The contract was twelve pages long.
I sat at Damien's dining table—a sleek black monstrosity that could seat fourteen but currently held only two—and stared at the stack of papers in front of me. His lawyer had come and gone, a slick man in a gray suit who'd explained every clause in excruciating detail without ever meeting my eyes.
Now it was just us.
Damien sat at the head of the table, close enough that I could smell his cologne. He hadn't spoken since the lawyer left. Just watched me with those grey eyes, waiting.
The pen felt heavy in my hand.
I'd already read everything. Twice. The terms were exactly what he'd promised:
- Marriage for two years
- All debts paid immediately upon signing
- Monthly salary of $15,000 deposited into an account in my name
- Full access to household funds for clothing, personal items, whatever I needed
- Separate bedrooms
- A settlement of $2 million upon completion of the contract
Two million dollars.
I'd nearly choked when I read that part.
"You're hesitating," Damien said.
"I'm thinking."
"You've had all night to think."
I looked up at him. He was dressed casually again. His hair was slightly tousled, like he'd been running his hands through it.
"This is the rest of my life we're talking about," I said. "Forgive me for taking an extra minute."
"It's two years. Not the rest of your life."
I looked back at the contract. "There's a clause here about... physical intimacy."
"Ah." He leaned back in his chair. "You found that."
"Section seven, paragraph three. 'Physical displays of affection may be required in public settings to maintain the appearance of a legitimate marriage. All such displays will be mutually agreed upon and limited to—'" I read directly from the page, "'—hand-holding, embracing, and brief kissing.'"
"Is that a problem?"
I set down the pen. "Define 'brief kissing.'"
His face showed amusement
"Are you asking me to demonstrate?"
"I'm asking you to clarify."
He stood, and my breath caught. Slowly—so slowly it felt deliberate—he walked around the table toward me. His footsteps were silent on the hardwood floor.
I should have stood too. Should have maintained some kind of equal footing. But my body wouldn't cooperate. I stayed frozen in my chair as he approached, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He stopped beside me.
"Brief kissing," he said, his voice low, "means what the situation requires. A kiss on the cheek at a charity gala. A quick kiss on the lips when we arrive somewhere together. Nothing prolonged. Nothing..." His eyes dropped to my mouth. "Excessive."
"And if I'm not comfortable with that?"
"Then we negotiate." He reached past me, his arm brushing my shoulder, and picked up the pen I'd set down. The contact was minimal—barely anything—but I felt it everywhere. "But I should warn you, Elena. If you can't handle a simple kiss, this arrangement will never work."
He held the pen out to me.
Our fingers touched when I took it.
"I can handle it," I said, and I hated how breathless I sounded.
"Good." He didn't move away. Didn't give me space. Just stood there. "Then sign."
I turned back to the contract. My hand was trembling slightly as I pressed the pen to paper.
Elena Voss.
There. Done. No going back.
Damien took the pen from my fingers and signed his name beneath mine. His handwriting was sharp, angular, aggressive. Like him.
"Congratulations," he said, straightening. "You're now Mrs. Russo."
Mrs. Russo.
"We still need the actual ceremony," I managed.
"Tomorrow. City Hall. My lawyer has arranged everything." He walked back to his seat, picking up a folder I hadn't noticed. "In the meantime, there are things to discuss. Your living arrangements. Your wardrobe. Your schedule."
"My wardrobe?"
"You'll be appearing at public events on my arm. You need to look the part." He opened the folder, pulling out what looked like a credit card. "This has a $50,000 limit. Use it for clothes, shoes, whatever you need. If you require more, let me know."
Fifty thousand dollars. For clothes.
"I don't—"
"It's not a gift, Elena. It's a requirement." He slid the card across the table toward me. "The women in my world will tear you apart if you show up in off-the-rack dresses."
I took the card, turning it over in my hands. It was black. Heavy. My name was embossed on the front in silver letters.
ELENA RUSSO.
Not Voss. Russo.
"You already had this made," I said.
"I knew you'd say yes."
"That's presumptuous."
He closed the folder. "You had no other options.
I should have been insulted. Should have thrown the card in his face and told him exactly what I thought of his arrogance.
Instead, I slipped it into my purse and said, "When do I move in?"
"Tonight."
"Tonight? But I haven't even—"
"Pack what you need. Leave the rest. I'll have someone collect it later." He stood, buttoning his jacket. "I have meetings this afternoon. Make yourself at home. Your room is the second door on the left in the east hallway."
He was leaving. Just like that.
"That's it?" I stood too, suddenly feeling very small in the massive dining room. "You're just going to—"
"What did you expect, Elena?" He turned back to me, one eyebrow raised. "A romantic welcome? A tour of the facilities?"
"No, I just—"
"This is a business arrangement. I suggest you remember that."
And then he was gone, his footsteps fading down the hallway, the sound of the elevator chiming in the distance.
