Chapter 3 The Penthouse Rulebook

Emily POV

By the time the elevator reached the top floor, I had decided three things.

I hated the headlines.

I hated Rowan Blackwood's silence.

And I absolutely hated the fact that I was now legally married to a man who looked as if he could fire someone simply for breathing too loudly.

The elevator doors opened.

Rowan stepped out first, his phone pressed to his ear.

“No interviews. No statements about her family. If anyone asks, the marriage is private business.”

He listened for a moment.

“Then remind them what happens when they ignore my instructions.”

He ended the call and glanced at me.

“Come on.”

I followed him into the penthouse.

The place was enormous, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking New York. The city glittered beneath us, beautiful and distant. Everything inside looked expensive enough to make me afraid of touching it.

A woman in a neat black suit stood beside the living room entrance. She held a tablet against her chest.

“Mr. Blackwood,” she greeted him. Her eyes moved to me. “Mrs. Blackwood.”

I almost choked.

Mrs. Blackwood.

I had known the title was coming. I had signed the documents, stood through the ceremony, and accepted the consequences.

Still, hearing it aloud made my stomach tighten.

“Knox will arrange whatever you need,” Rowan said.

The woman blinked. “Knox is downstairs, sir. I can show Mrs. Blackwood to her room.”

“Thank you, Flora.”

Flora gave me a professional smile and gestured toward the hallway.

I didn't move.

“Before I go anywhere, we need to talk.”

Rowan slipped his phone into his pocket.

“About what?”

“About the fact that I just became your wife and apparently everyone except me has already decided what that means.”

His expression barely changed.

“Then let's make it clear.”

“Good. Because I have rules.”

For the first time since we left the ceremony, he looked genuinely interested.

“I'm listening.”

I walked farther into the living room and set my handbag on a table.

“First, you don't get to control my movements. If I want to leave this penthouse, I leave.”

“Within reason.”

“No. That's not what I said.”

His jaw tightened.

I held his gaze.

“If you want a wife who follows instructions without asking questions, you married the wrong woman.”

“Second,” I continued, “you don't get to decide who I speak to. My friends are still my friends. My family is still my family.”

Something shifted in his eyes at the mention of family.

I noticed.

I wished I hadn't.

“Third, no pretending this marriage is real when we're alone. Whatever story we're selling to the public, I won't let you confuse it with reality.”

Rowan moved closer.

“And if I do?”

My heart gave an irritating little jump.

“Then I'll remind you.”

“How?”

“I haven't decided yet.”

A faint smile touched his mouth.

It disappeared so quickly that I wondered whether I had imagined it.

“My turn,” he said.

I folded my arms.

“Go ahead.”

“Rule one: when we're in public, you don't contradict our agreed story. If a reporter asks why we married, you give the answer we've prepared.”

“I can manage a sentence.”

“Rule two: no sharing information about this arrangement with anyone outside our legal team without discussing it first.”

“That's reasonable.”

“Rule three: you don't enter my office or access company documents without permission.”

I frowned.

“Was that rule written specifically for me?”

“It was written because someone has already tried to use this marriage against me.”

The amusement left my face.

“You mean the headlines?”

“The headlines are only the beginning.”

He said it so calmly that I almost missed the warning beneath his words.

I stepped closer.

“What aren't you telling me?”

“Nothing that changes our agreement.”

“That isn't an answer.”

“It's the one I have for you tonight.”

I hated how easily he shut doors without moving.

I hated even more that I wanted to know what was behind them.

“Fine,” I said. “But I want my own room, my own phone, and access to my money. I won't have to ask you for permission to buy a cup of coffee.”

“You'll have access to your accounts.”

“And I don't want a bodyguard following me everywhere.”

“That isn't negotiable.”

I stared at him.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Someone leaked our marriage before we had a chance to control the announcement. Your father's name is now circulating in connection with it. Until we know who's behind the leak, you won't go anywhere without security.”

“My father has nothing to do with your company.”

“Then why did someone send you a warning about him?”

The question silenced me.

I had been trying not to think about that message.

Don't marry Rowan Blackwood. Ask him what happened to Daniel Carter.

My father's name had changed Rowan's expression when I mentioned it. He had recognized it, but he hadn't explained why.

“You said you knew his name from old company records,” I reminded him. “What records?”

“I'm looking into it.”

“That sounds suspiciously like something people say when they want you to stop asking questions.”

“Emily.”

“No. You don't get to use that tone and expect me to become quiet.”

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then Rowan exhaled slowly.

“I'll give you answers when I have facts, not guesses.”

It wasn't enough.

But it was the first honest thing he'd offered me all evening.

Flora returned and showed me to a bedroom at the far end of the hallway. It was spacious, with a private bathroom, a sitting area, and a wardrobe that could hold every piece of clothing I owned without filling even half of it.

I stood in the doorway.

“This is temporary,” I reminded myself.

The room was too beautiful to feel like mine. Everything had been arranged before I arrived, from the fresh flowers to the neatly folded robe on the bed.

Someone had prepared for me.

That thought unsettled me more than the luxury.

After Flora left, I placed my handbag on the dresser and took out my phone.

Three missed calls from Cathy.

One message.

CATHY: Emily, please tell me you're alive. The internet says you've married Rowan Blackwood. CALL ME.

I started typing a reply when another notification appeared.

Unknown number.

My fingers went cold as I opened it.

You think moving into his house will protect you? Ask Rowan why your father's name was removed from the Blackwood investigation.

I read the message twice.

Then a third time.

My father had been alive when I spoke to him three days ago. Someone was already spreading lies about him, and now another stranger was claiming his name had been erased from an investigation.

I walked out of the bedroom.

Rowan stood in the living room, speaking quietly to someone on his phone. He looked up when he saw me.

I held out my screen.

“Do you know anything about this?”

He ended the call.

When he read the message, his expression hardened.

“Who sent it?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

He handed the phone back, but his eyes remained on the words.

For one brief moment, I saw something beneath his composure.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

“You know what happened to my father,” I whispered.

Rowan looked at me.

“I know someone wanted the truth about him buried.”

My chest tightened.

“Who?”

Before he could answer, his phone rang again.

He glanced at the screen.

Then his face changed.

“What is it?” I demanded.

He answered without taking his eyes off me.

“Tell me exactly what you found.”

A pause.

His fingers tightened around the phone.

“Don't touch anything. I'm coming.”

He ended the call.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Someone accessed a restricted Blackwood Holdings file connected to your father.”

“And?”

Rowan looked toward the dark windows.

“The access came from inside my office.”

My blood ran cold.

Because if someone inside Rowan's office was searching for my father, then moving into this penthouse might not have brought me closer to the truth.

It might have placed me directly in the path of whoever wanted it destroyed.