Chapter 4

"You should make sure your name is on the title deed," Olivia said, her hands busy folding a stack of Leo's tiny, mismatched socks. She looked up, her expression pinched with a sister's protective anxiety. "It's only right, Chloe. You're his wife now. You need that security." Chloe tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and continued packing her books into a cardboard box. Noah had handed her the keys to the house in Briarwood almost immediately after they stepped out of the Municipal Building, a heavy weight of brass and responsibility in her palm. "I haven't contributed a cent to that house, Olivia," Chloe replied, her voice steady and practical. "It wouldn't be right to demand my name be added to the deed when I didn't help pay for it." Olivia huffed, dropping a sock. "But he's your husband. Men can be fickle." "If he chooses to add it himself one day, I won't argue," Chloe said, taping the box shut with a sharp *zip* of the dispenser. "But I'm not asking. I didn't marry him for a real estate investment." She meant it. While the marriage had been a sudden pivot in her life, Chloe wasn't looking for an exit strategy. She had committed herself to spending her life with Noah Hayes. The paperwork was signed, the vows were official, and she was moving forward with the intention of making it work, even if the foundation was built on a grandmother's wish and a desperate need for independence. By the time the last suitcase was zipped, Leo was in the middle of a high-decibel protest over a missing toy. The toddler's wails echoed through the hallway, making the small house feel even more cramped than usual. "I'll drive you," Olivia offered, reaching for her car keys while simultaneously trying to scoop up a squirming Leo. "Just let me get his shoes on." "No, stay here," Chloe said, gently stopping her sister's hand. "Leo's clearly had a long morning, and you have enough on your plate. I've already called a cab. I can handle this myself." Olivia bit her lip, looking between her sister and the crying child. "Are you sure? It's your first day. Drive safely, at least. And why don't you bring Noah over for lunch tomorrow? I'll make something special." Chloe hesitated. Dorothy Hayes had already warned her that Noah was a chronic workaholic, often vanishing for days on business trips. She didn't want to subject herself—or him—to a formal family interrogation just yet. "I'd love to, but Noah is actually heading out on a business trip," Chloe lied, the fabrication smooth and easy. "He's going to be away for a few days. We'll have to do it when he's back." "A business trip already?" Olivia sighed, her shoulders dropping. "He really is a busy man." Chloe managed a tight smile as she lugged her suitcase toward the door. Inside, a flicker of frustration sparked. Noah hadn't mentioned a trip, but he also hadn't mentioned anything else. He hadn't even checked to see if she needed help moving or if her sister wanted to meet the man who had legally become part of their family. His lack of consideration for Olivia's feelings stung more than his indifference toward Chloe herself. The cab ride to Briarwood was quiet. When the car pulled up to the sleek, modern gates of the development, Chloe felt a sudden, cold realization. She looked down at the keys in her hand, then at the towering residential blocks. She didn't know which floor he lived on. She didn't even know the apartment number. She stepped out onto the curb, surrounded by her bags, and pulled out her phone. She dialed Noah's number, waiting through the rings. In a glass-walled conference room across the city, Noah Hayes sat at the head of a long table. A department head was mid-presentation, the glow of a projector illuminating charts of quarterly growth. Noah's phone vibrated on the polished wood. He glanced down. An unsaved number. He didn't recognize the digits. He had no memory of the brief exchange of contact info at the Municipal Building, and his mind was currently occupied by a million-dollar merger. He swiped the call away, his face a mask of cool indifference. Then, to ensure he wasn't interrupted again by a telemarketer or a wrong number, he navigated to the settings and added the number to his blacklist. "Continue," he said to the room, his voice deep and authoritative. On the sidewalk in Briarwood, Chloe stared at her screen. *Call rejected.* She frowned and pulled up her messaging app. *Hi Noah, it's Chloe. I'm at the complex but I don't have your apartment number. Could you let me know which floor?* She hit send. A second later, a small red exclamation mark appeared next to the bubble. *Message failed to deliver.