The ride back to the city apartment felt like a descent into another reality. My hands still trembled from signing the contract, and yet, a strange weight of determination pressed on me. Damian's words echoed in my mind: From now on, everything changes.
I barely recognized the street where I had lived—where everything I had loved was gone. But the city didn't care about my misery. It thrummed with life, indifferent to the personal apocalypse I had just endured.
Damian had said nothing during the drive. His silence was suffocating, as if he were testing me, observing me, gauging my reaction to every detail of the journey.
When we arrived, I realized this wasn't my apartment anymore. He had arranged for a temporary residence—an upscale loft that looked more like a showroom than a home.
Everything gleamed, pristine, intimidating.
"This will be your home for the duration of the contract," Damian said flatly.
I nodded, unsure whether to feel grateful or trapped. Both feelings battled within me.
"Rules," he continued. "No going out without informing me. Respect the agreement fully. Any breach…
consequences will follow."
I swallowed hard, nodding again.
"Understood."
He studied me for a long moment. Then, without another word, he left, the click of the door echoing like a verdict.
I sank onto the couch, overwhelmed by exhaustion and fear. A contract marriage. One year. My entire survival dependent on a man I barely knew.
I tried to process it all. How had my life come to this? Betrayed by the people I trusted, stripped of everything, now chained to a stranger. But buried deep inside, anger ignited.
I will not be broken.
Hours passed. I unpacked a few essentials, trying to convince myself that this new reality was temporary, that I could play along until I found a way out. But Damian's presence lingered, even in his absence.
Then my phone buzzed. Another message.
Welcome to your new life. Don't disappoint me. —D
A cold shiver ran down my spine. Damian was everywhere—my contract, my residence, my life. He had made sure of it.
And then, a knock at the door.
I froze. Who could it be at this hour? Visitors weren't part of the contract terms, and I hadn't been expecting anyone.
Another knock, louder this time. Hesitant, yet deliberate.
I edged toward the door, heart pounding. Through the peephole, I saw a figure that made my blood run cold.
It wasn't Jason. Not Camille. Not anyone I recognized.
But the way he stood there, calm and confident, made it clear he knew exactly who I was.
I backed away, my mind racing.
And then a voice, low and commanding, came through the door:
"Amara. We need to talk."