The gates closed behind them with a sound that felt permanent.
Elara didn't realize she had been holding her breath until the car came to a smooth stop in front of a sprawling estate of glass and stone. The mansion wasn't warm or inviting. It was precise. Structured. Controlled.
Like the man beside her.
Dominic stepped out first. A uniformed guard approached immediately, nodding respectfully.
"Sir."
"Cancel tomorrow morning's meetings," Dominic said calmly. "Reschedule for afternoon."
"Yes, sir."
No explanation needed. No questions asked.
Elara followed him up the marble steps, heels echoing in the quiet night. The front doors opened before they reached them. A housekeeper stood waiting.
"Prepare the east wing," Dominic instructed. "Mrs. Vale will stay there."
Mrs. Vale.
The title hit her chest harder than the humiliation earlier.
The housekeeper bowed slightly. "Yes, sir."
Dominic turned to Elara. "You must be tired."
She studied his face carefully. No mockery. No tenderness either. Just… neutrality.
"I'm fine," she replied.
He nodded once and walked inside.
The interior was minimalist. No clutter. No family photos. No warmth. Everything was perfectly arranged in tones of black, gray, and white.
A house built for function, not affection.
He led her down a quiet hallway, stopping outside a large bedroom.
"This will be yours."
Yours.
Not ours.
She noticed.
He opened the door.
The room was expansive, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline. A king-sized bed. A seating area. A walk-in wardrobe larger than her childhood bedroom.
It felt less like a bedroom and more like a high-end hotel suite.
Elara stepped inside slowly.
Dominic remained by the door.
"There are a few matters we should clarify," he said.
Of course there were.
She turned to face him. "The contract."
His eyes sharpened slightly. "You assume there is one?"
"There's always one with men like you."
A faint, almost invisible smile flickered across his lips.
"Yes," he said. "There is."
He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just firmly.
From inside his jacket, he pulled out his phone and made a brief call.
"Bring the file from my office."
Less than five minutes later, a staff member delivered a slim black folder.
Dominic placed it on the small table near the window and gestured for her to sit.
Elara lowered herself onto the sofa. He remained standing.
"Read."
She opened the folder.
The document was simple. Clear. Precise.
Marriage Agreement.
Duration: Two years.
Public Role: Official wife of Dominic Vale. Attendance at public events as required.
Privacy Clause: No disclosure of private matters.
Financial Security: Upon completion of agreement, a settlement equivalent to thirty million dollars.
Thirty million.
Her hands did not tremble.
She kept reading.
Fidelity Clause: No extramarital relationships.
Living Arrangement: Separate bedrooms unless otherwise agreed.
Termination: Mutual consent or breach of contract.
She looked up.
"You're very thorough."
"I dislike misunderstandings."
"Why two years?"
"It is the optimal duration for stabilizing board perception."
Board perception.
Of course.
She closed the folder gently.
"And what do you gain from this?" she asked.
He didn't hesitate.
"Silence."
Her brow furrowed slightly.
"There have been rumors," he continued evenly. "Speculation regarding my personal life. Shareholders prefer stability. Marriage implies stability."
"And I'm convenient."
"You're intelligent," he corrected calmly. "You handled humiliation without creating chaos. That matters."
She held his gaze.
"You don't know me."
"I know enough."
The air between them shifted slightly. Not hostile. Not warm. Something else.
Assessment.
He was studying her the way he might evaluate a merger.
"And if I refuse to sign?" she asked quietly.
Dominic stepped closer.
"Then tomorrow morning," he said softly, "the headlines will say that you proposed to me and I declined."
The words were not cruel.
They were factual.
Her stomach tightened.
"And your reputation," he added, "will be permanently damaged."
There it was.
Power.
Not shouted. Not flaunted. Simply stated.
Elara leaned back slightly, studying him.
"You're not rescuing me," she said.
"No."
"You're leveraging me."
"Yes."
The honesty was almost refreshing.
She picked up the pen resting inside the folder.
"And what if," she asked, eyes still on his, "I decide to leverage you as well?"
Something changed in his expression.
Not anger.
Interest.
"I would expect nothing less," he replied.
She signed.
The sound of pen on paper echoed softly in the quiet room.
When she finished, she handed the folder back to him.
Dominic closed it carefully.
"Effective immediately," he said.
She stood.
"Is there anything else in the fine print?"
He considered that.
"One more thing."
He stepped closer closer than before.
Close enough that she could see faint silver threads in his dark eyes.
"I do not share what is mine."
Her pulse skipped.
"I'm not property," she said evenly.
"No," he agreed. "You're my wife."
The way he said it was calm.
But not light.
A soft knock interrupted them.
"Sir," a staff member called through the door. "The press has gathered outside the gate."
Of course they had.
Dominic didn't look away from her.
"They'll remain there until morning."
"And tomorrow?"
"You will stand beside me."
She nodded.
"Understood."
He watched her for another long moment.
"You adapt quickly."
"I had to," she said.
For the first time since entering the mansion, his expression shifted slightly.
Something less guarded.
"Get some rest," he said.
He turned toward the door.
"Dominic."
He paused.
"Yes?"
She hesitated only briefly.
"Why didn't you hesitate?"
He looked at her over his shoulder.
"At the ballroom."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, he answered.
"Because I don't believe in accidents."
She frowned faintly.
"You walking toward me wasn't desperation," he continued. "It was calculation."
"And that impressed you?"
"It intrigued me."
With that, he left the room.
The door closed quietly behind him.
Elara stood alone in the vast bedroom, heart beating harder than she wanted to admit.
She walked toward the window.
Outside, flashes of cameras flickered faintly beyond the gates.
By morning, the entire city would know.
She had gone from discarded fiancée to Mrs. Vale in less than an hour.
Her reflection stared back at her in the glass.
Not broken.
Not soft.
Changed.
A knock came again softer this time.
She opened the door to find a young house assistant holding a garment bag.
"Mrs. Vale," the girl said respectfully. "Mr. Vale asked me to deliver this for tomorrow."
Elara took it.
Inside was a sleek midnight-blue dress. Elegant. Powerful. Not delicate.
Strategic.
Dominic had already prepared for the morning press conference.
He hadn't acted impulsively.
He had chosen her.
Carefully.
And that realization unsettled her more than the contract.
Because Dominic Vale did nothing without purpose.
And if he had brought her into his world…
There was a reason beyond headlines.
She closed the door and leaned against it.
Two years.
Thirty million.
No retreat.
But something told her the real terms of this marriage were not written on paper.
Somewhere in this mansion, Dominic was likely reviewing tomorrow's strategy.
Calm. Collected.
Unmoved.
Yet when she had stood before him in that ballroom…
He had looked at her like she was not a mistake.
That look lingered in her mind.
And for reasons she didn't fully understand
It unsettled her more than Nathan's betrayal ever could.
Elara walked to the bed and sat down slowly.
Tonight, she had traded humiliation for uncertainty.
She had married a man who valued control above all else.
But she had also stepped into a position of power.
The discarded bride was gone.
Mrs. Vale had arrived.
And if Dominic believed he was the only one calculating.
He was mistaken.
Because Elara Vaughn had not survived elite society by being soft.
She had simply learned to hide her edges.
Outside, the press continued flashing cameras at closed gates.
Inside, two strategic minds lay awake in separate rooms.
Both aware.
Both cautious.
Both curious.
And neither willing to lose.
The marriage had begun.
Not with love.
Not with passion.
But with negotiation.
And sometimes…
Negotiation was far more dangerous.