* Chloe stared at the red icon. A cold prickle of disbelief raced down her spine. She tried to send it again. Failed. She tried calling once more, but the line didn't even ring this time—it went straight to a busy signal. He had blacklisted her. She stood there, feeling the weight of her suitcases and the absurdity of her situation. Married for less than twenty-four hours and her husband had already blocked her. She knew Dorothy didn't have the apartment number either; the older woman had mentioned that Noah only recently bought the place as a way to "evaluate" Chloe's lifestyle, and Dorothy had only found out about the Briarwood purchase after the marriage license was issued. With no other choice, Chloe dialed Dorothy. "Grandmother?" Chloe's voice was small, despite her attempt to remain practical. "I'm so sorry to bother you. I'm at Briarwood, but... I don't actually know which apartment is Noah's. I tried calling him, but I think he's busy." "That boy!" Dorothy's voice crackled with immediate indignation. "He has no head for anything but spreadsheets. Don't you worry, Chloe. I'll get hold of him right now. You stay put." Five minutes later, Dorothy's call broke through the silence of the boardroom. Noah saw his grandmother's name and signaled for the presentation to pause. He stepped into the hallway. "Grandmother, I'm in a meeting," he said, his tone clipped but respectful. "I don't care if you're meeting with the President!" Dorothy snapped. "Your wife is standing on the street with all her luggage because her husband is too incompetent to tell her where he lives! What is your apartment number, Noah?" Noah froze. The memory of the woman from the Municipal Building—the calm, direct woman who had agreed to his terms—flashed in his mind. He realized with a jolt of genuine irritation at himself that the "Mermaid in the Deep Blue Sea" contact he'd seen earlier or the random number he'd blocked must have been her. He took a breath. "It's Apartment 808, Block B. Eighth floor." "Tell her, not me!" Dorothy ordered. "And you apologize to her, Noah Hayes. If she's gone by the time I check in, don't bother coming to Sunday dinner." The line went dead. Noah stared at his phone. He quickly navigated to his blocked list and hit 'unblock' on the number he'd silenced ten minutes ago. He saved it immediately: *Chloe (Spouse).* He added the note 'Spouse' specifically to ensure he wouldn't mistake her for a stranger again. He dialed her back. "Hello?" Chloe's voice was guarded. "It's Noah," he said. He didn't offer a hollow excuse. "I apologize. I didn't have your number saved and I assumed it was a spam caller. I've unblocked you." "I figured," Chloe said. She sounded remarkably composed for someone who had just been barred from contacting her own husband. "I'm at the gate. I just need the apartment number." "Block B, Apartment 808. The eighth floor," Noah said. "I'm in the middle of a high-stakes meeting, or I would come down." He paused, feeling a rare pang of social obligation. "Do you need help with your things? I can call a courier service to assist you." "No," Chloe replied. Her voice had regained its usual firm, independent edge. "I have two suitcases and a few boxes. I've practiced self-defense and I've moved myself plenty of times. I don't need a courier." "Are you sure?" Noah asked, his tone polite but distant. "It's no trouble to arrange." "Are you asking because you want to help, or because you feel like you have to?" Chloe challenged. Noah was silent for a beat. "I honestly cannot leave this meeting to help you myself," he said, choosing the truth over a pleasantry. "The offer for the courier was for your convenience, not my participation." "Then I'll be fine on my own," Chloe said. "Go back to your meeting, Noah. I'll see myself in." She hung up before he could respond. Noah lowered his phone, staring at the screen for a moment. He hadn't expected her to be so... blunt. Or so capable. Most people in his life either hovered around him for favor or withered under his directness. Chloe Hayes did neither. He turned back toward the conference room. When he pushed the heavy oak door open, the room fell into a sudden, stifling silence. Every executive, manager, and assistant at the long table was staring at him. Noah realized he'd been standing in the hallway for nearly five minutes, his focus entirely diverted by a woman he barely knew. He straightened his tie, his face returning to its usual stony mask. "Slide fourteen," he commanded, gesturing to the screen. "Let's look at the logistics again." But as the presenter started talking, Noah's mind drifted briefly to Apartment 808, and the woman currently navigating her way into his life with nothing but two suitcases and a refusal to be helped. Chloe reached the eighth floor and found the door marked 808. She slid the key into the lock, the mechanism turning with a smooth, expensive click. The door swung open. ════════════════════════════════════════