The glass doors of Blackwell Enterprises towered over Selene like the gates to another world.
Gleaming. Intimidating. Unforgiving.
Each pane reflected her uncertain form, too small, too fragile, swallowed up by the towering structure that pulsed with power and wealth. The city roared behind her, but in here, it was silence. Clean. Sterile. Cold.
She walked through them alone.
No assistant met her. No receptionist offered a smile. The marble beneath her heels was too polished, the air too crisp—as if even the oxygen had been filtered of warmth.
Everything gleamed: crystal lighting, polished chrome elevators, golden trim along the white-marble walls. Wealth oozed from every surface. But Selene felt like she was walking through a mausoleum, not a company headquarters.
And in her trembling hands, she held the envelope. The contract. A year of her life sold in a hundred pages of ink and legality.
Her sister's life.
The only reason she'd signed her soul away.
She adjusted the strap of her worn purse and walked forward. The tailored navy skirt Lila had picked out felt too tight now, like a noose. Her cream blouse clung to her back from nerves, damp with sweat. She hated how much she probably looked like what Dante expected—a poor girl out of place, desperate to pretend she belonged.
She approached the front desk.
Before she could speak, a tall woman with slicked-back black hair and blood-red lipstick approached, clipboard in hand.
"Ms. Hart?"
Selene nodded.
"You're late."
Her brows furrowed. "I was told to arrive at nine. It's 8:58."
The woman's eyes flicked to her clipboard, unimpressed. "Mr. Blackwell doesn't tolerate tardiness. Follow me."
No greeting. No sympathy. Just a clipped turn and the sharp echo of heels as the woman led Selene through a corridor of glass offices and blank-faced assistants. Everyone looked like they belonged to another planet—perfect, polished, and soulless.
She passed by boardrooms where power was casually wielded, conversations filled with stock numbers and mergers. No one spared her a glance. She was invisible already.
At the final door, the woman stopped. "Don't waste his time," she said, then opened it.
"Enter."
Selene stepped inside.
And froze.
The room was vast—floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the entire Manhattan skyline. The desk was obsidian-black, gleaming and sharp. Art hung on the walls, abstract and intimidating. And behind the desk sat Dante Blackwell.
He didn't stand.
Didn't smile.
Didn't say a damn thing.
He watched her.
Dressed in a black-on-black suit, no tie, his collar open, his watch a glint of silver on his wrist. He looked every inch the billionaire tyrant the tabloids warned about—flawless, cold, deadly.
His gaze roamed over her once. Dismissive.
"Ms. Hart," he said at last, voice low and clipped.
She straightened. "Mr. Blackwell."
A pause stretched between them. Heavy. Thick.
She waited for him to speak. When he didn't, she stepped forward, heart hammering. "I... I wanted to thank you for arranging Lila's—"
"Let's be clear," he said, rising slowly. "You're not here because I'm kind. You're here because you signed a contract."
Her stomach twisted. "I know what I agreed to."
"Do you?" He stepped out from behind the desk, circling her. His footsteps were slow. Deliberate. "Because I don't tolerate liars. Or thieves. Or parasites."
She turned to face him. "I'm none of those things."
He laughed, low and bitter. "Your father cost my company millions in a rigged real estate deal. Do you think I forget betrayal, Ms. Hart?"
"That was him, not me," she snapped. "I had nothing to do with that."
"But you carry his blood," Dante said, stopping inches from her. "That's enough."
Her fists clenched. "Then why marry me?"
His expression shifted—into something cruel and calculating. "Because I want the world to see me own what once tried to destroy me. Publicly. Permanently."
Her breath caught.
It wasn't about marriage. It was vengeance wrapped in silk.
"You hate me," she whispered.
His smile was like a blade. "No, Mrs. Blackwell. I don't hate you. I simply don't care."
She flinched.
He stepped back and pressed a button on his desk.
"Leila. Send in the media team."
"What?" Selene turned to him. "Right now?"
He didn't look at her. "Your announcement photo shoot is scheduled for this morning. Our engagement news broke last night."
"I—" Her voice cracked. "You didn't even tell me—"
"You don't need to be informed. You just need to obey."
The doors opened. A flurry of people entered—photographers, stylists, PR reps. Someone shoved a pale silver dress into her arms.
"Quick change in the powder room," a stylist said cheerfully. "We're going for refined elegance. Dante wants classic, not flashy."
Another woman handed her a black velvet box.
Selene opened it.
The ring inside sparkled like ice—massive, impersonal, breathtaking.
Everything about it felt... wrong.
A shiver ran through her spine.
---
Thirty Minutes Later – Penthouse Lobby
She stood beside Dante in the designer dress, her curls smoothed into an elegant updo, makeup professionally done.
She looked the part.
But she felt like a doll.
The cameras flashed. Reporters called out questions.
"Mr. Blackwell, is this a love match?"
"Miss Hart, how does it feel to marry Manhattan's most powerful bachelor?"
Selene hesitated.
Dante leaned in. His hand gripped her waist, his voice brushing her ear like smoke.
"Smile, Selene. Or I'll make you regret it."
She turned to the camera. Forced a smile. Lies etched into her lips.
Click. Flash. Flash.
The performance had begun.
---
Later – In the Limo
The silence in the back seat of the limousine was suffocating.
Selene stared out the window, hands clenched tightly in her lap. Her new ring caught the fading sunlight—a constant, glittering reminder.
"You did well today," Dante said casually. "I almost believed you were happy."
She turned to him. "Is there ever a moment you're not cruel?"
He looked at her then—really looked. His eyes were the color of a winter storm. Unreadable. Unrelenting.
"No," he said. "Because softness doesn't survive in my world."
Her voice trembled. "Then why bring me into it?"
"You chose this," he said, face unreadable. "You signed the contract. No one forced you."
Her hands curled into fists. "I had no choice."
He didn't respond.
She stared at him, voice breaking. "Lila would've died."
A flicker passed through his eyes—something she couldn't name. Pity? Guilt? Pain?
But it vanished before she could catch it.
"Then play your part," he said. "For her."
---
At Blackwell Manor
The limo pulled through towering gates, and her breath caught.
The mansion wasn't a home.
It was a fortress.
Steel and glass, perched on the cliffs like a crown. Endless windows reflected the ocean. Security guards flanked the driveway. Cameras followed their every move.
Inside, the ceilings arched high above marble floors. There was no warmth. No softness. Just sterile opulence and emptiness.
Selene was shown to a room.
Not the master suite.
Not his.
Just... a guest room. Pristine. Impersonal.
Dante stood in the doorway.
"You'll move to my quarters once the marriage is legally filed," he said. "Until then, you sleep alone."
She met his gaze, forcing her voice to stay calm. "I'm not your toy, Dante."
He stepped forward. Braced one hand against the wall beside her head. His breath stirred her hair.
"Don't pretend this is anything more than a transaction," he said, voice like ice over steel. "I own you now."
Her heart thundered.
He was too close.
Too powerful.
But Selen
e lifted her chin. "You don't own my soul."
His smirk was dark. "I don't want your soul, Selene. Just your obedience."
Then he turned and walked away.
Leaving her in the shadows of the house that now bore her name.
---