Chapter 5 The First Spark

• ​Four weeks passed after I signed that ridiculous contract. Four agonizingly quiet weeks.
• ​I threw myself into my doctoral work with a frenzy, burying my nose in medieval literature until my eyes burned. Living in a thirty-thousand-square-foot estate made avoiding one single human surprisingly easy, but it required constant vigilance.
• ​Whenever I heard heavy footsteps echoing down the polished hardwood of the main corridor, I whipped around and walked in the opposite direction. Whenever Atticus entered a room, I suddenly remembered an urgent errand on the complete opposite side of the estate.
• ​We avoided each other like two identical magnetic poles fighting against physics.
• ​The staff noticed. Mrs. Gable watched our daily evasion tactics with a quiet, knowing smirk that drove me utterly insane.
• ​By the second week, I finally mustered the courage to call my mother. I stood in the middle of my sprawling bedroom, holding the phone tightly against my ear.
• ​"Freya, sweetie! How are you?" her voice boomed through the speaker. "Are you okay after the breakup?"
• ​"I'm fine, Mom," I said, taking a breath. "Actually, my housing is secured, my university tuition is completely restored, and my research budget was doubled."
• ​"Oh, thank goodness!" she sighed heavily. "Solomon came to his senses?"
• ​"No," I replied smoothly. "Solomon cheated on me with Chardonnay. So I signed a one-year companionship agreement with his father, Atticus Fletcher."
• ​The line went completely dead. Five seconds passed. Ten.
• ​"Mom?" I asked. "Are you still there?"
• ​"You left the son," my mother said slowly, her tone dangerously sharp, "and moved in with the father?"
• ​"It is not like that!" I insisted, pacing across the rug. "It's a business transaction! A fake relationship!"
• ​"It is exactly like that, Freya!" she shouted. "How old is this man?"
• ​"He's forty-eight."
• ​I braced myself for the lecture of a lifetime about age gaps, morals, and dignity. Instead, another long silence stretched over the line.
• ​"Wait," my mother said, her voice dropping into utter bewilderment. "Solomon's father is forty-eight, wealthy, and looks like a movie star?"
• ​"Well... yes," I stammered.
• ​"And you were dating that whiny, arrogant boy when his father was sitting right there?" my mother practically yelled. "So you ignored the billionaire father and dated the discount version for two years?"
• ​My jaw dropped open. "Mom! Are you seriously scolding me for not dating my ex-fiancé's father sooner?"
• ​"I'm just saying your taste in men has finally improved, thank goodness!" she scoffed. "Call me back later, my show is starting."
• ​She hung up, leaving me staring at my phone in shock.
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• ​My life didn't just change indoors; it changed everywhere I went.
• ​On Monday morning, I walked out of the brownstone gates to find a sleek silver sedan waiting at the curb. A broad-shouldered man in a dark suit opened the rear door.
• ​"Good morning, Miss Barnes. I am Jerry, your personal driver and security escort."
• ​"My what?" I blinked at him. "I can take the subway."
• ​"Mr. Fletcher has deemed the subway unsafe for your current profile," Jerry replied, standing firm. "Please get in."
• ​When I reached the campus, the department head greeted me with a wide, nervous grin, handing me keys to a private research office.
• My broken laptop was replaced with a brand-new model by mid-afternoon, by Jerry.
• ​"This is ridiculous!" I complained to Jerry on the drive home that evening. "I don't need a babysitter or luxury gear!"
• ​Jerry kept his eyes on the road. "Take it up with Mr. Fletcher, Miss Barnes."
• ​"I would," I muttered under my breath, "if the man didn't vanish like a ghost every time I walked into a room."
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• ​Atticus remained physically absent, yet his presence hung over every single hour of my life.
• ​Every morning before my eight o'clock seminar, a fresh paper cup of double-shot cinnamon latte sat on my study desk—the exact recipe from the small coffee shop four blocks off campus.
• ​When I mentioned offhandedly to a librarian that a rare 14th-century manuscript translation was impossible to find, a pristine leather-bound copy appeared beside my breakfast plate the very next morning.
• ​It drove me absolutely crazy. Not because of the luxury, but because the man orchestrating every detail of my comfort refused to show his face. He was managing my entire existence from behind closed doors, leaving me constantly waiting for a shadow to appear.
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• ​By the fourth week, exhaustion finally caught up with me.
• ​I sat at the desk in my bedroom, staring at a mountain of thesis revisions. My head throbbed behind my eyes. My shoulders were tight knots of tension.
• ​Outside, the autumn sky turned dark and violent. A low rumble of thunder vibrated through the floorboards, followed by a sudden, fierce flash of lightning that illuminated the room in sharp blue light. Heavy rain began lashing against the windowpanes like throw glass.
• ​The lights overhead flickered once. Twice.
• ​Then, with a dull pop, the room plunged into pitch-black darkness.
• ​I let out a weary sigh, pushing back my chair. I clicked on my phone's flashlight, the narrow white beam cutting through the shadows. I needed a glass of cold water before I lost my mind entirely.
• ​I padded down the grand staircase, my bare feet sinking into the soft runner rugs.
• Without electricity, the mansion felt massive, silent, and intensely intimate. The smell of rain filled the air.
• ​I navigated the long corridor toward the kitchen. The emergency backup generator had kicked on, casting a dim, warm amber glow across the vast space through low baseboard lights.
• ​I stepped through the archway and froze.
• ​Atticus stood near the long marble island.
• ​He had his back partially turned to me. He was shirtless, leaving his broad back, carved shoulders, and olive skin exposed in the soft emergency glow. He wore only dark green pyjama trousers, low on his hips. A crystal glass containing two fingers of whiskey rested in his hand.
• ​My breath caught right in the back of my throat. The phone flashlight in my hand trembled slightly.
• ​Atticus slowly turned around. He raised the glass to his lips, took a slow sip, and set it down against the marble. His dark eyes locked onto mine across the island.
• ​Neither of us moved. Neither of us spoke. Four weeks of built-up pressure, missed glances, and deliberate avoidance collapsed into the dark room in a single second.
• ​