Twenty-four hours ago, I was nobody.
Now I stood in front of a full-length mirror in a private suite at the Blackwood Tower, wearing a wedding dress that cost more than my entire year's salary. Cream silk that hugged every curve, with delicate lace sleeves and a train that whispered against the marble floor. My hair had been styled by professionals, my makeup applied by experts who made me look like someone I barely recognized.
I looked like money. Like power. Like everything I'd been hiding for six years.
"You look beautiful," Maya said softly from behind me. She'd been quiet since last night, processing everything I'd told her about the contract, the marriage, the revenge plan. "Are you sure about this?"
"No," I admitted, smoothing down the dress with trembling hands. "But I'm doing it anyway."
A knock on the door announced Claire, Damien's assistant. "It's time, Ms. Hart."
"Mrs. Blackwood," I corrected, testing the name on my tongue. It felt foreign. Powerful. "After today, it's Mrs. Blackwood."
The ceremony was nothing like the elaborate spectacle Ethan and Victoria had yesterday. It was held in Damien's private office, with only Maya, Claire, and a judge present. No flowers. No music. No pretense of romance.
Just business.
Damien stood by the windows in a black suit, looking every inch the powerful CEO he was. When I entered, his dark eyes swept over me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"You clean up well," he said, which might have been the closest thing to a compliment I'd ever heard from him.
"So do you," I replied, my voice steadier than I felt.
The ceremony took less than ten minutes. The judge spoke words I barely heard, my mind spinning with the enormity of what I was doing. When it came time to exchange rings, Damien slipped a platinum band onto my finger—simple, elegant, and probably worth more than my old apartment.
"You may kiss the bride," the judge said.
Damien stepped closer, his hand cupping my jaw with unexpected gentleness. "For appearances," he murmured, so only I could hear.
Then he kissed me.
It was brief, controlled, nothing like the passionate kisses I'd shared with Ethan. But something about it sent electricity down my spine—maybe because it wasn't real, wasn't supposed to mean anything, yet somehow felt more intense than anything I'd felt in years.
When he pulled back, his eyes held mine for a moment. "Welcome to the family, Mrs. Blackwood."
And just like that, I was married.
Again.
Or for the first time, really, since my wedding to Ethan never happened.
"Congratulations," the judge said, handing us the marriage certificate. "You're now legally husband and wife."
Claire stepped forward with a tablet. "The press release is ready to go out, Mr. Blackwood. Social media posts are queued. And I've arranged for the photographer to take official wedding photos for distribution."
"Good," Damien said, his hand settling possessively on my lower back. "Make sure it hits every major outlet within the hour. I want everyone to know."
Especially my family, I thought. Especially Ethan and Victoria.
The photographer worked quickly, positioning us for various shots. Damien played the role of devoted husband perfectly—his arm around my waist, his smile almost genuine, the way he looked at me making even my cynical heart skip a beat.
It was all an act. But God, he was good at it.
"Perfect," the photographer said after the final shot. "These will be ready within the hour."
"Excellent." Damien turned to me. "We have a lunch reservation in thirty minutes. Time to make our first public appearance as husband and wife."
My stomach knotted. "Already?"
"The faster we move, the harder they fall," he said, his voice low and determined. "Trust me, Sophia. By the time your family realizes what's happening, it'll be too late to stop us."
---
The restaurant was Le Bernardin—one of the most exclusive places in the city, where reservations were booked months in advance and the average meal cost more than most people's monthly rent. Every table was occupied by the wealthy and powerful, the kind of people who shaped the city with their money and influence.
The kind of people who knew exactly who the Harts and Blackwoods were.
"Mr. Blackwood," the maître d' greeted us with a warm smile. "Your usual table is ready. And may I say congratulations on your marriage?"
"Thank you, Pierre," Damien said smoothly, his hand never leaving my back as we were led through the restaurant.
I felt eyes on us. Whispers rippling through the room like a wave. People reaching for their phones, no doubt checking social media where our wedding announcement was probably already trending.
We were seated at a prime table near the windows, with a perfect view of both the restaurant and the city beyond. Damien ordered wine—a vintage I'd never heard of but that probably cost thousands—and then leaned back, completely at ease.
"Relax," he murmured. "You look like you're waiting for an execution."
