There's something obscene about how quiet the Thorne War Room gets when it's time to destroy someone.
Today, that someone is me.
The curtains are drawn. The air smells like cold espresso and dry money. I'm seated at the long obsidian table beside Killian — my bodyguard, my fake fiancé, and now, the man I'm legally binding myself to like a state-sponsored hostage.
Across from us: Father.
To his left, Senator Vale. To his right, a White House liaison in pearls and tactical lipstick.
All eyes are on the glossy folder between us, embossed with the gold seal of Aurelia's Department of Domestic Security.
Inside: the contract.
Twelve pages. Fifty-two clauses. One lie so large it could split the country.
I don't touch it.
Neither does Killian.
Not yet.
The room is still.
Then my father clears his throat. "The press is waiting."
"I don't care," I say.
He doesn't flinch. "You do."
"I said I—"
Killian's hand brushes my wrist under the table.
A warning.
I go still. But I don't back down. I stare at my father the way I used to stare at thunderstorms as a kid — part terror, part challenge.
He leans back, calm as a firing squad. "You know what's at stake."
"No," I snap. "What exactly is at stake, Father? My dignity? My body? My right to choose who the hell I wake up next to for the next three years?"
"The stock market," he replies evenly. "The Thorne-Vale merger. Voter confidence. The NDA leaks. The Jackson footage. Your credibility. My reelection."
I laugh. "Ah, there it is."
Senator Vale adjusts his tie like this is all a minor inconvenience. The White House woman remains silent, flipping through the contract like she's shopping for coffins.
Killian hasn't said a word.
I turn to him. "You're okay with this?"
He looks at me. Not at my dress. Not at the chaos blooming behind my ribs. Just me.
"I'm not okay with any of this."
"Then say no."
"I did."
My chest tightens.
He adds, "They just didn't listen."
My father claps once, sharp. "Enough. Let's move this along."
The White House rep slides the contract across the table, along with two pens.
"Signatures on pages eleven and twelve," she says. "Your wedding is in six weeks. You'll live together, make appearances as needed, and avoid scandals. Term: twelve months. Divorce will be filed quietly, sealed by national security privilege."
"Twelve months?" I whisper.
"Unless your father's approval ratings tank. Then we extend."
My nails dig into the table.
And then, the voice I hate to hear most: Alyssa's.
She's in the corner. Lip gloss perfect. Phone in hand.
"Smile, Phee," she coos. "This is history. You're practically royalty now."
I turn my head so slowly it frightens even me.
Killian stands first.
The contract in one hand. Pen in the other.
He scans it like a soldier reading battlefield maps.
Everyone watches.
He reaches the signature line.
Then pauses.
"Wait," he says.
The room freezes.
My father looks like a man about to strangle a puppy on live television. "What?"
Killian slides the contract back across the table. Flips to the last page.
"I want an amendment."
The White House woman blinks. "Excuse me?"
"I'll sign. But on one condition."
My pulse spikes.
Killian looks at me. Straight into me.
Then he says it:
"No falling in love."
My heart stops.
He says it so simply, so plainly, that for a second, I think I misheard him.
I sit up straighter. "What?"
His voice is even. "I won't lie about the dates. I'll smile for the cameras. I'll sleep outside your door and take bullets if I have to."
He leans in slightly.
"But I won't pretend to love you."
The words hit like blunt-force trauma.
Even Alyssa looks stunned.
"Killian—" I start.
"No offense," he adds.
My throat tightens. "None taken. I've always wanted a marriage built on mutual apathy and emotional frostbite."
He doesn't blink.
The White House rep clicks her pen. "Fine. Clause added. No romantic entanglement between parties."
She scribbles it down in the margin.
I stare at it.
No falling in love.
I want to laugh. Or scream. Or maybe just disappear into the floor.
But I do none of that.
Instead, I reach for the pen.
My signature scrawls across the paper like blood from a reopened wound.
Killian signs next.
Our names side by side.
Ink like handcuffs.
Paper like chains.
And just like that… I'm engaged.
To the man who once swore I was a job.
To the man who kisses like he's drowning and I'm oxygen he's not allowed to need.
To the man who just made damn sure love is the one thing we'll never share.