Henry stops at the last door on the right and unlocks it. “The Cypress Suite,” he says quietly, pushing the door open and stepping aside.
The space inside looks perfect—too perfect. The kind of room meant to impress. The kind that reminds you you’re being watched even when you’re not. My gaze lands on the bed,and everything in me stops moving. One bed. Large. Centered. Impossible to ignore.
I stand still as Henry sets the luggage down and gives a small bow. “If you need anything, dial zero,” he says before stepping back into the hall. The door clicks shut behind him, and the sound cuts straight through my chest.
I turn immediately. “No,” I say. “Absolutely not.”
Rowan moves past me. He sets his bag on the dresser and unzips it, his face unreadable. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.” My voice shakes before I can control it. “There’s one bed.”
He glances at it once, then looks back at me. “You’re overreacting.”
“I’m not,” I say quickly. My hands start moving before I can stop them, first crossing over my chest, then dropping to my sides. “You can’t seriously expect me to?—”
“There are two sides,” he says flatly. “Pick one.”
The tension in the room tightens until it’s hard to breathe. My stomach feels hollow, and my pulse won’t slow down.
“Henry said suite. Suites have rooms. Plural. With walls and privacy and places to hide when your fake boyfriend starts looking too good in natural lighting!”
His hands pause on a perfectly pressed shirt. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to wonder if I said that last part out loud.
I did.
Shit.
“I’m sorry you made an assumption,” he says evenly, “But it’s not my fault you failed to ask better questions during contract negotiations.”
“Oh, my goodness! I’m not sleeping in a bed with you!”
He finally looks at me, and something dangerous flickers behind his eyes. “Then don’t.”
“Great. Perfect. I’ll take the floor.”
“Be my guest.”
I stare at him. He just agreed to let me sleep on the floor. Not even a token offer to be gentlemanly about it.
Bastard.
But also—I remember now. How he used to call my bluffs. How he never gave me the reaction I was fishing for. How he’d let me dig my own grave and then hand me a bigger shovel just to see how deep I’d go.
Some things really haven’t changed.
“You’re not going to offer to take the floor?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
“Do I look like I offer things I don’t want to give?”
Heat creeps up my neck. Because no—no, he doesn’t. He never did. When Rowan King offered something, it was because he’d already decided you deserved it. And when he didn’t...
“Fine,” I snap. “I get it. You’ll blackmail me into fake-dating you for professional leverage, but heaven forbid you humble yourself to a mattressless night for the sake of basic human decency.”
“Don’t forget who’s directing this performance,” he says quietly, finally turning to face me fully. “And who owes whom.”
Rowan moves around the room like I’m not even here. He unpacks one thing at a time, sets it down, adjusts it, and moves to the next. The quiet stretches until it feels like a standoff.
“You’re really not going to say anything?” I ask.
