up his nose, his dark eyes fixing on me with an intensity so heavy, so turbulent, it felt like an approaching squall over an open sea. My skin prickled under his gaze. “Why are you looking at me like that?” “Nora,” he began, his voice dangerously measured. “Over the last few days, you’ve been—” Ring—! My phone shrieked on the table. I grabbed it like a lifeline. “Nora, I’m going to die,” Tyler Briggs groaned on the other end, sounding half-delirious. “Garrison just moved the client presentation to Monday morning. He wants the entire financial deck ready today. Please save me.” “What?” I stood up, exasperated. “We agreed on next Friday. Why the sudden shift?” “I don’t know! I got home at two in the morning, and my brain is mush. Look out your window—I’m literally parked in front of your building. Hurry down, boss!” Tyler was our newest recruit—an Ivy League graduate with boundless stamina and a golden retriever’s eagerness. As our boss Garrison put it, the kid had pristine organs ready to be sacrificed to the firm. To his credit, he was brilliant and never complained about eighty-hour weeks. “Bennett, I won’t be home for lunch,” I called out, rushing toward the bedroom to change. “Understood,” came his low reply from the couch. When I arrived at the office, Rachel Miller from strategy was already at her desk. Our weekend vanished in a blur of spreadsheets, financial modeling, and caffeine. By the time we finally locked down the final deck on Sunday night, the digital clock in the corner of my screen read 12:15 AM. Tyler stretched his long limbs over his desk, letting out a theatrical groan. “This isn’t living. My lower back is officially destroyed.” I glanced at him. “Keep complaining and I’ll make you format the appendix.” Tyler snapped upright like a soldier. “My back is in peak condition. I can pull two more all-nighters, easily.” 7 “Seriously though, Nora,” Tyler said, wheeling his office chair over to my cubicle with a conspiratorial smirk. “I’m a miserable bachelor, so nobody cares if I rot here. But you’re practically a newlywed. You pull seventy-hour weeks, and your fancy professor husband doesn’t even call to check on you?” I calmly slid the finalized folder into my leather tote. “He goes to sleep early.” “Wait, really? No protective instinct at all? Man, Rachel was right, you guys are basically—” “Tyler,” Rachel interrupted with a sharp cough from across the room. “Go hit the hallway lights, would you?” Tyler caught the warning and scrambled off. Rachel had gone to college with Bennett. When we got married, she had attended the reception as his friend, sitting at the university table. She knew far more about his background than our other coworkers did. Whenever she dropped subtle hints about our cold marriage around the water cooler, I never took it to heart. She wasn’t lying; Bennett and I were strangers with matching rings. Our floor went dark. Tyler joined us by the elevator banks, and we stepped into the steel car in exhausted silence. The elevator descended smoothly, the rhythmic hum rocking my weary brain into a stupor. I leaned against the handrail, eyes half-closed. Thump. The cab shuddered violently, grinding to an abrupt, jarring halt between floors. I grabbed the rail with both hands. “What happened?” “Damn it,” Tyler cursed, rapidly punching the panel before jamming down the emergency call button. The building had twenty-four-hour security, but after three rings, the intercom produced only static. Panic began to bleed into Tyler’s voice. “Nora, call your husband! Have him call the property manager or come pry the doors!” “It’s nearly one in the morning,” I said, pulling out my phone. “I’m not waking him up for something he can’t fix. Calling 911 makes a lot more sense.” Before I could dial dispatch, Rachel smoothly extended an arm, blocking my screen. “Don’t make a scene with the fire department,” Rachel said calmly. “A good friend of mine lives two blocks away. The night guard is definitely on-site, probably just away from the desk. I’ll text my friend to walk over and wake up the management staff.” I hesitated, then lowered my phone. “Alright. Thanks, Rachel.” 