The morning air was crisp, tasting of autumn and the metallic tang of a city that never stopped grinding. Lyra stood on the sidewalk outside her apartment building; her small suitcase gripped in one hand and the strap of her messenger bag biting into her shoulder. She wore the most professional outfit she owned, a dark, structured blazer over a simple black dress, but she still felt like an imposter in the shadow of the black sedan idling at the curb.
"I can still come with you, Ly," Maeve said, her voice thick with a mix of defiance and grief. She stood on the stoop; her arms wrapped around herself as if she were the one facing the firing squad. "I can sit in the lobby. I can be the one to call the papers if you don't walk out of there in two hours."
Lyra turned, offering a small, sad smile that didn't reach her eyes. "No. I need you in Queens, Maeve. My mom woke up three times last night crying. She thinks I'm meeting a 'philanthropist' to sign a loan agreement. She needs to see your face. She needs to believe the lie until I can bring Dorian home and make it true."
"It's not right," Maeve whispered. "Any of it."
"It's the only way," Lyra replied. She stepped forward and hugged her friend, squeezing her eyes shut for a brief second to memorize the scent of paint and cheap coffee that defined her life. "Go. Stay with her. Tell her I'll be back with Dorian before dinner."
Lyra pulled away, squared her shoulders, and walked toward the car. The driver, a silent man in a dark uniform, held the door open. As the car pulled away, she didn't look back at the studio or the cracked window with the duct tape. She kept her eyes fixed forward, watching the skyline rise up to meet her like the teeth of a giant.
The trip to the Thorne Building was faster than she wanted it to be. The city seemed to conspire against her, turning every light green. When she arrived, she wasn't led through the main lobby this time. The driver took her through the same discreet underground entrance, and the elevator whisked her straight to the penthouse.
The doors opened, and there was Ellis Woods, standing like a sentinel in the marble foyer.
"Miss Sinclair," he said, bowing his head slightly. "Mr. Thorne is expecting you. He's cleared his schedule for the next hour."
"How generous of him," Lyra said, her voice remarkably steady.
She walked past the lawyer and pushed open the heavy double doors herself.
The office was flooded with morning light, making the mahogany desk glow and the glass walls disappear into the blue of the sky. Elias was sitting behind the desk, his head down as he signed a stack of documents. He didn't look up immediately, but the air in the room shifted the moment she entered. He was wearing a navy suit today, the color of deep water, and he looked every bit the king of the mountain.
Lyra didn't wait for an invitation. She walked across the vast expanse of carpet and sat in the leather chair opposite him. She crossed her legs, set her bag on her lap, and waited.
Elias set his pen down with a deliberate click. He looked up, his grey-blue eyes scanning her face. If he noticed the dark circles under her eyes or the way her knuckles were white from gripping her bag, he didn't mention it.
"You're early," he said.
"I've found that when you're selling your soul, it's best not to keep the buyer waiting," Lyra replied.
A small, almost imperceptible flicker of something, amusement? Respect? passed through his gaze before the mask of the CEO settled back into place. He slid a thick, leather-bound folder across the desk. This wasn't the single folder from the night before; this was the full, codified version of her future.
"This is the formal agreement," Elias said. "Drawn up by Ellis and reviewed by my private auditors. Before we sign, I want the terms to be perfectly clear. There will be no room for 'artistic interpretation' once we leave this room."
"I'm listening," Lyra said, her heart hammering, though her face remained a mask of marble.
"Term one," Elias began, ticking a finger. "The marriage will be legal and binding. We will have a private ceremony at the courthouse. No press, no fanfare. Just the signatures and the filing."
"And the public?"
"The public will be told we eloped. A whirlwind romance sparked by our chance meeting at the Artemis Gallery. It provides the perfect cover for why no one knew we were dating, and it plays into the image of the eccentric Thorne heir falling for the vibrant artist. My PR team has already drafted the timeline."
Lyra felt a pang of nausea at the mention of the gallery. He was turning her most honest moment into a marketing strategy. "Go on."
"Term two: Residence. You will move into my apartment on the Upper East Side. You will have your own wing, your own studio, and total privacy. However, for the sake of the household staff and any unexpected guests, you will be expected to maintain the appearance of a shared life. We eat breakfast together when I am in the city. We attend events together. We are, to the outside world, inseparable."
