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Chapter 3 - Rules of the Game.

Chapter 3: Rules of the Game.

---

The morning after didn't come with sunlight.

Just shadows and a silence so heavy it felt like it was pressing against her chest.

Alyssa Hart sat by the window in Damon's high-rise penthouse, curled into the armchair like a question she couldn't answer. The skyline beyond the glass shimmered under a gray sky, blurring the edges of the world she once knew. Down below, the city was alive—buzzing, noisy, chaotic. But up here, everything was too still.

Her robe—white silk, ironically—was cinched tight at the waist. But it wasn't warmth she needed. It was control.

Because nothing else in her life felt like it belonged to her anymore.

She hadn't really slept. She'd collapsed onto the plush mattress out of sheer exhaustion, but her mind had never stopped running. Every blink brought her back to the ceremony, to the camera flashes, to Damon's ice-kissed lips brushing her cheek like a public transaction. A contract sealed in red lipstick and lies.

She wasn't his bride.

She was his weapon.

His pawn.

And this penthouse—so pristine, so expensive—wasn't a home. It was a cage dressed up in glass and gold.

Then came the knock.

Sharp. Decisive. A knock that didn't ask—it announced.

Alyssa flinched. She rose, tightened her robe, and opened the door.

Standing there was a woman she didn't know but instinctively didn't trust. Petite, polished, clipboard in one hand, iPad in the other, and eyes like winter steel.

"Mrs. Blackwood," the woman said briskly. "I'm Camille Sterling. Mr. Blackwood's assistant. I'm here to go over expectations."

Expectations.

Of course.

Alyssa stood aside. "By all means. Come tell me how to live."

Camille didn't blink at the sarcasm. She stepped into the room like she'd lived there all her life, and Alyssa was the guest.

She handed over the iPad. "Your weekly schedule. You're expected at four public events this week—a gala, a board dinner, an auction, and a press brunch. Each has media coverage. Dress appropriately. Smile on command. Stand beside your husband like you're madly in love."

Alyssa scrolled through the list.

Four events. Five designer fittings. Two charity appearances. One televised interview.

"Charming," she muttered. "Do I get bathroom breaks, or do I need permission for those too?"

Camille barely smirked. "Only if you leak scandal while doing it."

Alyssa looked up. "And if I say no to any of this?"

Camille tilted her head, expression unreadable. "Then I report you to Mr. Blackwood. And he handles it. I assure you, he's not a man who enjoys being disappointed."

Alyssa tapped the iPad a little too hard as she set it down. The silence between them stretched like piano wire.

Camille continued, voice as calm as a librarian. "There are four staff members assigned to the penthouse. Housekeeping comes Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. The fridge is stocked. Catering is delivered daily. You are permitted use of the gym, the library, and the lower floor lounge."

"And the rooftop pool?" Alyssa asked flatly.

"Closed for renovations," Camille said, as if Alyssa were the hundredth bride she'd trained this year. "You'll also be attending a photoshoot tomorrow afternoon."

Alyssa narrowed her eyes. "For what, exactly?"

"Blackwood Global's annual PR campaign. They want the world to see the happy couple."

Alyssa laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Because nothing says love like corporate branding."

Camille allowed herself a small smile this time. "There's also a credit card registered in your name. Unlimited budget for clothing, makeup, and public accessories. Use it wisely."

"And if I don't?" Alyssa asked, meeting her gaze.

Camille's answer came without hesitation. "Then Mr. Blackwood will remind you whose game this is."

The door clicked behind her when she left.

---

Alyssa stood in the middle of the penthouse, the silence now echoing.

He'd thought of everything.

Cameras. Appearances. Card limits. Scripts.

This wasn't a marriage. It was a production.

A masquerade funded by old money and deeper secrets.

---

That evening, Damon returned.

He didn't knock. He didn't greet her.

He walked through the front door like he owned not just the building, but the air inside it. His tie was loose, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder, and his phone pressed to his ear.

"…Tell the board I'll handle it," he said into the phone. "No statements until I say so."

He passed by the dining table, where Alyssa sat silently, a plate of untouched food in front of her.

He didn't look at her.

Didn't acknowledge her.

He ended the call and went straight to the liquor shelf.

Alyssa's voice broke the silence.

"Camille was thorough."

He paused mid-pour. "Was she?"

"She gave me the full report on how to be your perfectly painted wife. Public smile included."

He turned, holding the glass. "That's all I ask."

She stood slowly, arms crossed.

"You really think I'm just going to play dress-up and keep your press ratings high?"

"I think," he said calmly, "you signed a deal. One year. Follow the rules, protect your brother, and get your freedom back."

"And what about my rules?" she snapped.

Damon raised a brow, almost intrigued. "You have rules?"

"Yes," she said. "Three of them."

He took a sip, eyes locked on hers. "I'm listening."

"One," she said, lifting a finger, "you don't touch me. I'm not your toy. This marriage stays on paper."

He didn't flinch. "Fine."

"Two," she continued, stepping closer, "don't humiliate me in public. I'll wear your ring. I'll play your game. But if you degrade me in front of a single soul, I walk."

"You can't walk."

"Try me," she snapped.

The air between them shifted. Thicker now.

He studied her in silence.

"And the third?" he asked at last.

She hesitated. Her voice softened, but her eyes didn't.

"You leave Evan out of this. He's not leverage. He's not part of your games."

Damon was quiet for a long time.

Then, slowly, he set his drink down and moved toward her.

"You want rules?" he said quietly. "Fine."

He stopped just inches from her. She could feel his breath. Smell the bourbon on his tongue.

"I'll follow your rules," he said. "But remember—"

He leaned in, voice low and deliberate.

"You're not the only one playing a long game, Alyssa."

Then he turned and walked away.

---

She stood frozen in place, her heart thundering.

Not from fear.

But from the realization that Damon Blackwood was a predator in a tailored suit—and every time she moved, he already knew where she'd land.

---

Later that night, Alyssa stood on the balcony, arms folded, wind biting at her skin. Below her, the city pulsed like a heartbeat.

She thought of Evan.

Of her father.

Of the lies she'd swallowed just to reach this place.

She touched the wedding ring on her finger. It glittered in the dark like a promise made in blood.

She hadn't come here to lose.

And no matter how cold Damon was…

She'd be colder.

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