The taxi ride to Adrian Blackwood's penthouse was quiet. Elena clutched her bag on her lap as rain streaked the windows, blurring the city lights into watercolor streaks. She had left behind her home—her mother, the familiar creaking floors, the smell of detergent and dust that reminded her of better times—and now, she was entering a world that felt alien, polished, and cold.
She kept replaying the conversation from the day before in her mind, the words that had bound her into a life she wasn't sure she was ready for. One year. No emotions. No interference. She repeated it like a mantra, hoping it would steel her against what was coming. But even as she whispered it to herself, a part of her heart, stubborn and fragile, whispered back: Is this really safe?
When the taxi stopped in front of the towering glass structure of Blackwood Holdings' residential wing, she froze for a moment. The reflection of the city lights danced off the glass panels, making the building look like a fortress. A fortress for the man she now called her husband. Adrian Blackwood. Even saying his name aloud still sent an unfamiliar shiver down her spine.
The doorman greeted her with a nod, wordless but precise. There was no warmth in his eyes, only efficiency, the kind of respect reserved for someone accustomed to power. Elena clutched her bag tighter and followed him, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor, echoing off the high walls of the lobby.
When the elevator doors opened, the scent hit her first—cedar, polished metal, faint leather. The kind of smell that made wealth tangible, almost suffocating. And then there was Adrian, standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows, arms crossed, back to her, as if he had been waiting for her all along.
"You're late," he said without turning. His voice was calm, precise, but it carried an undercurrent of irritation.
"I—sorry," she said quickly, though it wasn't entirely true. She had arrived on time, but the weight of this new world had slowed her down. "Traffic…" she trailed off, feeling foolish.
He finally turned, gray eyes assessing her like an examiner, sharp and calculating. "Three minutes. Enough to notice, but not enough to forgive."
Her chest tightened. She hated that she flinched at his words, at the subtle authority he wielded with ease. And yet, there was something magnetic about the way he carried himself—controlled, composed, untouchable.
"Shall we?" he asked, gesturing toward the door of the penthouse. She followed silently, unsure if she should speak, move faster, or protest. Her every instinct told her to fight, yet the contract had already chained her in ways that words could not undo.
The penthouse was even more breathtaking than she had imagined. Light spilled through the massive windows, illuminating sleek furniture, polished floors, and minimalist décor that screamed perfection. Every surface was immaculate, every piece chosen with precision. There were no personal touches—no family photos, no trinkets, nothing that hinted at warmth or history. This was a house for a man who controlled everything.
"This will be your room," Adrian said, leading her down a long hallway to a door at the end. He opened it without knocking, revealing a spacious bedroom bathed in soft natural light. The bed was large, perfectly made, and disturbingly pristine.
"It's… beautiful," she murmured, stepping inside cautiously. She felt a pang of guilt for feeling anything resembling awe. This was his world, and she was merely an intruder.
"Comfortable enough for the year," he said, his tone neutral. He didn't wait for her to respond. Instead, he turned, scanning the room with meticulous precision, as if ensuring nothing was out of place.
Elena's eyes wandered. There were no personal items—no books, no pictures, not even a single piece of jewelry. It was as if she were stepping into a model apartment rather than a lived-in home.
"Dinner will be at eight," Adrian said suddenly, his voice slicing through her thoughts. "I expect punctuality. Do not be late."
"Yes," she replied, her voice barely audible. She hated how small and polite it sounded, how submissive she felt simply saying it.
He nodded, a faint gesture, and then turned toward the door. "You will find instructions for household operations, appliances, and the security protocols in your room. Study them. Familiarize yourself. Efficiency is necessary."
She swallowed. "Of course."
He paused at the door, then added, almost casually, "There are rules. You must adhere to them. No visitors, no unauthorized communication. No altering the apartment. And… no emotional entanglement with me or anyone else here."
The words hit her like ice water. Emotional entanglement. The phrase was clinical, devoid of warmth, but it was also terrifying. How was she supposed to live with a man, share meals, space, time, without forming some kind of connection? How could a human heart obey rules so absolute?
"I understand," she said, though inside, a storm of thoughts raged.
Adrian's expression didn't change. "Good. Any deviation is considered a breach of contract and will terminate the arrangement. You will lose all benefits. That is clear?"
She nodded, forcing herself to focus on survival rather than panic. "Clear."
He left without another word, and the door closed behind him with a soft but final click. Elena exhaled, leaning against the door, feeling the weight of isolation pressing in from all sides. The penthouse was beautiful, yes—but cold. And she was utterly alone in it.
Her thoughts drifted to the contract again. One year. No emotions. No interference. But already, she felt a subtle unease, a creeping tension in her chest that she couldn't name. The rules were clear, but human hearts rarely followed rules.
The first night was strange, filled with silence that pressed in on her from every corner. She unpacked what little she had brought—clothes, toiletries, personal items—and placed them neatly in the designated drawers. The act was methodical, almost soothing, a way to reclaim some sense of order in a life that now felt dictated by another person entirely.
By seven-thirty, she had dressed in a simple dress, trying to appear calm and composed. The dining area was pristine, the table set with precision. Adrian was already there, seated, reading a document as if she were invisible.
"Dinner," he said without looking up. The word was not a request but a command. She approached, placing herself opposite him, heart hammering.
The meal was quiet. Too quiet. The only sounds were the clinking of silverware and the occasional rustle of paper as Adrian shifted in his seat. He didn't speak unless necessary, and when he did, it was direct, efficient, and devoid of personal warmth.
She tried small talk—mentioning the rain, the city skyline, a subtle compliment on the view. He acknowledged each with a single nod or brief word, never more. It was like speaking to a statue that could hear and respond, but never feel.
By the end of dinner, she felt exhausted—not from the meal, but from the effort of maintaining composure, of staying within the bounds of a contract she had barely begun to understand.
Afterward, Adrian stood, collected his documents, and said, "You will follow the rules. Any breach, intentional or not, will have consequences. Dismissed."
She nodded again, heart racing. Dismissed. The word sounded almost cruel, but it was accurate. She was dismissed to a life where her freedom was defined by a contract, where warmth was forbidden, where she was allowed nothing but presence and compliance.
Alone in her room, Elena sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She could see the streets below, the tiny figures moving like ants, unaware of the silent storm that had settled in her life.
She thought of her mother, of the debts, of the life she had left behind. Survival had brought her here, into a world of marble, cedar, and control. And yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that the year ahead would demand more than survival. It would demand endurance, restraint, and a strength she wasn't sure she possessed.
Her thoughts turned to Adrian Blackwood. His gray eyes, the calm authority in his voice, the subtle way he commanded every room he entered. He was a man who had built walls around himself so high and strong that she doubted anyone had ever breached them. And now, she was living behind those walls, under the same roof, bound by a contract that demanded neutrality, obedience, and emotional detachment.
Elena pressed her hands to her face, trying to ground herself. One year. She could survive one year. That was all she had to promise herself. One year, and then freedom—or whatever semblance of it remained.
But as she lay down that night, the rain still tapping softly against the windows, she realized that survival might not be enough. Because in the quiet, in the stillness of the penthouse, she could feel something shifting—something subtle, dangerous, and undeniable.
Adrian Blackwood had rules, boundaries, and a heart she didn't yet understand. But hearts, she knew, had a tendency to ignore rules. And perhaps, unknowingly, she was about to learn just how much one contract could be tested by the weight of human desire.