"Separate rooms," Lyra clarified, her voice sharp.
"Naturally," Elias said, his expression cold. "I am looking for a partner, Lyra, not a romantic complication. I have no interest in infringing upon your personal space, provided you don't infringe upon mine."
"Term three," she prompted.
"Conduct. You will be provided with a stipend and a wardrobe suitable for a woman of your new station. You will be expected to learn the names, faces, and histories of the Thorne family and our primary stakeholders. You will not speak to the press without my clearance. You will not visit your old neighborhood or your brother without a security detail. Discretion is the only currency I value more than time."
Lyra leaned forward, her eyes narrowed. "I have three conditions. Three things that aren't in this folder yet. First, Dorian doesn't go to Seattle today. He spends tonight at home. He needs to see our mother and say goodbye properly. He leaves tomorrow morning. Not a minute sooner."
Elias narrowed his eyes, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. "That's a risk, Lyra. If he decides to run..."
"He won't run. He knows if he does, I'm the one who pays the price," Lyra countered. "He stays at home tonight. One last dinner as a family."
Elias looked at her for a long beat, then nodded slowly. "Fine. One night. He will be escorted to the apartment, and the car for the airport will arrive at six a.m. tomorrow. And the second?"
"I want a witness at the courthouse for the ceremony," Lyra said firmly. "My friend Maeve. I'm not standing in a room with your lawyers and a judge alone. I want her there. She is the only person who knows who I am."
"Very well. It adds a layer of authenticity to the story."
"And third," Lyra said, her voice dropping to a low, desperate note. "I want a week. I am not marrying you today, Elias. My mother is fragile. If I tell her I met a man yesterday and married him today, she will know something is wrong. I need seven days. Seven days to 'date' you, to bring you to dinner, to let her see us together so she can believe this lie. I need time to settle my life before I disappear into yours."
Elias leaned back, his fingers steepled under his chin. He looked at her with a cold, calculating curiosity. "A week of courtship to sell the fiction. It's a logical request. It would certainly make the 'whirlwind' more palatable to my social circles. We have a deal. I will have Ellis add the addendum."
"One more thing," Lyra added, her hand hovering over the pen. "I want a clause. My mother. She is never to know the truth. You will provide the funds for her garden, her medical care, and her home, but it must look like it's coming from me, from my 'success' as an artist. You will never hold this debt over her head."
Elias looked at her for a long beat. For the first time, he seemed to be truly seeing her, not as a solution to a problem, but as a person with a core of steel.
"Agreed," he said softly. "I will have Ellis add the addendum to the trust."
Lyra picked up the pen. It felt heavier than any brush she had ever held. She thought about the "violet under the black." With a steady hand, she signed her name. Lyra Sinclair.
Elias took the pen and signed his own name beside hers. He picked up his desk phone. "Ellis? Release him. Have him driven to the Sinclair residence. He has until six a.m. tomorrow."
He hung up and looked at Lyra. "The car will take you home. Your 'week of grace' begins now, Lyra. I expect you to be ready for our first public dinner tomorrow night. I'll send the details."
Lyra stood up, her legs feeling like they belonged to someone else. She walked out of the office, past Ellis Woods, and into the elevator.
The ride to Queens was a blur. When the car pulled up to her mother's apartment, Lyra saw a familiar figure standing on the sidewalk, looking dazed and small.
"Dorian!" She burst out of the car and threw her arms around her brother. He smelled of precinct coffee and fear, but he was free.
The evening was a beautiful, heartbreaking theater. They sat around Vivienne's small table, eating shepherd's pie. Lyra held her mother's hand and prepared to tell the lie: that she had met a man at the Artemis Gallery, and that over the coming days, her mother would get to meet him. She told her that Elias was sending Dorian to Seattle as a "gift" to give him a fresh start.
Vivienne wept with joy, believing every word. "I always knew a man would see the light in you, Lyra," Vivienne whispered, stroking her daughter's hair.
As the night deepened, Lyra looked at her mother's happy face and then at Dorian's downcast eyes. She had seven days to say goodbye to her life. Seven days to convince the world she was falling in love with a man who had bought her soul in a glass tower.