Chapter 2: Bare Feet and Bare Nerves

Sunlight stabbed through the floor-to-ceiling windows like it had a personal grudge. I woke up alone in the massive bed, sheets cool on Griffin's side, and for one disoriented second I thought yesterday had been a nightmare. Then my bare foot hit the marble and reality bit hard.

The cold shot straight up my legs. I hissed, tucked my knees to my chest, and stared at the empty room. No note. No coffee. Just the faint scent of his cologne lingering like an unwanted guest.

My stomach growled, reminding me I'd stress-eaten half a pizza before pretending to sleep last night. I padded into the walk-in closet, still in yesterday's sweater, and yanked on the first pair of leggings I found.

The marble felt even icier now, like the house itself was trying to freeze me out. Fine. I'd leave smudges everywhere. Let the staff report back that the new wife was a walking paint disaster.

The mansion stretched out like a museum someone forgot to fill with actual life. Hallways branched off in geometric perfection, all glass walls overlooking misty evergreens that swallowed sound. I wandered, fingers trailing along cool surfaces, until the distant thud of something rhythmic caught my ear.

It grew louder as I followed it down a glass corridor. Thud. Thud. Thud. Like a heartbeat in the walls. I pushed open a door at the end and froze.

Griffin stood in the center of a sleek home gym, shirtless and glistening, pounding a heavy bag with controlled fury. Sweat carved paths down his olive back, muscles shifting under skin that looked too warm for this sterile place. His dark hair stuck to his forehead, and those callused hands wrapped in tape flexed with every strike.

I should have backed out. Instead I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the way his body moved like a weapon he kept perfectly aimed. My pulse kicked up, traitor that it was. This was the man who'd ruined us. Not some fantasy.

He sensed me. Of course he did. The next punch landed harder, making the bag swing wildly, and he caught it with both hands, breathing hard. Those brown eyes locked on me, dropping briefly to my bare feet before climbing back up.

"Morning, wife." His voice came out rough, like gravel under tires. "Sleep well?"

I bit my lower lip, then forced a smirk. "Like a baby. Nothing says restful like sharing a bed with the guy who bankrupted your family."

His jaw clenched once, twice, three times. That tic again. I filed it away, already itching for my charcoal. He grabbed a towel, dragged it across his chest, and the casual way his abs flexed made my throat tighten.

"Gym's off limits if you're just going to stare," he said, stepping closer. The heat rolling off him hit me like a wave. Cedar and salt and something darker. My skin prickled.

"Didn't realize I needed permission to explore my own gilded cage." I gestured at the equipment, trying to ignore how close he was. Close enough to see the faint scar along his ribs. "Or is this another rule? Add it to the list, then. No touching your precious bag."

He didn't smile. But something flickered in his eyes—amusement? Irritation? He raked fingers through his damp hair, leaving it messier, more human. "You're leaving paint on my floors."

I glanced down. Sure enough, faint blue smudges trailed behind me like breadcrumbs. My toes curled against the cool tile. Defiance tasted better than the shame trying to creep in.

"Guess you'll have to get the staff to scrub harder. Or maybe fire me as wife and hire a better model. One who wears shoes."

Griffin exhaled, that controlled breath that said he was calculating his next move. He tossed the towel aside and grabbed a water bottle, throat working as he drank. I looked away too late, heat crawling up my neck.

"Follow me," he said, brushing past. His arm grazed mine, sending sparks I immediately hated. "There's a room you can use. Before you track more mess through the whole house."

I trailed after him, bare feet slapping louder than necessary. The mansion felt smaller with him in it. We passed through another glass hall, sunlight fracturing across his bare shoulders, and my brain supplied images I didn't want.

He stopped at a sunlit corner room with east-facing windows and bare white walls. Perfect light for painting. My chest tightened at the thoughtfulness of it, then immediately rejected it. This wasn't kindness. This was containment.

"Here," he said, leaning in the doorway like he owned the air itself. "Set up whatever. Just keep the chaos contained."

I stepped inside, already envisioning my easel by the window, canvases stacked against the wall. The restless energy in my fingers eased a fraction. But then his words sank in.

"Chaos?" I spun, green eyes narrowing. "My work isn't chaos, Radcliffe. It's emotion on canvas. Something you wouldn't understand with your spreadsheets and takeovers."

He crossed his arms, still shirtless, sweat drying on his skin. The pose made his biceps stand out, and I hated how aware I was of it. Hated more how my thighs pressed together.

"It's paint on my marble," he countered, voice clipped. "And bare feet tracking it everywhere like you own the place. This isn't your Portland loft, Margaret."

The use of my full name stung. I advanced on him, paint-stained hands fisting at my sides. "No, it's not. It's your prison. And I'm the inmate you didn't even want."

His eyes darkened. He straightened from the doorframe, towering over me, but I didn't back down. The air between us crackled with five years of resentment and something sharper now.

"You think I wanted your father's company?" His words came low, dangerous. "He was bleeding money from bad deals long before I stepped in."

My throat tightened. Lies. They had to be. Dad had built that empire from nothing. "Don't you dare rewrite history. You stood on that stage and smiled while you carved us up. I watched you do it."