I stood alone in his penthouse—our penthouse now, I supposed
Everything looked the same at home the lumpy couch, the water-stained ceiling, the tiny kitchen where Mira and I had shared a thousand meals. But it all felt different now. Smaller. Like I'd already outgrown it.
Mira was at work, which made things easier. I didn't want to explain. Didn't want to see the worry in her eyes or hear the questions I couldn't answer.
I packed quickly. Clothes, toiletries, the few personal items I couldn't leave behind—a photo of my parents, a worn copy of my favorite book, a bracelet Nana Ruth had given me before she died.
Everything fit into one suitcase and a duffel bag.
Twenty-four years of life, and this was all I had to show for it.
Before I left, I sat at the kitchen table and wrote Mira a check. The first transfer from Damien's account had hit my bank account within an hour of signing—$50,000, "for immediate expenses," his lawyer had explained. I'd nearly fainted when I saw the number.
Now, I wrote Mira a check for $5,000.
For rent and whatever else you need, I wrote on a sticky note. I'll explain everything soon. Love you.
It wasn't enough.But it was something.
I left the check on her pillow and walked out the door.
The penthouse was quiet when I returned.
Damien wasn't back from his meetings, and the staff—did he have staff? I hadn't thought to ask—were nowhere to be seen. It was just me and the endless expanse of luxury, echoing and empty.
I found my room easily enough. Second door on the left in the east hallway, just like he'd said.
It was bigger than my entire apartment.
A king-sized bed dominated the space, dressed in white linens that looked cloud-soft. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the city that made my breath catch. There was a walk-in closet roughly the size of my old bedroom, a private bathroom with a tub I could practically swim in, and a small sitting area with a loveseat and a bookshelf.
A bookshelf that was fully stocked.
I walked toward it, running my fingers along the spines. Classic literature. Contemporary fiction. Some of my favorites—titles I'd mentioned in passing during my weeks as his assistant, when he'd asked what I was reading during lunch breaks.
He'd remembered.
Stop it, I told myself. This doesn't mean anything. He's just thorough. It's what he does.
I unpacked my meager belongings, which took all of fifteen minutes. My clothes looked pathetic hanging in the massive closet. My toiletries barely filled one shelf of the bathroom cabinet.
I was a fraud. A pretender. A poor girl playing dress-up in a rich man's world.
You belong here now, I told myself. *For two years, this is your life. Act like it.
I showered and changed into the most presentable pajamas I owned (an old t-shirt and cotton shorts that had seen better days). Then I crawled into the massive bed and stared at the ceiling.
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, the room was dark and there was a sound in the hallway.
Footsteps. Quiet, but distinct.
I sat up, my heart pounding. The clock on the nightstand read 11:47 PM.
He was home.
I should go back to sleep .
Instead, I threw off the covers and crept toward the door.
The hallway was dim, lit only by a soft glow coming from somewhere around the corner. I followed it, my bare feet silent on the hardwood, until I reached the living room.
And stopped.
Damien had a glass of whiskey in his hand. He'd shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and his hair was disheveled, like he'd been running his hands through it again.
But that wasn't what made me freeze.
It was the fact that he was also shirtless from the waist up—no, wait. He was still wearing his shirt, but it was unbuttoned, hanging open, revealing a strip of bare chest that made my mouth go dry.
He turned before I could retreat.
"Elena." His eyes swept over me."I thought you'd be asleep."
"I was. I heard you come in."
"My apologies for waking you."
"You didn't. I just—" I gestured vaguely, aware that I was rambling, aware that I should go back to my room, aware that I was staring at the exposed skin of his chest like I'd never seen a man before. "I couldn't sleep."
"Neither could I."
He turned back to the window, and I should have left. Should have said goodnight and retreated to the safety of my room.
Instead, I walked closer.
"Long day?" I asked, coming to stand a few feet away from him.
"They're all long days." He took a sip of whiskey, and I watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed. "This one more than most."
"Because of the scandal?"
"Because of many things."
He didn't elaborate. I didn't push.
We stood in silence, looking out at the city.
"You should go to bed," he said finally.
"Tomorrow will be long."
"City Hall."
"Yes."
I nodded, but I didn't move. Something kept me rooted there, some magnetic pull I couldn't explain.
"Damien."
He turned his head, and the way he looked at me made something hot coil in my stomach. The dim light cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the intensity of his eyes.
"Why me?" I asked. "Really. You could have anyone. Someone from your world, someone who knows how to play this game. Why choose a nobody like me?"
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he set his glass on the windowsill and turned to face me fully.
"Go to bed, Elena," he said, and his voice was rougher now. Strained. "Before I do something we'll both regret."
My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it.
"What would you do?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
His hand came up, and for one breathless moment, I thought he was going to touch my face.
He didn't.
Instead, he caught a strand of my hair that had fallen over my shoulder and tucked it behind my ear. His fingers grazed my skin, barely there, and I shivered.
"Go to bed," he repeated.
And this time, I listened.