I adjust the emerald silk of my dress in the mirror, watching the way the fabric catches the dim bedroom light. Deliberate. I chose it on purpose. Grant’s favorite color. He told me that once, offhand, three weeks ago, when we were signing the final addendum to our marriage contract. I still remember the exact texture of his voice, the way it dropped half an octave, how his fingers brushed my wrist as he handed me the pen. Contract. Right. Because that’s all this is. A transaction. A deadline. A thirty-year-old man and a twenty-eight-year-old stepsister playing house to keep a trust fund intact.

But the mirror shows a woman whose pulse still hitches every time he walks into a room. Who catches herself memorizing the way he takes his coffee. Who lies awake wondering if the way he looks at me is real or just another performance.

“You’re doing it again,” Grant’s voice comes from the doorway. I turn. He’s in a tailored charcoal suit, tie loosened just enough to suggest he’s already tired of the evening ahead. His dark hair is perfectly unruly, the way it always gets when he’s been running his hands through it all day. Those gray eyes—cold to the boardroom, warm to me—lock onto mine. “Overthinking.”

“I’m not overthinking,” I lie, stepping out of the bathroom. The hardwood floor is cool beneath my bare feet. “I’m preparing. Your family doesn’t take kindly to half-measures.”

He crosses the room in three strides, hands resting on my hips. His thumbs trace slow circles over the silk. “We’ve been doing this for a month, Ava. The performance is exhausting.”

“We’re not performing,” I say, softer now. “We’re just… being us. Which is the problem.”

He smiles, a real one that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Then let’s keep being us. They’ll love it. They’ll wonder how we kept it secret so long.”

I swallow. God, he makes it sound so easy. Like loving him isn’t a fucking landmine. Like the ink on our marriage certificate doesn’t still taste like paper and panic. Like I’m not terrified that if I lean into this, into him, into the way his hand fits perfectly against my lower back, I’m going to lose the thin line I’ve been walking between sister-by-marriage and woman-who-chose-him.

“Let’s go,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple. “I’ll handle them.”

“I know,” I whisper. “That’s what scares me.”

***

The Winters estate is exactly as I remember it from childhood: grand, inherited wealth wrapped in old-world tradition. The dining room is all dark wood, crystal, and the weight of expectations. Candles flicker in silver candelabras. The air smells of rosemary, roasted lamb, and decades of unspoken history. Aunt Margaret is already asking about our “delayed wedding.” Uncle David is eyeing Grant like a stock ticker. My mother—his adoptive mother, my biological one’s former best friend, a tangled web I’ve never unpacked—looks at us both with something dangerously close to pride.

“So,” she says, pouring wine, “when are you two thinking of trying for a baby?”

The table goes quiet. Grant doesn’t flinch. He reaches across, covers my hand with his. His fingers interlace with mine, calloused and sure. “We’re in no rush,” he says smoothly. “We want to enjoy our marriage first. Build a foundation. See where the year takes us.”

My mother’s eyes flick to me. I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. “Ava’s still finishing her architecture degree,” I add quickly.

“Ah, yes. The brilliant one.” My father—Grant’s biological father, the man who signed the papers—leans back in his chair. “Good. Ambition suits her. Grant, you’ll support her? Not distract her?”

Grant’s thumb strokes the back of my hand. “Always. Her career is non-negotiable. Her dreams are mine now, too.”

The words hang in the air. No contract clause. No legal phrasing. Just truth. And that’s what unravels me. I force a smile, take a sip of wine, and let my knee bump Grant’s under the table. He shifts his leg to press back, a quiet, intimate acknowledgment that makes my stomach flip.

Aunt Margaret clears her throat. “It’s just so refreshing. So many of you young people rush into marriages like they’re signing a lease. You two… you feel different. Like you already know each other.”

“We do,” Grant says. No hesitation. “We’ve known each other our whole lives. We just… took our time getting it right.”

My mother’s gaze softens. “I always said Ava would be the one to ground him. Grant, you’ve always been a storm. She’s your calm.”

“Something like that,” he murmurs, squeezing my hand.

The evening unfolds in a blur of polite conversation, probing questions, and the quiet understanding that we’re not acting. We’re just… married. Talking about summer plans in Maine. Bickering playfully about which restaurant to book for our anniversary. Laughing at the same stupid jokes. When I reach for the water pitcher, Grant’s hand is already there, guiding it to my glass. When I shift in my chair, his foot finds mine under the table, staying there. When Aunt Margaret asks about our first date, we don’t hesitate. We both say, simultaneously, “The coffee shop on 4th. She ordered a black coffee. I ordered a tea. We ended up sharing one mug for an hour.”

The table chuckles. My cheeks burn. Grant’s eyes meet mine across the table, dark and steady and full of something that isn’t contract. It’s recognition. It’s ownership. It’s love, dressed up in polite dinner conversation.

And then the dinner ends. The dishes are cleared. The relatives drift off, murmuring about dessert, about the garden, about tomorrow’s charity gala. My mother pulls me aside for a quiet word about “adjusting,” about “marriage being work, but beautiful work.” I nod, smile, promise everything’s fine.

Then Grant’s hand finds the small of my back. “Guest wing. Our room.”

“It’s not our room,” I mutter as we walk away from the table.

“It is now,” he says. And the way he says it—quiet, certain, heavy with everything we haven’t spoken aloud—makes my breath catch.