Griffin stepped closer, close enough that I could see the faint pulse in his neck. His breath ghosted across my forehead. "He left me no choice, Margaret. Just like this marriage."

I shoved at his chest, but my palms met warm, damp skin instead of fabric. The contact burned. My fingers curled involuntarily into the hard muscle there, gripping like I needed an anchor.

His heartbeat thundered under my touch, matching my own racing pulse. "I hate you," I whispered, but it came out shaky. Not convincing.

My eyes dropped to his mouth, full and parted slightly. He stared at my lips too. The silence stretched, electric. His hand lifted, hovering near my waist, fingers flexing like he fought the same pull.

Then he stepped back. Just like that. Jaw clenching three times in rapid succession. The loss of his heat left me cold, my hands falling useless to my sides.

"Clean up your mess," he said, voice flat now. "Dinner's at seven. Try not to destroy anything important."

He turned and walked away, bare feet silent on the marble, leaving me standing there with my heart hammering and paint smudges mocking me from the floor. I wanted to scream. Instead I grabbed the nearest box of supplies the staff had mysteriously provided and hurled a tube of cadmium red at the wall. It burst on impact, splattering like blood.

Perfect. Now the room matched my mood.

The rest of the day blurred into furious strokes on a massive canvas. I painted anger in slashes of black and crimson, the misty forest outside warping into something twisted and hungry. My arms ached, hair sticking to my sweaty neck, but it felt good. Real.

By evening my stomach cramped from skipped meals. I ignored the formal dining room and raided the kitchen instead, emerging victorious with a cold pizza box from some hidden stash. The staff had gone home, leaving the mansion eerily quiet.

At 3am I sat on the kitchen island, legs swinging, shoving cold pepperoni into my mouth while staring at nothing. The marble chilled my thighs through my leggings. The house pressed in, all that opulence feeling like chains.

Mom's text from earlier burned in my mind: This was his final gift. Some gift.

A shadow moved in the doorway. I froze, slice halfway to my mouth.

Griffin stood there in low-slung sweatpants and nothing else, arms braced on the frame like he'd been watching for a while. His hair was tousled from sleep, eyes heavy but alert. That damn watch still circled his wrist, glinting in the fridge light I'd left on.

"Can't sleep?" His voice rumbled, softer in the dark. No clipped commands now.

I swallowed hard, pizza suddenly tasting like cardboard. "Guess sharing a bed with the enemy does that to a girl."

He didn't move closer. Just watched me, jaw tight, like he was deciding whether to fight or flee. The kitchen felt too small suddenly, the space between us humming with everything unsaid.

"You painted the studio red," he observed, a hint of dry humor creeping in. "Literal or figurative?"

Despite myself, a laugh bubbled up. I squashed it. "Both. You should see the abstract rage piece titled 'Husband Dearest.'"

His lips twitched. Almost a smile. It transformed his face, softening the sharp lines, and my heart gave a stupid little flip. I looked away, focusing on folding the pizza slice like it required intense concentration.

"The will's conditions were specific," he said after a long beat, voice low enough to feel intimate but still guarded. "Your father tied everything up tight."

I met his eyes, searching for the lie. Instead I found exhaustion mirroring my own. "Why you? Why force this on both of us?"

He pushed off the doorframe, moving with that predatory grace even half-asleep. Stopped just short of the island, close enough that I could see the faint red marks on his knuckles from the bag. "Some questions don't have clean answers, Margaret. Not yet."

The way he said my name again, softer, sent warmth spreading through my chest. I hated it. Craved it. My fingers itched to sketch him like this—not the monster, but the man with shadows in his eyes.

I slid off the counter, standing too close. Our breaths mingled in the quiet kitchen. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then lower to where my sweater slipped off one shoulder.

My pulse roared in my ears. One step and we'd be touching again. I could almost feel his hands on my waist, pulling me in, those callused palms sliding under fabric to find skin. The thought made my breath hitch.

Instead I grabbed the pizza box and hugged it like a shield. "Night, husband. Don't wait up."

I brushed past him, shoulder grazing his arm, and felt the tremor that ran through him. Or maybe it was me. The hallway swallowed me up, marble cold under my feet, but the burn on my skin lingered all the way back to the master suite.

Back in the room, I dug out my secret sketchbook from under the mattress. The one with the unflattering portraits. My hands shook as I flipped past the angry slashes from last night. This time I drew him differently.

Not as Enemy. Husband. Liar. This version had tired eyes and a half-smile in the kitchen light. Tormented. Human. The charcoal flew across the page, capturing the slope of his shoulders, the way his hair fell when messy.

My lower lip caught between my teeth as I shaded the curve of his jaw. It looked too real. Too close to something like longing.

The door creaked open behind me. I slammed the sketchbook shut, but not fast enough.

Griffin stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me with an intensity that pinned me in place. "Is that how you see me?" His voice was dangerously low, rough with something I couldn't name.

My heart slammed against my ribs. Before I could answer, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. Unknown number. I glanced at the screen, expecting another passive-aggressive emoji from Mom.

Instead it was a photo. Dad, younger, laughing at some event. Standing too close to Victor Lang, their heads bent like they shared secrets. The timestamp on the corner made my stomach drop—two weeks before the takeover.

What the hell?