The contract smelled like leather, ink, and finality.
Damien slid it across the mahogany desk without ceremony. No witnesses. No preamble.
"Sign it."
Aria picked up the gold fountain pen.
Her hand hesitated.
"Is there a problem, Mrs. Roth?"
She looked up. His eyes weren't curious. They were waiting. Measuring. Testing.
"Just making sure I understand everything," she replied, scanning the page.
It was all there. The conditions.
One year of marriage.
Appearances at key functions.
NDA clauses stricter than federal secrecy.
No pregnancy without consent.
No real emotional entanglement.
And in return: 10 million dollars. Split in quarterly payments.
Aria signed. "Lena Monroe."
Damien took the document, locked it in a drawer, and stood.
"Congratulations," he said flatly. "You're now officially mine."
That night, she couldn't sleep.
Not just because of the bed that felt too soft or the silence that pressed too loud.
But because the ink on that contract felt like a shackle.
A gilded cage.
She walked the halls of the penthouse in the dark. Each room was colder than the last. Too clean. Too curated. No personal photos. No history. Just wealth.
She stopped in front of a locked door near Damien's study.
Curious, she reached for the handle.
"Don't."
She froze.
Damien stood behind her, half in shadow, barefoot, shirtless, a glass of scotch in hand.
"Some doors are meant to stay shut," he said.
"I couldn't sleep," she murmured.
"Neither can I."
They stood in silence.
Then, unexpectedly, he asked, "Do you regret it?"
She turned to him. "Do you?"
He drank. "No. But I never make decisions I haven't already accounted for. The question is, will you survive yours?"
In the morning, a dress awaited her on the bed. Black velvet. Elegant. Expensive.
A note lay beside it:
Dinner with investors. Smile like a queen. Lie like a spy.
She stared at it. A chill crawled down her spine.
At the event, she became the perfect wife. Aria smiled. She laughed. She made small talk in French and pretended to sip champagne.
The crowd adored her.
Damien played the doting husband.
But as the night progressed, she noticed something else—how people looked at him.
Not just with awe. But fear.
He wasn't just powerful.
He was dangerous.
At one point, a young executive tried to flirt with her. Damien stepped between them, said nothing—just looked.
The man turned pale and backed away.
"What did you do to him?" Aria asked when they returned to the car.
Damien's gaze was unreadable. "I reminded him who you belong to."
A chill passed through her.
Belong.
Not love.
Not respect.
Ownership.
Back at the penthouse, she crept into his study while he was in the shower.
The desk was locked. The drawers too. Except one.
Inside: a file marked Lena Monroe.
Her stomach dropped.
She flipped it open.
Photos. Real ones. of the real Lena. Medical records. A fingerprint analysis.
She felt the blood drain from her face.
"Looking for something?"
She slammed the drawer shut.
Damien stood at the door, towel around his waist, steam clinging to his skin like armor.
His expression? Calm. Icy. Lethal.
"I... I thought I saw a spider," she stammered.
"Don't lie to a man who pays for your lies," he said softly.
He walked toward her. She backed up, heart pounding.
He stopped inches away. "You want to play games, Aria?"
Her breath hitched. He'd used her real name.
"I ... "
"I know. I've always known."
Then he turned and walked away.
Leaving her shaking...
He knew.
He'd always known.
Yet he married her anyway.
Why?
What was he planning?
And more importantly...
What did he want from her now...?