CHAPTER TWO — THE BRIDE IN SHADOWS
Aria didn't remember how long she stood there after the sentence was spoken—after the world shifted beneath her feet and trapped her in a reality she never chose. The murmurs in the room quieted one by one, leaving only the soft hum of the air vents and the faint rustle of expensive suits.
The lawyer closed the folder with a quiet click that echoed in her ears like a lock turning shut.
"Proceed with the next arrangements," he said to someone behind her.
The woman in the navy suit—sharp-eyed, controlled—stepped forward. "Miss Dawson, we need you to come with us. A driver is waiting downstairs."
Aria didn't move. She couldn't. The guards remained at the door, waiting for any attempt she might make to run.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked, voice low and edged with what remained of her defiance.
The woman glanced briefly at Damian, who hadn't moved an inch. When he gave the smallest nod, she answered calmly, "To Mr. Blackwood's residence. There are confidentiality requirements and immediate procedures for spouse registration. Legal and media protocols are already in motion."
"I'm not going with you," Aria said, her voice shaking despite her effort.
"You don't have a choice," the woman replied, not unkindly, but with no room for argument.
Two guards stepped closer—not to touch her, but to ensure the path out was on their terms, not hers.
Damian finally turned away as if she were no longer worth his attention. He spoke to one of the men beside him. "Handle the report and inform the board that the conditions have been met."
That was it. One life-ending declaration, and he walked away as though nothing had changed.
The woman gestured to the exit. "This way, Miss Dawson."
Aria looked around the room once more. Nobody intervened. Nobody offered help. The faces around her belonged to people who lived in contracts and signatures, not conscience. She had no allies here.
She walked.
Not because she accepted it—but because there was no victory in collapsing in front of them.
The hallway outside was quieter. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and citrus cleaner. The guards didn't touch her, but their presence flanked her like invisible shackles. The woman in the navy suit walked ahead of her with measured steps, scrolling something on her tablet.
They moved past the main corridor, away from the conference hall and guests. Aria heard the faint hum of chatter and cutlery in distant rooms, people eating overpriced meals and laughing over champagne. They had no idea a life had just been rewritten in silence.
The back elevator was private, lined with mirrored walls and soft lighting. When the doors closed behind them, Aria's reflection stared back at her—pale, stunned, and furious.
The woman tapped her tablet again. "Your belongings will be retrieved later."
"I didn't pack to be kidnapped," Aria muttered under her breath.
The woman didn't look up. "Your personal effects will be handled discreetly. You will not need to return to your previous residence for now."
"For now?" Aria hissed. "I don't live with strangers."
"You're his legal spouse. That changes your residence."
Aria's fingers curled into her palms. "Say his name one more time like that, and I'll smash that tablet over your head."
The woman looked up briefly. Her expression didn't shift. "I don't recommend making threats you can't carry out."
Aria glared at her reflection instead of replying. The elevator ride felt endless, even though it lasted only seconds.
When the doors opened at the underground level, a sleek black car waited by the ramp. Other vehicles were parked nearby, but this one stood out by its quiet prominence and tinted windows. A driver in a dark suit held the rear door open.
The woman motioned toward the car. "Get in."
"I'm not a dog you can order around," Aria said.
The driver kept his expression blank, eyes forward. The guards said nothing, but one shifted slightly, a warning in silence.
Aria stood still for a moment longer, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. Then without looking at any of them, she stepped into the car and slid across the seat. The door closed softly behind her—too soft for a prison cell, but no less confining.
The car interior smelled of leather and faint cologne. The windows were tinted enough that the city outside looked muted and unreal. As the car pulled away, she pressed her fingers against the seat to stop them from trembling.
She refused to cry. Not here. Not in his car.
—
Thirty-eight minutes passed in silence.
