Ivara didn't sleep.
She lay awake long after the lights dimmed automatically, listening to a building that never truly rested. A low hum ran through the walls, steady and controlled, like a pulse she hadn't consented to sharing.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the gala again. The way people had looked at her. Not curious. Convinced.
She had underestimated how fast belief worked.
Morning came without ceremony.
Elaine knocked once and entered with practiced ease. "Good morning. Mr. Voss requested that you review an addendum today."
Ivara pushed herself upright. "Addendum to what?"
"The contract."
Her stomach tightened. "There wasn't supposed to be one."
Elaine didn't argue. She placed a slim tablet on the bedside table. "Breakfast is in the dining area when you're ready."
"And Calder?" Ivara asked.
"He's already working."
Of course he was.
The dining area was flooded with light. The table was set for two. Calder sat at the far end, jacket off, sleeves rolled once, attention on a document projected from his tablet.
He looked settled.
That irritated her more than it should have.
"You sent for me," Ivara said, taking the seat opposite him.
"Yes."
"You said the terms were fixed."
"They are," he replied. "This isn't a change. It's a clarification."
"That's what people say when they're moving goalposts."
Calder lifted his eyes to hers. "Eat."
She didn't. "What's the addendum?"
He slid the tablet across the table.
"Read."
Ivara scrolled.
At first, it looked harmless. Definitions. Scope. Language tightening around terms that had already been agreed upon.
Then she reached the section labeled "Reputational Safeguard."
Her chest tightened.
In the event of public dispute, separation, or dissolution of the marital contract, both parties agree to unified representation under Voss Meridian legal counsel for a period of no less than twenty-four months following termination.
She reread it.
And again.
"You're joking," she said quietly.
"I don't joke about law."
"You said this was twelve months."
"It is."
"This clause makes it three years," she snapped. "Even if the marriage ends."
"Representation," he corrected. "Not marriage."
"You control the lawyers," she said.
"Yes."
"You control the narrative," she said slowly.
"Yes."
Her pulse thudded hard. "So even after I leave, I don't actually leave."
Calder folded his hands. "You exit the residence. You regain independence. But you don't become a liability."
"To you."
"To both of us."
She laughed, sharp and disbelieving. "You said the contract protected me."
"It does."
"Then why does this protect you more?"
He didn't look offended. He looked prepared.
"Because I can't afford unpredictability," he said. "And neither can you, once your name is publicly bound to mine."
Ivara stood so abruptly that her chair scraped the floor.
"You buried this," she said. "You knew I wouldn't agree if I'd seen it."
"I knew you wouldn't understand its necessity," he replied evenly.
"You manipulated me."
"I structured the risk."
She paced to the window, hands clenched, the city spread beneath her like a reminder of how small escape really was.
"This means if I ever try to speak publicly," she said, voice tight, "you can silence me."
"No," Calder said. "It means you won't need to."
She turned. "You think that's better?"
"I think it's safer."
"For who?"
"For the institution," he said. "Which now includes you."
The word landed wrong. Included didn't mean protected. It meant absorbed.
She walked back to the table. "Why am I really here, Calder?"
He studied her for a moment. Longer than usual.
"Because you stabilize me," he said. "And because I won't pretend otherwise."
Her throat went dry. "That's not an answer."
"It is," he said. "Just not a comforting one."
"You could have married anyone," she said. "Someone compliant. Someone trained for this world."
"Yes."
"Then why me?"
Calder leaned back slightly. "Because you resist without being reckless. Because you understand systems. And because when this arrangement ends, I don't want someone who will burn it down out of spite."
Ivara stared at him. "You're planning for the end already."
"I plan for all outcomes."
"And what if I don't want to be part of your planning?"
A pause. Not long. But real.
"Then you shouldn't have signed," he said.
The words were calm.
They still hurt.
Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable.
"This clause wasn't discussed," she said finally.
"No."
"So why now?"
"Because the public believes," Calder replied. "Which means the cost of fracture has increased."
She understood then.
The gala wasn't just proof.
It was leverage.
"You waited until I was visible," she said.
"Yes."
Her breath came shallow. "You let me walk into that room without knowing what I was locking myself into."
"I let you choose when the consequences were real."
She shook her head slowly. "You're unbelievable."
"I'm honest."
"No," she said. "You're precise. There's a difference."
He stood then, coming around the table. He stopped a careful distance away, respecting the boundary she'd insisted on, which somehow made this worse.
"You're still free to leave," he said.
Her laugh broke before she could stop it. "That's a lie."
"You can walk out of this residence today," he said. "Nothing will stop you."
"And the fallout?"
He didn't answer.
She looked down at the tablet again, at the clause she'd missed, at the future narrowing in black text.
"You own the aftermath," she said.
"I manage it."
"For how long?"
"For as long as it takes."
Her voice dropped. "And if I fall apart?"
Calder's gaze sharpened, just slightly. "Then I'll account for that too."
The certainty in his voice chilled her.
She realized then what the contract really was.
Not a cage.
A continuity plan.
"You didn't marry me to survive this crisis," she said slowly.
"No."
"You married me to make sure I couldn't become a problem later."
"Yes."
There it was.
The truth, finally unvarnished.
Ivara sank back into the chair, exhaustion flooding her limbs.
"This was never temporary," she whispered.
Calder didn't deny it.
"It was always conditional," he said. "On behavior. On alignment. On trust."
"And if I never give you that?"
He looked at her, expression unreadable. "Then we coexist."
The word sounded clinical. Cold.
She stared at the contract again, at the life she'd stepped into, believing she could outlast it.
Believing she could leave clean.
"How many things did I miss?" she asked quietly.
Calder didn't answer right away.
"Enough," he said finally. "That you should stop assuming this ends the way you imagined."
Her chest tightened painfully.
This wasn't about time.
It was about ownership of consequence.
She pushed the tablet back across the table. "You won," she said.
Calder didn't smile.
"I stabilized," he corrected.
She stood slowly, steadier than she felt. "Then let me be clear."
He waited.
"I will not love you," she said. "I will not belong to you. And when this ends, I will walk away with whatever dignity I have left."
Calder met her gaze, unflinching.
"We'll see," he said.
The words weren't a challenge.
They were a forecast.
Ivara turned and walked out of the dining area, heart pounding, mind sharp with the understanding she'd been avoiding since the moment she signed.
She hadn't just married a powerful man.
She had married the long game.
And it was already ahead of her.