Evelyn's POV
The private jet was nothing like the commercial planes I'd flown on.
Leather seats that felt like butter. Real wood paneling. A bedroom in the back. A full bar. Windows that showed Manhattan shrinking beneath us as we climbed into the dark sky.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, watching my old life disappear into tiny lights. Somewhere down there, my parents were probably calling hospitals. Calling police. Spinning lies about their unstable daughter who'd run away from her own engagement party.
Let them spin. I was done being their puppet.
"Here." Damien appeared beside me with a glass of water and two pills. "For the headache you're about to get. Adrenaline crash hits hard."
He was right. My hands were starting to shake. The full weight of what I'd just done was sinking in like stones.
I'd agreed to marry a stranger.
I'd run away from my family.
I'd believed impossible things about consciousness transfer and murder and sisters who weren't quite human anymore.
"I'm crazy," I whispered. "This is crazy."
"Probably." Damien sat across from me, his long legs stretched out. "But sometimes crazy is the only sane option left."
I swallowed the pills. My throat felt raw from crying. From screaming. From holding back screams.
"How long until we land?"
"Four hours." He checked his watch—expensive, understated, probably worth more than my car. "We'll arrive around one AM. The chapel's open twenty-four hours."
A twenty-four-hour wedding chapel in Nevada. This was really happening.
"I don't have a dress," I said stupidly.
"James packed one."
I stared at him. "How—"
"I told you. I've been watching. I know your size." He said it matter-of-factly. Like stalking me for two years was perfectly normal. "It's not white. I assumed you wouldn't want white after Marcus."
He was right. The thought of wearing white—of pretending to be pure and innocent and full of hope—made me sick.
"What color?"
"You'll see." A small smile played at his lips. "Trust me."
Trust. That word again.
The plane leveled out, and a man appeared from the cockpit area. Tall, Asian, late thirties, wearing a suit that screamed "I handle problems quietly."
"Mrs. Whitmore." He nodded at me. "I'm James Park. Mr. Ashford's assistant."
"Not Mrs. Whitmore for much longer," I said.
"No, ma'am. In approximately four hours, you'll be Mrs. Ashford." He set a briefcase on the table between us. "Which brings me to the paperwork."
My stomach tightened. "Paperwork?"
"The marriage contract." James opened the briefcase, pulling out a thick stack of papers. "Mr. Ashford wanted everything legal and clear before the ceremony."
Of course he did. Damien wasn't the kind of man who did anything without a plan.
"It's standard," Damien said, watching my face. "Protection for both of us."
I pulled the papers closer, scanning the first page. Legal jargon. Dense paragraphs. Words that blurred together.
"Can you translate?" I asked James.
"Of course." He sat down, pulling out a pen. "The contract outlines a one-year marriage. During this time, you'll live together as husband and wife. Public appearances will present a united front. In private, you maintain separate bedrooms unless both parties agree otherwise."
My cheeks heated. I hadn't thought about the bedroom situation.
"You'll have full access to Mr. Ashford's resources," James continued. "Security, legal team, financial support. In exchange, you provide information about your family's activities and assist in the investigation."
"I'm a spy," I said flatly.
"You're a partner," Damien corrected. "We're investigating together. Everything we find, we share."
I kept reading. The terms were surprisingly fair. I got a monthly allowance—more money than I'd ever seen. My own credit cards. A car. Protection from my family's retaliation.
And at the end of one year, if we wanted to divorce, we each walked away with what we brought in. No alimony. No fighting. Clean break.
"What if we don't want to divorce?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Damien's eyes locked on mine. "Then we renegotiate."
Heat flooded my face. I looked back at the contract, trying to focus.
"There's a clause here about children." I pointed to a paragraph. "It says any children born during the marriage are considered legitimate heirs to both estates."
"Standard protection," James explained. "In case of unexpected pregnancy."
"We're not sleeping together," I said quickly.
"Accidents happen." Damien's voice was neutral, but something flickered in his eyes. "The clause protects any child from being used as a weapon in divorce proceedings."
I thought about that. About how my parents had used me. About how they'd turned Isabelle into an experiment. About how children in powerful families were tools, not people.
"Okay," I said. "That makes sense."
I kept reading. Page after page of protections and clauses and legal terminology. But the core message was clear: Damien would protect me, and I would help him destroy my father.
Fair trade.
"There's one more thing." James pulled out a separate document. "Your inheritance."
My heart stopped. "What?"
"Your grandmother's will." James slid the paper across. "She left you majority shares in Whitmore Pharmaceuticals. Fifty-one percent. But your father's been managing them since her death."
"I know. I signed papers—"
"Papers that gave him temporary management rights." James pointed to a date. "Those rights expire in three months. On your twenty-eighth birthday, control reverts to you."