***

We step into the hallway. The house is quiet. Creaking floorboards. The distant hum of the HVAC. His hand slides from my back to my waist, pulling me closer as we walk. The door to our suite clicks shut behind us. The lock engages.

And suddenly, the performance drops.

Grant doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me. Really looks. His jaw tightens. His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. “Ava.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been trying not to do this all night.”

“Not do what?”

“Kiss you.” His voice is rough. “Touch you. Forget that we’re supposed to be ‘cautious’ and ‘disciplined’ and ‘just playing house.’”

I step into him. “I’m not playing.”

“I know.” His hands slide up my arms, over my shoulders, fingers tangling in my hair. “But I’m tired of being careful. I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you. I’m tired of pretending this is just a contract.”

His mouth crashes onto mine.

It’s not gentle. It’s months of restraint, of shared glances, of late-night conversations, of waking up tangled in sheets that aren’t technically ours. It’s hunger. It’s need. It’s the kind of kiss that tastes like wine and desperation. I kiss him back like I’ve been starving. My hands grip his shoulders, then slide down his chest, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. He helps, shoving the fabric off his shoulders, letting it fall to the rug.

His hands are everywhere. On my hips, my waist, sliding up my back, gripping my ass, pulling me flush against him. I can feel him—hard, eager, pressing into my stomach. I gasp into his mouth. He breaks the kiss, breathing hard, forehead resting against mine.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers. “If you want me to stop, say it.”

“Don’t,” I breathe. “Please don’t stop.”

He lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist, arms around his neck. He carries us to the bed, dropping back against the pillows, pulling me on top of him. The silk of my dress rides up. His hands find my thighs, pushing the fabric up, up, over my hips. I’m bare beneath it. He shoves his boxers down, kicks them off.

He’s already hard. Aching. I straddle him, grinding down slowly. He groans, back arching. “Fuck, Ava. You feel so—”

“Grant,” I cut in. “Shut up. Just—touch me.”

His hands slide up my thighs, over the curve of my ass, gripping me, pulling me harder against him. I lean down, kissing him, feeling his cock slip against my slick heat. I’ve been wet for him since he walked into the room. Since he looked at me like I was the only woman in the world.

He guides himself to me. The head presses against my entrance. I pause, breathing him in. Cedar and wine and Grant. “Ready?” he asks, voice strained.

“Yes.”

He pushes in.

I gasp. He groans. We both still for a second, adjusting to the stretch, the fullness, the sheer rightness of it. Then he starts to move. Slow at first. Deeper. My head falls back. His hands hold my waist, thumbs pressing into my skin. The bed creaks. The room is quiet except for our breathing.

“Look at me,” he says.

I do. His eyes are dark, blown wide. Every thrust is deliberate. Every shift of my hips meets his rhythm. It’s not frantic. It’s reverent. It’s ours. I feel him twitch inside me. The friction is perfect. My nails dig into his shoulders. He kisses my neck, my jaw, my mouth. “You’re so tight,” he murmurs. “So fucking perfect.”

I arch. “Grant.”

“I know. I’m coming. Let me—”

The door handle rattles.

We freeze.

A muffled voice from the hallway: “Mr. Winters? Mrs. Winters? Just checking if you need anything before I lock up for the night.”

A housekeeper.

Grant doesn’t stop moving. He just holds me tighter, breathing hard. I bite my lip. My eyes lock with his. He’s still inside me. Still hard. Still thrusting. But slower. Controlled. The housekeeper’s footsteps pause. I can hear her breath. The rustle of her uniform. She’s standing right outside.

“No,” Grant says, voice calm, though his jaw is clenched. “We’re fine. Thank you, Evelyn. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, sir. Goodnight, ma’am.”

Footsteps fade.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. My body is trembling. He’s still inside. I can feel every pulse. He’s close. Again. “Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t stop. Please. I can’t—”

“I know.” He pulls back slightly, then drives in again. Harder. Faster. The bed groans. My hands slide up his chest, over his sweat-slicked skin. He’s breathing ragged now. His hips snap. I’m clenching around him, feeling him swell. “Ava,” he gasps. “I’m—fuck—”

“Grant. Grant, I’m—”

We break together. Heat floods my core. He shudders, groaning my name as he empties inside me. I ride out the waves, gripping him, feeling him pulse, feeling him finally, completely release.

We collapse against each other. Heavy breathing. Sweat. The scent of sex and cedar and us.

I lift my head. “That was…”

“Disastrous,” he breathes, laughing softly against my neck. “If she’d knocked, I’d have been fucked. Literally.”

“She wouldn’t have knocked,” I say, but I’m smiling. “She knows better.”

“She knows us better than we know ourselves,” he murmurs. His hand slides up my spine. “We’re in trouble.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “We are.”

***

We don’t move for a long time. His weight is comforting. His heartbeat is steady against my chest. The contract is still there, technically. The deadline is still thirty days away. But it feels like dust. Like paper. Like something that can’t contain what’s happening between us.

“I’m not letting go,” he says quietly.

I look up. “I know.”

“Because I’m not letting you go either.”

He kisses me. Soft this time. Slower. Real.

Outside, the house is quiet. The Winters legacy sleeps. But in this room, something else is waking up. Something we can’t contract our way out of.

I rest my head against his chest. “What do we do now?”

He strokes my hair. “We do exactly what we’ve been doing. We keep being us.”

And for the first time, I believe it.