The city shifted from busy commercial streets to quieter, high-end districts lined with stone walls, manicured hedges, wrought-iron gates, and houses that looked like private kingdoms. The car finally turned through a secured gate guarded by discreet security personnel. Cameras tracked the vehicle as it climbed a sloped driveway lined with trimmed trees and soft lighting.
The mansion came into view slowly—large but elegant, designed in clean lines of dark stone and glass. Three stories, wide balconies, tall windows that reflected the pale morning sky. It was modern and silent, like the man who owned it.
The car stopped at the main entrance. Before Aria could reach for the door handle, the driver stepped out and opened it.
She ignored his outstretched hand and got out on her own.
A woman in her late thirties waited by the door. She wore a fitted black dress and had her hair pulled into a sleek bun. She didn't smile, but her tone was neutral and professional.
"Welcome, Miss Dawson. My name is Carmella. I'm the household coordinator."
"Household coordinator," Aria echoed under her breath. "So jailer but with better shoes."
Carmella either didn't hear her or chose not to respond. She stepped aside and motioned Aria inside.
The foyer was wide, furnished with polished marble floors, high ceilings, and subtle lighting. There were no extravagant decorations—just carefully chosen art pieces, dark wood, glass, and stillness.
Aria's footsteps echoed softly as she walked in.
"Mr. Blackwood is currently in a meeting," Carmella said. "You will be shown to a temporary suite until further instructions are given."
"I'm not staying," Aria replied without looking at her. "I'm leaving the moment I find a way out."
Carmella didn't react. "Please follow me."
They moved down a long corridor, past tall doors and quiet rooms. Everything smelled expensive—clean, untouched, cold. Aria refused to feel small, even if the walls felt like they were judging her.
Carmella stopped at a set of double doors on the second floor and opened one side. The suite was larger than her entire apartment. A king-sized bed, a seating area, a private balcony, a dressing room, and an en-suite bathroom with marble and gold accents.
"This will be your room for now," Carmella said. "A change of clothes will be brought shortly. Meals are served at set times, but you may request anything through the panel by the door."
Aria walked in but did not turn around. Her voice was sharp. "What if I walk out the front door and don't come back?"
Carmella's reply came smooth and steady. "Security will prevent that."
"What if I scream?"
"No one here responds to that."
Aria finally turned, eyes dark with fury. "You people really think money can replace freedom."
Carmella didn't flinch. "I think money decides which freedoms matter."
She left the room, closing the door behind her.
Aria exhaled shakily and looked around. She spotted the glass balcony doors at the far end and walked toward them. Outside, the estate stretched out in manicured precision—hedges, trees, stone paths, fences that didn't look like fences, guards dressed like joggers, cameras disguised in lampposts.
She wasn't in a mansion.
She was in a cage designed to look like privilege.
She ran a hand through her hair and paced the room, anger burning through every breath. She had survived worse before—but nothing like this. Nothing that stole her future with a signature.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She froze.
She pulled it out and saw Liam's name on the screen.
Her chest tightened.
She answered immediately. "Liam?"
"Aria? Where are you? Why didn't you come back? Are you okay? The school called—"
"I'm okay," she lied, forcing her voice to stay calm. "I'm just… on a work assignment. I'll explain later."
"You sound weird," he said quietly.
"I'm fine," she repeated, softer this time. "Did you eat?"
"Yeah."
"Good. I'll call you later, okay? Stay home after school."
A pause. Then, "When are you coming back?"
She swallowed the pain in her throat. "Soon."
She ended the call before the lie could break in her voice.
She clenched the phone in her fist until her knuckles turned white.
She couldn't afford to collapse.
Not yet.
Not until she found a way out of this prison made of contracts and cold men with colder hearts.
A sharp knock broke the silence.
She turned.
The door didn't open.
"Miss Dawson," Carmella's voice came from the other side. "Mr. Blackwood expects you in his study in one hour."
Aria's grip tightened around her phone.
She didn't reply.
But inside,
a storm gathered—quiet, furious, and ready to strike.