Chapter 4

The weight of the pen in my hand felt like a lead pipe. I stared down at the document on Damien’s desk, the heavy words blurring into a mess of black ink and white space. Marriage Contract. It was a ridiculous, impossible concept, yet here it was, sitting on a slab of polished wood in the middle of a Manhattan skyscraper.

​I looked up at Damien. He was watching me with that terrifying, patient quietness. He didn't look like a man who had just proposed a fake marriage; he looked like a man pretending he had already won.

​"The clock is ticking, Ellie," he said, his voice low and steady. "The papers are waiting to put that story about your eviction online. Your clients are already looking for someone else. You have exactly ninety seconds before everything you built is gone."

​I looked back at the paper. My bank account balance flashed in my mind—a pathetic three digits that wouldn't even cover the interest on my credit card debt. My reputation, the one I had bled for, was being torn apart by people who didn't even know my middle name.

​"You're enjoying this," I whispered.

​"I'm solving a problem," he corrected. "There is no joy in watching you struggle, Ellie. There is only the reality of the situation."

​"The reality is that you're buying me."

​"I'm investing in a partnership that benefits us both. Don't make it more dramatic than it needs to be."

​He reached out, his hand hovering over the desk. He didn't touch me, but the closeness made the air feel thin. I could feel the gravity of him, that inescapable pull that had always made it hard to breathe whenever he was in the room.

​I thought about my tiny apartment. The smell of old laundry and the way the heater clanked in the middle of the night. I thought about the big project, the one that was supposed to be my breakthrough, now gone because I was a 'liability.'

​If I signed this, I could walk into those boardrooms tomorrow and they wouldn't just take my call—they would apologize. I could pay off my mother’s medical bills. I could finally stop wondering if the next knock on my door was a landlord ready to throw me out.

But I would be tied to him again.

​"Twelve months," I said, my voice shaking. "And then I walk away with enough money to be completely independent. No strings. No connection to your world."

​"That is what the contract states," Damien said.

​I looked at the signature line. It felt like a trap, but the alternative was a slow, public drowning. I reached for the pen.

​Damien picked it up first, holding it out to me. As I reached to take it, my fingers brushed against his.

​My hand lingered half a second too long, completely forgetting to pull away. I noticed the familiar roughness of his thumb, and my mind instantly remembered the quiet, late-night promises he used to whisper against my skin before everything fell apart. I froze, my breath catching in my throat. I looked up at him, and for a split second, the mask of the billionaire cracked. His eyes darkened, his gaze dropping to my mouth as he felt the same surge. For that one heartbeat, he wasn't a powerful executive or a strategist. He was just Damien, and he wanted me.

​I pulled my hand back, clutching the pen so hard my knuckles turned white. My heart was slamming against my ribs, a frantic, uneven rhythm.

​"It’s just a contract," I told myself, though the words felt hollow in the charged silence of the room.

​"Sign it, Ellie," he said. His voice was rougher now, the polished edges gone.

​I pressed the pen to the paper. I didn't let myself think about the implications. I didn't let myself think about the fact that I was selling my identity for a year of security. I just wrote my name in a quick, jagged scrawl that looked nothing like my usual professional signature.

​The moment the last letter was finished, Damien reached out and took the document. He didn't even look at it; he just slid it into a leather folder and tapped a button on his desk.

​"Marcus. It’s done," he said into the intercom. "Tell the press office to release the statement. We’ll be down in ten minutes."

​He stood up, smoothing the front of his charcoal suit. He looked back at me, the billionaire mask firmly back in place.

​"The stylist is waiting in the lounge. You need to change."

​"I'm not wearing a costume, Damien."

​"The cameras need to believe we're real," he countered. "You need to look like the woman who has been by my side for years, not someone who just climbed out of a basement office."

​He walked toward the door, then paused, looking back over his shoulder.

​"And Ellie?"

​"What?"

​"Try to look like you're happy. People tend to notice when a bride looks like she’s headed for a firing squad."

​He walked out, leaving me alone in the vast, silent office. I looked down at my hands. They were still trembling. I could still feel the phantom heat from his touch on my fingertips, a burning brand that I knew wouldn't fade anytime soon.

​I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked out at the city. It looked different now. It didn't look like a landscape of opportunity; it looked like a kingdom I had just been sold to.

​I was no longer Ellie Harper, the struggling career woman. I was a woman who had just handed her future to the one man she could never seem to escape.

​I pulled my trench coat tighter around myself, but the chill didn't go away. It was deep in my bones, a cold realization of what I had just done.

​I had signed the paper. I had taken the rope.

​Now, I just had to survive the next three hundred and sixty-five days without losing the rest of myself.

​I walked toward the lounge, the sound of my heels on the marble floor echoing like a countdown. The stylist was waiting, a thin woman with a tape measure draped around her neck like a snake. She looked me up and down with a clinical detachment that made me feel even smaller.

​"Let’s get started," she said, gesturing toward a rack of clothes. To my shock, every single piece was in my exact size, my favorite shade of deep blue, and tailored perfectly to the silhouette I used to wear. Damien hadn't just hired a stylist; he had remembered everything. He had secretly arranged things for me, leaving undeniable evidence that he had never truly moved on.

​As she pulled a deep blue dress from the rack, I saw my reflection in the mirror. I looked pale, my eyes wide and shadowed with exhaustion. I looked like a girl who was about to disappear.

​"Whatever it takes," I whispered to the reflection.

​But as the stylist began to unbutton my coat, I knew that the price was going to be much higher than I had ever imagined.

​I thought about that spark on the desk. The way my body had responded to him before my mind could even register the touch. That was the real danger. Not the media, not the debt, not his family's interference.

​The danger was that, despite everything he had done, part of me still wanted to be caught.

​And Damien Calder knew it.

​I stepped into the dress, the silk cool against my skin. It fit flawlessly, hugging every curve with a precision that felt like an embrace. The stylist zipped me up, the sound of the metal teeth clicking together final and absolute.

​"Beautiful," she murmured, stepping back to admire her work.

​I didn't feel beautiful. I felt like a masterpiece being prepared for an auction.

​I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. The press conference was next. The cameras, the lights, the questions. I had to go out there and lie to the world. I had to pretend that the man who had just dismantled my life was the man I loved more than anything.

​I walked out of the lounge and back into the office. Damien was waiting by the elevator, his back to me. He turned as I approached, and for the second time that day, his composure wavered. His eyes traveled from the hem of the dress up to my face, lingering on my lips.

​"Better," he said, though his voice was thick.

​"Are you ready?" I asked, my voice surprisingly steady.

​"I've been ready for four years, Ellie."

​The elevator doors opened, and we stepped inside. The ride down was silent, the air heavy with the weight of everything we weren't saying. As the doors opened onto the lobby, the flashbulbs began to go off, a blinding white wall of light that made me flinch.

​Damien reached down and took my hand. His grip was firm, possessive, and surprisingly warm. He leaned in, his lips brushing against my ear.

​"Smile, Ellie," he whispered. "The world is watching."

​I looked out at the sea of reporters, at the cameras, at the microphones thrust toward us. But as we stepped out, my breath hitched. Standing right at the edge of the crowd, watching us with a cold, triumphant sneer, was Arthur Calder. He wasn't surprised; he was waiting. He held up a thick manila folder, tapping it against his cane, making it clear he already knew our secret.

And whatever was inside that folder, he intended to use it against us.