"I never sold my life away until I realized life had sold my life away."
Elle squinted down at the gold-plated pen that sat on her palm. She was clammy, and her body was trembling in waves as if her body was urging her not to sign the contract agreement.
Opposite to her, Damon was at the long, mahogany table, his demeanor as carved as the table, emotion inscrutable. In his hands, the document was imposing. Bound like a legal scripture, it was thick, with so many clauses that it could bury a human heartbeat.
"Once you sign," Damon said in a calm voice, "no backing out." You get the money. Your sister gets the care she needs. And you also get me in public, in photos, and in headlines. You'll be everywhere. "Understand?"
She had to swallow twice.
"I understand."
"Then sign it."
Ariella Monroe.
She sealed her fate, including the full stop.
At The Penthouse, the description wouldn't be a home; it was the Palace of Glass in which she floated.
With deep, polished UI windows, black floors, and marble columns. Framing the skyline, floor-to-ceiling windows that acted as art. Shimmering like gold, "This is where you'll stay," said Damon's assistant Lydia while she was tapping into a digital tablet. Your room is on the third-level west wing. Damon's is east. Staff must use the service elevator. Strict enforcement of privacy is non-negotiable.
Elle couldn't utter a word; she was still stuck on "third level."
The last place she lived in had a ceiling with water dripping and was infested with rats who had a questionable relationship with her.
At this instant, she was inhaling air that was probably expensive.
"What's that smell?" she asked, fidgeting.
"Sandalwood. Mr. Shaw prefers it over vanilla. Vanilla makes him anxious."
Interesting.
A couple of hours later, Damon walked in. A tailored suit, a loosened tie, and that same emotionless demeanor she had started to know.
He didn't speak right away. Just poured a drink from a crystal decanter, staring blankly out of the window.
Then, without turning, he said,
"Here are the rules."
Elle blinked. "You don't waste time, huh?"
"Rule one: no touching, at least, not unless we're in public. And even then, only what's necessary."
"What about a high-five? Can I high-five my billionaire husband in public?"
He turned, unamused.
Rule two: no unnecessary talking. We're not here to make friends. We're here to sell a story.
"You're a real charmer, Shaw."
"Rule three: stay out of my business. This means my meetings, my office, and my calls. You play the part. Take the money, and keep to your lane."
Elle reclined against the island counter, arms crossed.
"So, you want a doll."
"A doll who smiles for the cameras and shuts up at home."
"No." He replied, his voice low. "I want a partner who doesn't complicate things. This isn't real, Elle. The sooner you understand that, the easier this will be."
"Fine."
She walked over to the fridge, and after popping the cap off, sparkling water fizzed and hissed. She took a long sip.
"Let the performance begin."
The Next Morning
The smell of coffee wafted invitingly, but for the panic that enveloped her.
"Damon, coffee, now!"
Her voice sounded sharp and commanding.
Elle peeked from the staircase, and a woman in heels with pearls was standing, arms crossed, in the center of the living room.
"Damon Alexander Shaw," she hissed. "You eloped and didn't bother inviting your mother?"
Elle's breath caught.
Vivian Shaw turned slowly. "And who is this?"
Elle tried to adjust her PJs. "Hi… I'm Elle. Damon's…wife."
Vivian's narrowed gaze turned into laser beams.
Vivian remarked, "You look like someone who works retail."
Elle smirked. "That's because I did, until I married your son."
"Must be used to women like this," Vivian said, clearly still fixated on Elle. Climbers. Opportunists.
"Pretty girls with round eyes, but no bags in their hands."
Elle didn't react.
"My hands are full, alright." "Full with bills, responsibilities, and in my life, a little sister who matters a world to me."
That silenced Vivian.
Damon raised a brow.
Vivian finally puffed out and stomped out, her heels gashing shards into the floor.
Later that night, the house was so quiet that the eerie silence felt haunted.
Elle was wandering the house in silken shorts and borrowed slippers, tracing the contours of her life with her fingertips.
Gold-framed art and coldness in every corner. Elle, stepping in the kitchen, turned the lights on to the silence, little light, and care.
That's when she saw him.
Damon.
He was slouched on the floor, hands shaking, a shattered glass resting beneath him.
In his hands was a photo frame; the glass was cracked in a crude gash. Under the glass, a softer, smiling man, presumably a twin, but no, a brother.
Damon's jaw was clenched as he fought back tears that brimmed glassily but refused to spill.
Elle stood frozen in the doorway, wishing she had the power to turn back time.
"Damon…" she whispered.
He didn't shift. She just muttered something so quiet, her heart shattered more than a heartbreaking scream would have.
Finally, he looked up.
Their eyes met.
And for the first time after their meeting… He appeared human.
Ariella stepped closer, not as a contract wife nor as a performer.
Yet as a girl who understood all of a sudden… This wasn't about her playing dress-up.
This was about him concealing something genuine.