The storm had passed by the time Elena arrived at Blackwood Manor, but the weight inside her chest hadn't lifted.
The sprawling estate rose from the darkness like something out of a dream—or perhaps a nightmare. A wrought-iron gate opened with a smooth hum, revealing a driveway lined with flickering lanterns. Beyond it, the mansion loomed: an elegant fortress of glass and stone, its windows glowing faintly in the night like the watchful eyes of something alive.
She stepped out of the limousine, the night air sharp against her skin. For a moment, she simply stood there, staring up at the life that was now hers—whether she wanted it or not.
The front doors opened before she could move. A woman in her forties, dressed in a crisp black uniform, appeared. Her posture was rigid, her face unreadable.
"Mrs. Blackwood," she greeted with a polite bow of her head.
The words struck Elena like a blow. Mrs. Blackwood. It felt surreal, wrong. A name that wasn't hers, yet bound to her now like a chain.
"Elena is fine," she murmured, forcing a tight smile.
The woman didn't react. "Mr. Blackwood is waiting in the study. Follow me."
Her stomach twisted, but she obeyed, her heels clicking against the marble floors as she followed the housekeeper through the grand foyer. The mansion was vast, every detail screaming wealth and power—from the sweeping staircase to the priceless paintings adorning the walls. But it felt cold, lifeless, as though it had never truly been a home.
They stopped before a pair of heavy oak doors. The woman pushed them open, revealing Damian seated behind a mahogany desk, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
He looked up when she entered, his storm-gray eyes flicking over her with cool precision. "You're late."
Her lips parted in disbelief. "Late? You sent a car. I came straight here."
Damian set his glass down with a quiet clink. "Excuses already? We're not even a day into our arrangement."
Anger surged in her chest. "Excuse me for not adjusting instantly to being sold into marriage."
His brow arched, the faintest smirk touching his lips. "Sold? Interesting choice of words. Did I hold a gun to your head, Elena?"
"You might as well have," she snapped. "You threatened my family. You forced my hand."
Damian leaned back in his chair, studying her with unnerving calm. "I gave you a choice. And you chose this. Don't pretend otherwise."
Her nails dug into her palms. "A choice between saving my family and watching them lose everything? That's not a choice."
His smirk deepened, though his eyes remained cold. "Welcome to the real world. Nothing is ever free. Everything has a price."
Her breath caught, fury and helplessness twisting inside her. She wanted to scream at him, to tear that calm mask off his face. Instead, she forced herself to meet his gaze, unflinching.
"Fine," she said through gritted teeth. "I signed your contract. I'll play my part. But don't expect me to bow at your feet."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then Damian rose slowly from his chair, his tall frame casting a shadow across the room. He approached her with deliberate steps, stopping so close she had to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze.
His voice was low, dangerous. "Careful, Elena. You're in my world now. And in my world, defiance has consequences."
Her pulse raced, but she refused to look away. "Then punish me if you must. But I won't be your puppet."
Something flickered in his eyes—something sharp, unreadable. Then, to her shock, he laughed. A low, humorless sound.
"You have fire," he murmured, his smirk returning. "Good. I'd hate to be bored."
He stepped back, retrieving his glass of whiskey. "Your room is upstairs. Second door on the left. I expect you to be ready tomorrow morning at eight sharp. We have a charity gala to attend. You'll play the role of Mrs. Blackwood."
Her stomach sank. "Tomorrow? Already?"
"Business waits for no one," Damian said simply, turning away as though she were dismissed.
For a moment, Elena stood frozen, her hands trembling at her sides. Then, without a word, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the study, her chest burning with rage.
Her bedroom was beautiful. Too beautiful. The walls were painted a soft ivory, the furniture elegant and pristine, the bed large enough to swallow her whole. A crystal chandelier glittered above, casting the room in warm golden light.
But like the rest of the house, it felt cold. Lifeless.
She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her chest heaving.
This was her life now. A gilded cage.
She walked slowly to the bed and sat on the edge, her hands twisting in her lap. Memories of her family's desperate faces flashed before her eyes. She had done this for them. To protect them. To save what little they had left.
But at what cost?
Her vision blurred with tears, hot and unrelenting. She pressed her hands to her face, swallowing back a sob. She couldn't break down. Not now. Not yet.
Tomorrow, the world would see her as Mrs. Blackwood. Tomorrow, she would stand beside the Devil in a Suit and smile as though she belonged there.
But tonight… tonight, she let herself weep silently into her hands, alone in a mansion that didn't feel like hers.
Damian watched from the shadows of the hallway.
He had followed her, though she hadn't noticed. He stood silently outside her door, listening to the muffled sound of her sobs.
Something twisted in his chest, something sharp and unfamiliar. He tightened his grip on the glass in his hand until the crystal nearly cracked.
He should have felt nothing. She was just another pawn, another piece in his carefully constructed empire. Their marriage was a contract, nothing more.
And yet, as he turned away, his jaw clenched tightly, a single thought refused to leave his mind.
This woman is going to be trouble.