Page 133 of The Unwilling Bride
Dark walnut floors stretch across the room, polished to a muted sheen. The walls are painted a gunmetal gray, so flat they seem to swallow the light rather than reflect it. A massive gray sectional faces what must be a hundred-inch television mounted on the opposite wall like a black void.
There’s no coffee table to soften the space. No rug. No paintings. No photographs.
No color anywhere.
Just gray. More gray. And the occasional gleam of black or steel.
I shiver.
The impersonal atmosphere unsettles me in a way I can’t quite explain. I tuck my handbag closer to my side and glance toward the staircase that rises to the upper floor where the bedrooms must be.
This is where I live now.
The thought lands strangely in my chest.
On the far side of the room, a long kitchen island stretches across the space like a minimalist altar.
Behind it sits a professional-grade range that belongs in a restaurant rather than a home. I suppose, it makes sense. This is the apartment of a Michelin-star chef.
But why does it feel so…empty?
He stands by the doorway with his hands in his pockets, quietly watching me take it all in.
I can feel his gaze on me. He never misses anything. I’m sure he’s studying my reactions to his home.
I try not to show how out of my depth I feel.
Instead, I look around more carefully, trying to understand the space. Trying to see if the details of his home will tell me something more about the man I’ve married.
Flanking the range are seamless gray cabinets, their surfaces so smooth, they almost look like a single, continuous wall. Everything concealed. Everything hidden. Everything controlled. Just like the man, himself.
Every surface gleams.
Every line is knife straight.
Every angle deliberate.
It feels less like a home and more like a high-end hotel suite—expensive, pristine, untouched.
As if no one lives here. As if James simply passes through between shifts.
Which probably isn’t far from the truth.
A small ache spreads through my chest. The apartment I shared with my sister and my niece was cramped and messy.
But it was home.
This penthouse feels too far removed from reality. Too sterile. Too much like a temporary pitstop.
The only warmth in the entire apartment comes from the city lights glittering through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that span one entire wall.
Beyond them, a balcony overlooks London.
I step closer to the windows, drawn to the view.
There’s a meow, and the next moment, something warm does a figure eight around my legs. Strike what I said earlier. Warmth in the apartment also comes from a cat. James’ cat.
James Hamilton, terrifying chef, known for reducing grown adults to tears with his scathing criticism of their dishes, has a cat?