8 Rachel tapped out a call, her tone suddenly shifting into something soft, intimate, and distinctly fond. “Hey… sorry to wake you. I’m stuck in the office elevator and the intercom isn’t responding. I don’t really have anyone else to call in this neighborhood.” “I’m on my way,” the voice on the other end responded—calm, measured, carrying an effortless gravitas that cut right through the speaker. After hanging up, Tyler nudged Rachel with a grin. “Ooh. Boyfriend?” Rachel offered a coy, ambiguous smile and said nothing. About twenty minutes later, muffled footsteps and shouting echoed from the shaft above. The manual release engaged with a heavy metallic clunk, and the outer doors parted. A flushed, apologetic security guard appeared. “I’m so sorry, folks. Stomach bug, was stuck in the restroom down the hall.” I stepped out onto the polished marble, but my legs instantly locked up. Standing right behind the guard was Bennett. Tyler, entirely oblivious to who Bennett was, let out a low whistle. “Damn, Rachel. Your guy is gorgeous. Hey man, I’m Tyler. Thanks for bailing us out.” Bennett didn’t look at Tyler. His gaze was pinned entirely on me, his dark brows knotted in a deep scowl. He had clearly rushed out of the house. Over his cotton sleep shirt, he had hastily thrown on a beige wool trench coat, his normally pristine dark hair tousled and standing up in messy tufts across his forehead. Under any other circumstance, he would have looked endearing. Right now, a cold, heavy knot tightened in my gut. I had spent six months believing Bennett was an unfeeling statue who valued his routine above all else. Yet here he was, throwing on a coat in the dead of night at the drop of a hat, solely because Rachel Miller had called. A bitter, suffocating heat pooled behind my ribs. Rachel brushed past me, her lips curved in a triumphant little smirk. “Thanks, Bennett. I owe you dinner.” Her heels clicked sharply against the floor as she walked toward the revolving doors. Tyler hurried after her, still shouting, “Rachel, wait! Isn’t your boyfriend giving us a ride?” Bennett stepped closer, his jaw tight, his expression darker than the midnight sky outside. “Let’s go.” 9 The drive back was an exercise in pure sensory deprivation. The atmosphere inside the sedan was thick with unspoken tension. My throat felt raw, aching with a toxic cocktail of humiliated pride and sheer exhaustion. He had come to play the hero for Rachel, only to find his neglected wife stuck in the same car. How inconvenient for him. Bennett pulled into our underground parking spot, killed the headlights, but left the central locks engaged. He turned in his seat to face me. “Do you have anything you want to say to me?” he asked. I stiffened, looking straight into his eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?” A spark of genuine anger flared behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “Tonight. You really don’t think you owe me an explanation?” My temper, suppressed through two weeks of crushing work, finally snapped. “What do you want me to explain, Bennett?” He let out a cold, humorless chuckle, reached forward, and pulled the key fob from the ignition. Staring through the windshield, he offered me nothing but his rigid profile. “Nora, if we don’t clear this up right now, we aren’t going upstairs.” A wave of fury crashed over me. I had worked eighty hours, starved myself on bad coffee, and he had the audacity to demand an explanation after answering another woman’s midnight distress call? I lunged across the console to snatch the key from his fingers. “Unlock the door, Bennett. I have nothing to say to you.” I rarely lost my temper. I had spent my entire life maintaining a polished, unbothered facade. But right now, the sheer injustice of it made me reckless. When I reached for the key, Bennett raised his arm out of reach. I grabbed his wrist, trying to pry his fingers open. In a single, fluid motion, Bennett twisted, pinned me back against the passenger seat, and trapped both my wrists above my head with one effortless grip. “Let go of me!” I gasped, my chest heaving against his coat, entirely unhinged. “I swear to God, Bennett—” Ping. A mechanical chime echoed clearly in my mind. [Alert: $10,000.00 has been transferred to your checking account.] I froze beneath him, the blinding rage suddenly derailing into pure confusion. Why now? Before my brain could process the alert, Bennett lowered his head and captured my mouth.
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