Her Secret Identity: The Tycoon’s Unplanned Wife

The Maybach descended into the private, brightly lit underground garage of the Tribeca penthouse.

The car rolled to a smooth stop in the VIP parking bay.

The driver instantly killed the engine and rushed out to open the rear door.

Silas stepped out first.

He turned, bent down, and reached into the cabin.

This time, Evelyn didn't gasp.

When his arms slid under her knees and behind her back, she naturally leaned her head against his solid shoulder.

Silas's chest expanded as he took a sharp, quiet breath.

He carried her toward the private elevator.

The doors slid open, and he carried her inside. The ride up to the top floor was completely silent.

The elevator doors chimed and parted, revealing a massive, ultra-modern penthouse.

Carson, an older British man in a pristine butler's uniform, stood waiting in the foyer.

He bowed deeply. "Welcome home, sir. Welcome, madam."

Silas walked past Carson and gently deposited Evelyn onto a sprawling, custom-made Italian leather sofa in the center of the living room.

He stood up tall and immediately adjusted his left cufflink, his signature gesture when he needed to regain control.

"Carson," Silas said, his voice clipped and authoritative. "Show my wife around the apartment. Make sure she has dinner."

Evelyn looked up at him. She caught the subtle dismissal in his tone.

"Are you not staying for dinner?" she asked, her voice perfectly neutral.

Silas looked down at her. His eyes were unreadable.

"I have an emergency merger meeting with the London office," he said coldly.

He didn't wait for her response.

He turned on his heel and walked straight back into the elevator.

The metal doors slid shut, cutting off his towering figure.

The massive, multi-million-dollar penthouse suddenly felt incredibly empty.

Carson stepped forward, pushing a custom-built, ultra-lightweight indoor wheelchair.

"If you please, madam," Carson said kindly.

Evelyn suppressed a sigh. She transferred herself into the wheelchair and let Carson give her the tour.

The penthouse was stunning, but it felt like a museum. Cold, hard lines, dark marble, and glass.

It was a physical manifestation of Silas Thorne's personality.

Carson wheeled her into the master bedroom.

Evelyn's eyes widened slightly when she saw the walk-in closet.

It was massive, and half of it was completely filled with brand new, current-season haute couture women's clothing.

She reached out and checked the tag on a Chanel tweed jacket.

It was exactly her size.

The Thorne family efficiency was terrifying. Or perhaps, Silas was more attentive than he pretended to be.

Night fell over Manhattan.

Evelyn sat alone at the end of a dining table meant for twenty people, eating a perfectly cooked piece of salmon.

By midnight, she had showered and changed into a silk nightgown.

She lay in the center of the massive king-sized bed, staring at the dark ceiling.

At exactly 1:00 AM, the soft beep of the biometric lock echoed from the front door.

Heavy, exhausted footsteps moved down the hallway.

The bedroom door opened quietly.

Silas walked in. The cold air of the city clung to his suit.

He stopped at the foot of the bed.

Evelyn kept her breathing slow and even, her eyes closed. She feigned sleep.

She felt the heavy, physical weight of his gaze on her.

He stood there for a long time, perfectly still.

Finally, he turned and walked into the master bathroom.

The sound of the shower turning on filled the room.

Evelyn opened her eyes.

She stared at the frosted glass door of the bathroom.

Through the blurred glass, she could see the dark, broad silhouette of her husband standing under the water.

She pulled the heavy duvet up to her chin, her mind racing with questions.