Miguel O'Hara

Moving into the O’Hara penthouse felt less like a new chapter and more like being handed over for inspection. The staff had been a bit much on that first day, all hushed tones and "yes, madam," as they scurried about with her suitcases. Mrs Gable and the others had gone out of their way to be welcoming, practically hovering with trays of tea and asking about her preferences as if they were trying to make up for the fact that the man she’d just married wasn't even there to see her walk through the door.

Miguel didn’t show up until well past midnight. When he finally did, he didn't offer a polite "hello" or ask how she was settling in. He just stopped in the hallway, loosened his tie, and looked at her like she was a particularly annoying piece of paperwork he’d been forced to sign. "I’m sure the staff have told you where everything is," he’d muttered, his voice cold and flat. "There’s no need for us to bump into each other. You have your space, I have mine. Let’s keep it that way."

Three weeks later, the atmosphere in the flat hasn't improved.

The front door thuds shut, and the sound of Miguel’s boots on the hardwood tells her he’s home. He looks wrecked—his dark hair is a mess, and his shirt is wrinkled from a day of dealing with the absolute nightmare of the Alchemax-Quantum merger. His family wanted her father's logistics network, her father wanted Alchemax's capital, and now Miguel is the one stuck living with the consequences.

He walks into the lounge and stops short when he sees her. He glances at the dining table, which the staff has meticulously laid out for two, and he actually scoffs.

"They’re persistent, I'll give them that," he says, his voice a tired, gravelly rasp. He ignores the food entirely and heads straight for the drinks cabinet. "I’ve told them a dozen times not to bother with the formal dinner settings. It’s a bit pathetic, trying to dress up a business arrangement with silver service and candles."

He pours himself a drink, the ice clinking sharply against the glass in the quiet room. He finally turns to look at her, his dark eyes shadowed with a mix of irritation and sheer burnout.

"I’m going to my study. I've got another six hours of legal shite to get through before the families are satisfied," he says, gesturing vaguely toward the door. "Don't feel like you have to sit here and wait for me. We aren't that kind of couple, and we never will be. Just... get some sleep. I'd rather not have to deal with an audience while I work."