The Billionaire's Stand-In Wife Is A Genius

The morning sun sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, casting long, geometric shadows across the room. It was a cold light, the kind that illuminated dust motes dancing in the air but offered no warmth. Johnna woke to the sensation of silk against her skin, the expensive sheets cool and slippery. She reached out instinctively, her fingers seeking the solid warmth that had been there only hours before.

Her hand brushed against the linen, finding a faint, lingering heat.

She pulled her hand back, curling it into a fist against her chest. The space beside her was empty, but the indentation of his head on the pillow was still visible, a cruel reminder that he had been there, physically present but emotionally miles away.

Johnna sat up, pulling the sheet tight around her body. Memories of the previous night washed over her-the desperate way his hands had gripped her waist, the heavy rhythm of his breathing against her neck, the way he had whispered her name like a prayer or a curse. It had felt different. Urgent. Almost violent in its intensity. She felt a flush rise to her cheeks, a foolish hope blooming in her chest that perhaps, finally, the walls were coming down.

The sound of water running in the bathroom cut off abruptly.

A moment later, the door opened. Chadwick walked out, a towel slung low around his hips. Water droplets clung to the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, trailing down in slow, mesmerizing paths. He didn't look at the bed. He didn't look at her. He walked straight to the walk-in closet, his movements precise and mechanical.

Johnna watched him, her heart thudding a slow, heavy rhythm against her ribs. She cleared her throat, the sound small in the cavernous room.

"Chadwick?"

He didn't turn. He dropped the towel and pulled on a pair of charcoal suit trousers, the fabric settling perfectly over his long legs. He reached for a white dress shirt, sliding his arms into the sleeves.

"Coffee is ready in the kitchen if you want it," he said. His voice was flat, stripped of the gravelly passion that had filled the dark hours of the night.

"About last night," Johnna started, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She needed him to acknowledge it. She needed to know she wasn't the only one who felt the shift.

Chadwick stiffened. He buttoned his cuffs, his eyes fixed on his own reflection in the full-length mirror. He adjusted the silver links with unnecessary care, twisting them until they caught the light. In the reflection, his eyes met hers for a fraction of a second, then darted away.

"Get dressed, Johnna. We need to talk."

He turned around, fully armored in his bespoke suit. He walked to the bedside table where a leather briefcase sat. He clicked it open, the sound sharp like a gunshot in the quiet room. He pulled out a blue folder and placed it on the