The morning in the Lockwood mansion was suffocating, like velvet wrapped too tight. Sunlight cut through the tall windows, painting the cream walls with golden streaks, but it did nothing to soften the weight pressing against Elara's chest. She lay still a moment longer, savoring a quiet she rarely got, a quiet she knew would end the second she stepped into her family's world.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror, tracing the curves of her face, the sharpness of her cheekbones, the subtle arch of her brows. Her golden-brown waves tumbled over her shoulders like liquid sunlight. Almond-shaped hazel eyes. Lips that could charm or wound. She was perfect, yes but perfection was a cage. And every day reminded her of that.
Her silk blouse clung just enough to hint at strength, the navy pencil skirt tailored to armor-like precision. Heels clicked softly against the marble, diamonds catching the light with quiet menace. She looked untouchable. But inside, she burned.
Breakfast was a battlefield disguised as civility. Her father skimmed the newspaper like a sentinel, expression unreadable. Her mother's eyes weighed her, sharp and cold as a diamond. The questions came like arrows prospects, future, the men lined up for her like inventory. Elara smiled, but it was brittle, a knife hidden in velvet.
By nightfall, she found herself at another gala, draped in emerald silk, the perfect mix of elegance and defiance. Her hair spilled over her shoulders; makeup understated yet weaponized. Every glance in the room felt like a test. Every whisper, a judgment.
"Smile, Elara," her mother whispered, gripping her arm as they entered the ballroom. "He's from a powerful family."
Powerful.
It clung to her like a chain.
She smiled. And she said no.
Again.
The man opposite her a rehearsed grin, designer suit, air of entitlement tried charm, stories of jets, business, wealth. She heard nothing. She imagined tossing the glass across the table, standing, screaming that she was not for sale. But the Lockwoods endured. She excused herself, ignoring the sting in her mother's eyes, and left, heart hammering. That night, she swore she would no longer endure.
The city was alive when she drove through it, neon bleeding across wet streets, engines roaring like predators. For the first time in years, she felt untethered. She rolled down the window. The cool night air bit at her cheeks, a reminder that the world outside the mansion was raw, dangerous… alive.
The club was chaos incarnate. Bass shook the floor, lights cut through smoke and perfume, bodies collided in rhythm and heat. Here, she was anonymous. Invisible. Free. She ordered a cocktail she couldn't pronounce, then another, letting the burn steady the chaos in her head.
"That's your third."
The voice was calm, sharp, unexpected.
She turned. He was tall, dangerous, effortless. His suit jacket was gone; sleeves rolled, revealing a wristwatch that could buy her car twice over. Dark eyes scanned her like a predator sizing up prey.
"Is there a limit?" she asked, her voice smooth, guarded.
"Not for you," he said, voice low, edged. "Just… observation."
She scoffed, turning back to her drink. "I didn't ask for one."
"No. You didn't."
Something about him burned under her skin annoying. Irresistible.
"Let me guess," she said, eyebrow arched. "You're here to forget something."
He tilted his glass. "Something I can't have."
That caught her.
He didn't look broken. He looked… contained. Dangerous. A man who always got what he wanted, except now he didn't.
"Same," she said, almost bitterly.
"Marriage?" he asked.
She laughed, sharp, disbelief echoing in the space between them. "Is it that obvious?"
"To someone running from it as hard as you? Yes."
Her breath caught. She didn't mean to, but she told him. The weight of expectations, suitors, and a life she hadn't chosen spilled from her lips like poison.
He listened. No interruptions.
"They want me married too," he said finally, jaw tight. "By the end of the year."
"For love?"
He smiled without warmth. "Inheritance."
Elara let the silence stretch, thick as velvet. The man across from her carried a cage of his own.
"What if," she said, boldness fueled by alcohol and rage, "we helped each other?"
Julian's dark eyes flicked to hers. "I'm listening."
"A contract marriage," she whispered, the words tasting like fire. "No love. No expectations. Just… paper."
He froze.
"Your family gets a powerful alliance," she said, leaning forward, eyes bright. "Mine stops breathing down my neck. We walk away after."
Julian's gaze hardened, calculating. Something dark, raw, promising, flickered there.
"You don't even know me," he said.
"Neither do you," she replied, steady.
Silence.
Then a nod. "We talk tomorrow. Sober."
For the first time that night, Elara smiled and for once, it was real.
Across the city, Julian Kings stood on his balcony, phone pressed to his ear.
"Iris," he said softly.
"Julian," her voice came through, warm and familiar.
He closed his eyes. He had loved her since high school, a love she had never returned. He didn't know she had moved on, that she loved another. He didn't know she had used him.
"I'll fix it," he promised. "I'll make them accept you."
A sly smile on her lips. "I know you will."
And neither of them realized that the night's reckless deal the contract would change everything.
Elara Lockwood had signed her heart into the hands of a dangerous man who loved another.