Chapter 3— The silent emotional battles Elena is fighting within herself.
Los Angeles, 11:42 p.m.
Rain had kissed the glass with such gentleness, it almost felt like the night was holding its breath for her.
Elena stood alone in the hallway of Adrian Knight's penthouse, her fingers trembling against the velvet of her emerald gown. The corridor was lined with abstract art and silence—wealth had a way of decorating even emptiness with gold.
Her thoughts were a storm far louder than the one tapping on the windows.
What did I just sign?
A marriage contract, inked with silence, power, and eyes that refused to let her breathe.
It hadn't been a proposal. There was no ring, no roses. Just a pen and a deadline. And those eyes—Adrian's glacial stare that had frozen every bone in her spine.
"Two years," he had said, his voice silk dipped in venom. "Play your role. Be my wife. Nothing more, nothing less."
She was supposed to be silent.
But silence never sat well in the heart of a girl raised to sing.
____
The grand piano in the living room glistened under the low chandelier light. Elena found herself drifting toward it, barefoot now, her heels discarded somewhere near the marble threshold.
She ran her hand across the ivory keys, but did not play. The last time she had touched a piano was three years ago—before her mother's heart stopped beating, before their mansion in Beverly Hills turned to foreclosure notices and pity.
Adrian's voice echoed behind her. "Do you always roam around like a ghost in silk?"
She turned slowly, chin high. "Do you always trap women in contracts to entertain your board of directors?"
A flicker of a smirk. "Only when I'm bored."
She hated the way his presence filled the room like smoke—intoxicating, dark, suffocating.
"You don't look bored," she murmured.
He stepped closer, the air thinning with each inch. "And you don't look scared."
"I'm not." A lie.
He chuckled—low, amused. "You will be."
____
Later, in her room—a room too expensive to feel like her own—Elena stared at the ceiling. The sheets smelled of cedarwood and control. A CCTV camera blinked in the corner. No privacy. Not even in her silence.
She pulled out the contract again. The fine print mocked her:
Clause 11: No romantic or physical involvement without mutual written consent.
Clause 18: Public appearances mandatory. Private boundaries conditional.
> Clause 21: No escape without consequence.
Her hands shook. She remembered her father's voice—slurred from the bourbon he claimed was holy—saying, "Sell the house. Sell the jewelry. Sell yourself if you must."
She had done all three.
_____
The next morning, Adrian was already seated at the long glass table when she walked into the kitchen. His suit was charcoal grey, his wristwatch probably worth more than her childhood home.
"You're late."
"For what?" she asked, pouring herself orange juice like she belonged there.
"For pretending this marriage is real."
She sipped. "I don't fake things well."
He leaned back, eyes piercing. "Fake it well enough, and in two years you walk away with five million dollars and a new identity. Or…"
She tilted her head. "Or?"
"You walk away with nothing. Not even your name."
The air around them shifted. Elena realized she was in a story where survival meant becoming someone else entirely. Not just pretending—transforming.
"I'll need a dress," she said.
"For?"
"Your gala tonight. Or are fake wives not allowed on red carpets?"
He didn't answer. Just tossed her a black AmEx card with her name embossed on it. Mrs. Elena Knight.
Even the name felt borrowed.
______
Hours later, her reflection stared back from the boutique mirror—Elena in a wine-colored gown with an open back and too much confidence stitched into the fabric. The saleswoman gushed over her, unaware that she was dressing a ghost with a borrowed name and a bruised past.
Adrian arrived minutes before they left for the gala.
His eyes scanned her slowly. Not with desire. With evaluation.
"Acceptable," he said. "Don't trip on the carpet. That's all I ask."
She nearly rolled her eyes. "You're lucky I'm not armed."
"I am."
She froze.
He tapped the inner lining of his jacket.
This man… Elena thought. He's either a psychopath, or he's been broken in places even hell couldn't touch.
______
The gala was drenched in money—crystal chandeliers, red velvet stairs, and women whose smiles were sharpened weapons.
Whispers followed them.
"Is that Adrian Knight's wife?"
"She's… young."
"She's… beautiful."
"She's… no one."
But she held his arm like it was a crown. She smiled like she'd never known pain. She walked like her life depended on this illusion.
Because it did.
Adrian leaned down mid-dance and whispered, "Smile tighter. My enemies are watching."
She didn't look at him. "What happens if I cry instead?"
"You disappear."
"Kill me?" she asked.
"No," he said softly. "Worse."
_____
By the end of the night, Elena's cheeks hurt. Her soul was exhausted. But the world now knew her face.
On the ride home, she asked, "Who am I supposed to be when the cameras are gone?"
Adrian stared out the window. "That depends. Who were you before?"
"A girl who believed in fairytales."
He laughed—a sound bitter enough to make her flinch. "Then pretend I'm your prince."
She looked at his profile—the sharp jawline, the cruelty sitting in his mouth like a secret.
"You're not a prince," she said.
He turned his eyes to her. "No. I'm the villain who owns the castle."
______
When they returned home, Elena slipped away before he could say another word. She needed silence. Solitude. Her violin.
Yes, she had asked for one to be brought to her room. It was the only condition she'd made.
She opened the velvet case.
The strings gleamed under the moonlight. She lifted the bow, placed it against the strings, and played a lullaby her mother used to hum when the world was too cruel.
And then, a noise.
A click.
Her door opened without warning.
Adrian stood there. His shirt half-unbuttoned. His eyes unreadable.
"You play beautifully," he said.
"I wasn't playing for you."
He stepped inside, slow and sure. "Doesn't matter. Everything in this house plays for me now."
She rose, violin still in hand. "You think owning me means you get to watch me bleed?"
"I've bled too," he said, voice low. "More than you can imagine."
"Then don't pretend you're made of stone."
He took the violin gently from her hand. Set it down. Then walked past her.
And whispered, "Don't touch that contract again. It's written in more than just ink."
She turned sharply. "What do you mean?"
But he was already gone.
To be continued…
_____
💔 Cliffhanger Reflection:
Why does Adrian not want her reading the contract again?
What is the secret he's hiding—something more dangerous than wealth?
Is Elena safe in this marriage—or is she simply another pawn?
Comment below: Would you trust a man like Adrian? Or would you run the moment you had a chance?