"I feel like I am," I admitted, my hands twisted in my lap under the table.
"The execution is theirs, not yours," he reminded me. "You're Mrs. Damien Blackwood now. You're untouchable."
As if to prove his point, several people stopped by our table to offer congratulations. Business associates, socialites, people whose faces I recognized from magazines and news articles. Each one looked at me with curiosity and thinly veiled interest, wondering who this mystery woman was who'd captured the notoriously private Damien Blackwood.
None of them recognized me as Sophia Hart. Why would they? I'd been invisible for years.
We were halfway through our appetizers when my phone started buzzing incessantly. I pulled it out to find my screen flooded with notifications. Messages, missed calls, social media tags.
And then I saw it—the headline trending on every news outlet:
**"BLACKWOOD HEIR MARRIES IN SECRET CEREMONY - BRIDE'S IDENTITY SHOCKS HIGH SOCIETY"**
My hands shook as I clicked through the articles. Photos of us from today, looking perfect and powerful. Stories speculating about our "whirlwind romance." And then, buried in the third paragraph of the main article:
*"Sources confirm the bride is Sophia Hart, biological daughter of business magnate Richard Hart and heiress to the Hart Empire fortune. The marriage comes as a surprise given Hart's recent low profile in society circles..."*
My phone rang. My mother.
I looked at Damien, who nodded slightly. "Answer it. Let them hear how happy you are."
With trembling fingers, I accepted the call and put it on speaker, keeping the volume low.
"What the hell have you done?" My mother's voice was shrill with fury.
"Hello, Mother," I said calmly. "I'm well, thank you for asking. How are you?"
"Don't play games with me, Sophia! You married Damien Blackwood? Are you insane? Do you have any idea what you've—"
"What I've done," I interrupted, my voice growing stronger, "is marry a man who actually values me. A man who sees me as more than a disappointment or a bargaining chip."
"This is about revenge," my father's voice cut in—apparently I was on speaker too. "You're trying to embarrass us, to—"
"Not everything is about you," I said, surprised by how much I meant it. "Maybe I just fell in love."
The lie came out smooth as silk. Behind it, Damien's lips curved in approval.
"Love?" My mother laughed bitterly. "You don't know anything about love. You're pathetic, Sophia. Marrying a man you barely know just to spite us—"
"Actually, Mother, I'm marrying him because he's brilliant, successful, and treats me like I matter. Unlike my last fiancé, who threw me away for my dying sister. Speaking of which—" I paused for effect, "—how is Victoria? Still dying? Or has she made a miraculous recovery now that she got what she wanted?"
Silence on the other end.
"That's what I thought," I continued, my anger finally finding its voice. "You chose her over me. You threw me away like I was nothing. So now you get to live with that choice. Enjoy having Victoria as your only daughter. I hope she's worth it."
"Sophia—"
I ended the call and set my phone face-down on the table, my heart racing.
Damien reached across and took my hand, his thumb brushing across my knuckles. For the cameras, I told myself. For the people watching.
But his touch felt real.
"Well done," he said quietly. "That was perfect."
"I don't feel perfect," I admitted. "I feel like I'm going to throw up."
"That's adrenaline. It'll pass." He squeezed my hand. "You just took the first real step, Sophia. You fought back. How does it feel?"
I thought about my mother's shocked silence. My father's inability to respond. The panic in their voices as they realized I wasn't the powerless girl they'd discarded anymore.
"It feels good," I said slowly. "It feels really good."
"Good." Damien's smile was sharp. "Because we're just getting started."
My phone buzzed again. This time it was a text from an unknown number:
*"Congratulations on your marriage. We should talk. - Ethan"*
I showed it to Damien, whose expression darkened.
"He wants to talk," I said bitterly. "Now he wants to talk."
"Let him wait," Damien said coldly. "Let him see you happy, successful, with a man who actually deserves you. Let him suffer."
"And Victoria?"
Damien's smile turned predatory. "Victoria will get what's coming to her. I promise you that. But first—" he raised his wine glass, "—let's enjoy our wedding day, Mrs. Blackwood."
I clinked my glass against his, the crystal ringing out like a bell.
Like a warning.
Like a declaration of war.
The game had begun.
And this time, I was going to win.