The wedding happened six days later, wrapped in the kind of elegance that only money—dirty, blood-stained, well-laundered money—could afford.
It was the sort of affair whispered about in luxury salons and dissected in group chats: the sudden marriage of Damien Cross, the country's most elusive billionaire, to Emilia Blackwood, the disgraced daughter of a crumbling legacy.
The venue was a cathedral Damien had quietly purchased and renovated. A house of God bought by a man who didn't believe in anything except leverage. Vaulted ceilings arched like ancient ribs overhead, and gold-dusted chandeliers dripped light onto the polished marble floors. White roses climbed every column like ivy clinging to a corpse.
Emilia stood beneath that blinding light, surrounded by guests she didn't know, in a dress she hadn't chosen. Silk cascaded from her shoulders in quiet waves, stitched by hands she'd never meet. The veil, sheer and glittering, slid over her like a net. Even her shoes weren't hers. Nothing was hers anymore. Not her name. Not her life.
And definitely not the man at her side.
Damien Cross stood like a sculpture: black suit, sharp collar, colder eyes. The groom of every girl's fantasy—and the villain of her story.
Her name was already trending.
> #TheContractBride
#IceKingMarriesThePawn
#FallenHeiressReturns
They said her father had sold her. They said Damien had bought her. They said she had no choice.
They weren't wrong.
The priest said nothing of love. No poetry, no promises of forever. Just a monotone delivery of the legal vows Damien's lawyers had drafted. It sounded more like a merger than a marriage.
Damien turned to her. "I do," he said—flatly, formally, like signing a death warrant.
Emilia's lips barely moved when she whispered her reply. "I do."
She wondered if the ground would split open beneath her. If God would strike them both down for mocking the altar like this. But there was no lightning. Just silence, then applause.
He slid the ring onto her finger. Cartier. Cold. Heavy. A shackle disguised in diamonds.
Damien leaned forward as if to kiss her.
Emilia turned her cheek.
His lips brushed the air near her temple. Cameras flashed. Gasps murmured in the pews.
He whispered against her ear, "Wise move. That's tomorrow's scandal avoided."
She wanted to slap him. Right there, in front of everyone. Instead, she smiled. A pageant smile. A press-approved smile. A smile that said nothing and cost everything.
---
They left early.
The car was sleek, black, silent. The kind of vehicle that glided like a threat. Damien said nothing on the drive. Neither did she.
Her phone vibrated in her palm.
> Mom's surgery is scheduled. Full payment received. Bless you, Emmy. I love you.
Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away before he could see. She couldn't afford weakness in front of him—not tonight, not ever.
They arrived at the penthouse in less than twenty minutes. It loomed like a palace above the city, all steel and glass and secrets.
Inside: polished floors, sharp lines, modern minimalism. Cold lighting. Quiet staff.
Damien didn't offer her a tour. Just walked, long strides, through the main corridor like a CEO inspecting a warehouse.
"This is your wing," he said, gesturing to the east side. "Bedroom, bathroom, closet. The maid will bring your schedule. You'll be expected to accompany me to events and stay silent when needed."
She raised a brow. "You want a wife or a mute?"
He turned. "I want results. I didn't marry you for your voice."
"Then you should've hired a mannequin."
"Mannequins don't come with bankrupt legacies or tabloids sniffing at their heels."
Ouch. Touché.
He walked off before she could respond.
---
Her room was large. Opulent. Lonelier than any space she'd ever known.
A four-poster bed draped in cream. A chandelier that looked like it could crash down and kill someone. Mirrors on three walls. And a balcony that overlooked the glittering city—a kingdom she didn't rule.
She wandered the space like a guest in someone else's nightmare. Opened drawers. Touched velvet. Sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the closet full of designer dresses still tagged.
Her mother had once sewn Emilia's school uniforms by hand.
Now strangers chose her gowns.
She peeled off the wedding dress carefully, as if removing a curse. Laid it gently across the chaise lounge like a corpse to bury. Then she climbed under the sheets, fully clothed, and stared at the ceiling.
She didn't cry.
There were no tears left.
---
She didn't sleep well.
Dreams came in bursts: her mother's tired face, her father's shaking hands, paparazzi flashes, and Damien's cold smirk.
By dawn, her throat ached, and her body felt foreign.
A knock echoed.
The maid entered with breakfast—fruit, toast, eggs, gold-trimmed dishes. Silent and polite.
Then she handed Emilia a silver envelope.
Damien's handwriting was neat. Sharp.
> "Be ready by 7 PM. Black tie. We're attending the Kingsworth Gala. —D."
No greeting. No apology for marrying her like a busines
s expense. Just a command.
She stared at the note for a full minute. Then tore it in half and dropped it in the trash.
---
She dressed herself that night. Ignored the stylists. Ignored the rows of dresses waiting like obedient mistresses.
She chose a black velvet gown that hugged her curves and defied expectations. Paired it with red lips, a sharp heel, and eyes that refused to flinch.
Damien waited by the door, eyes sweeping over her without a word.
"Well?" she asked, lifting her chin.
He offered his arm.
"You'll do."
"Charming," she muttered, but took it anyway.
---
They arrived at the Kingsworth estate under a storm of flashbulbs and whispers.
The elite were already gathered—politicians, socialites, predators in pearls.
As Emilia stepped into the room, heads turned. Tongues wagged. Her name slithered through the crowd like smoke.
> "That's her. The broke heiress."
"Damien married that?"
"A charity case with curves. Classic Cross."
"She's beautiful, though. Pity it won't last."
She heard it all.
Every word. Every sneer.
But she kept walking.
Damien didn't say anything. He didn't need to. His silence said: This is the role you agreed to. Smile for the camera, sweetheart.
So she did.
But behind the lipstick and diamonds, her mind burned with quiet fury.
They'd all written her off.
Too poor. Too desperate. Too easy to break.
Let them.
Because Emilia Blackwood hadn't survived this far to remain silent.
She was his bride now.
But this wasn't his story any
more.
It was hers.
And she was just getting started.