The car ride was silent.
Not the comfortable kind.
The suffocating kind.
Elena sat in the backseat of Adrian Blackwood's sleek black Bentley, her hands folded tightly in her lap. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows, reflecting against the diamond ring now sitting on her finger.
It felt too heavy.
Too expensive.
Too real.
Across from her, Adrian didn't look at her once. He was reading something on his tablet, calm and detached — like he hadn't just purchased a wife.
Purchased.
The word burned.
"Do you regret it already?" he asked suddenly.
Her head snapped up.
"I don't regret saving my mother."
A faint smirk touched his lips.
"Good answer."
The car slowed.
Then stopped.
Elena stepped out — and her breath caught.
The mansion wasn't just big.
It was obscene.
Tall iron gates. Marble steps. Floor-to-ceiling windows glowing warmly against the night sky. It didn't look like a home.
It looked like power.
Adrian came to stand beside her.
"This is your new reality," he said quietly.
Their shoulders brushed.
Heat shot up her arm.
"I won't get used to it," she replied.
"You will."
Inside, everything gleamed — polished marble floors, crystal chandeliers, modern art lining the walls.
Staff stood waiting.
Watching.
Judging.
"This is Mrs. Blackwood," Adrian announced smoothly.
The title sent a ripple through the room.
Mrs. Blackwood.
She wasn't sure whether she liked it or feared it.
Adrian's hand slid to the small of her back.
Possessive.
Guiding.
Claiming.
Her skin tingled beneath his touch.
He leaned close, his lips nearly grazing her ear.
"Smile," he murmured. "You're supposed to look happy."
Her jaw tightened.
But she smiled.
The staff dispersed.
He didn't remove his hand.
Instead, he led her upstairs — down a long hallway — until they stopped in front of a large wooden door.
He opened it.
The bedroom was massive.
King-sized bed.
Dark silk sheets.
Low lighting.
A private balcony overlooking the city.
Her pulse began to race.
"This will be your room," he said calmly.
"Your room?" she repeated.
"Our room," he corrected.
Silence fell between them.
The air shifted.
He loosened his tie slowly, deliberately.
Her throat went dry.
"You said this was a contract," she reminded him.
"It is."
He stepped closer.
Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look at him.
"But contracts have terms."
"And what are those?" she whispered.
His fingers reached up — brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.
Slow.
Intentional.
"Publicly, you are my devoted wife."
His knuckles trailed lightly down her cheek.
"Privately… you will not deny me."
Her breath hitched.
"That wasn't in the agreement."
"It is now."
His hand slid to her waist, pulling her closer until her body collided with his.
She could feel the strength in him.
The control.
The restraint.
"Are you afraid of me?" he asked softly.
She met his eyes.
"I'm not afraid."
A lie.
His gaze dropped to her lips.
And for a second—
She thought he would kiss her.
Instead, he stopped just inches away.
"If you're going to live in my world, Elena," he murmured, voice rougher now, "you'll learn something very quickly."
His thumb traced the curve of her lower lip.
Her knees nearly gave out.
"I don't share what belongs to me."
Her heart pounded violently against her ribs.
"I'm not something you own," she breathed.
His eyes darkened.
"We'll see."
He stepped back abruptly.
The distance felt colder than before.
"You can shower. Dinner is at eight. Wear something appropriate."
"And what is appropriate?" she asked.
His gaze slowly swept over her body.
Lingering.
Assessing.
"Something that reminds everyone you're mine."
Then he walked out.
Leaving her alone.
Shaking.
And far more affected than she wanted to admit.
Elena looked at the enormous bed.
At the ring on her finger.
At the door he had just closed.
She had signed a contract to save her mother.
She hadn't realized she'd signed herself into a war.
And the battlefield…
Was her own heart.