I couldn't breathe. "I own the company?"
"You will in three months," Damien said. "Unless your father finds a way to stop you. Which is probably why he accelerated his timeline for your accident."
The pieces clicked together with sickening clarity.
"He can't transfer the shares if I'm alive," I whispered. "But if I die before my birthday—"
"The shares go to your next of kin. Your mother. Who would sign them over to your father without question." Damien leaned forward. "You're not just a host body for Isabelle. You're a financial obstacle."
My hands shook. "He was going to kill me for money."
"And to save Isabelle. Two birds, one stone." Damien's voice was ice. "Very efficient."
I wanted to throw up again. But my stomach was empty. Just hollow aching grief for the father who'd never loved me. Who'd seen me as nothing but a problem to solve.
"Sign the contract," Damien said quietly. "Marry me. And in three months, we'll take everything he built and burn it down."
I looked at the papers. At the promise of protection and revenge and a life that wasn't about pleasing people who would never be pleased.
Then I looked at Damien. This dangerous stranger who'd watched me for two years. Who'd investigated my family. Who'd proposed marriage to save me.
"Why are you really doing this?" I asked. "And don't tell me it's just about your sister. There's something else."
Damien was quiet for a long moment. His mask cracked, just slightly. Just enough to show the wound underneath.
"Because watching you suffer was killing me," he said finally. "Every day, I'd see you in that garden, trying so hard to be someone you weren't. Reading books and crying and becoming smaller and smaller to fit their expectations. And I wanted to save you. Wanted to show you that you were worth more than their scraps."
His hand reached across the table, fingers brushing mine.
"I fell in love with a woman who didn't know she was drowning," he said. "Now I'm offering you a life raft. The rest—the investigation, the revenge, the destruction—that's just what comes with it."
My heart hammered against my ribs. This was real. This feeling was real.
"I don't love you," I said honestly.
"I know."
"I might never love you."
"I know that too." His thumb traced circles on my hand. "But maybe, in time, you'll learn to trust me. That's enough."
I stared at our hands. His so much larger than mine. Scarred from work I couldn't imagine. Strong enough to protect or destroy.
I picked up the pen.
Signed my name on every page.
Evelyn Whitmore, soon to be Evelyn Ashford.
"Done," I said.
Damien's smile was sharp and beautiful. "Welcome to the war, wife."
James gathered the papers efficiently. "We land in twenty minutes. The chapel's expecting you. I've arranged for rings and a photographer."
"Photographer?" I asked.
"We'll need proof for the media," Damien explained. "Your father will claim this marriage is fake. We need evidence it's real."
Real. This fake marriage that felt more real than my engagement to Marcus ever had.
The plane began its descent. Through the window, I could see Las Vegas spreading out below—a glittering desert oasis of neon and sin and quick weddings.
My phone buzzed. I'd forgotten I'd thrown it away. This must be Damien's spare that James had given me.
A text from an unknown number: Evelyn, please come home. Mom's hysterical. Dad's worried. We can fix this. We're your family. - Isabelle
Isabelle. Or whatever was wearing her face.
I showed Damien the text.
His expression went deadly. "They found you fast."
"How?"
"Doesn't matter." He took the phone, powered it off, pulled out the SIM card. "After the wedding, you get a new number. New accounts. New everything."
"They'll find me anyway."
"Let them try." His smile was cold. "You'll be legally mine. Touching you means war with me. And I don't fight fair."
The plane touched down with a gentle bump. Through the window, I could see a black car waiting on the tarmac. Beyond that, the Vegas strip blazed with impossible light.
James stood. "The chapel's ten minutes away. Everything's arranged. Are you both ready?"
I looked at Damien. At the man who'd proposed revenge and protection and a marriage built on contracts instead of love.
"Ready," I said.
We stood. Walked toward the exit. Toward the car that would take us to a chapel. Toward a wedding that would change everything.
The night air hit my face—warm, dry, smelling like desert and possibility.
Damien's hand found mine. Laced our fingers together.
"Last chance to run," he said quietly.
I squeezed his hand. "I'm done running."
"Good." He opened the car door. "Because once we do this, there's no going back. You'll be an Ashford. And Ashfords protect their own."
I slid into the car. Damien followed. James took the front seat, and the driver pulled away from the plane, heading toward the neon lights.
My phone—the one Damien had destroyed—started buzzing in his pocket.
Impossible. He'd removed the SIM card.
He pulled it out, and we both stared at the screen.
A text from my own number—the phone I'd thrown in the trash back in New York: You can't hide from family, little sister. See you soon. - I
The message deleted itself as we watched.
And in the distance, through the car window, I saw someone standing on the roadside.
A woman with long dark hair.
Watching us drive past.
Smiling with empty eyes.