Elena
Sleep was impossible.
I sat curled up on the worn couch, staring at the black folder lying on my coffee table like it was a live grenade. Around me, the walls seemed to close in, suffocating, whispering everything I didn't want to hear.
You're trapped.
You're desperate.
You're out of time.
I checked my phone again: 3:42 a.m.
No missed calls. No miracles.
A few hours ago, marrying a stranger for money would have sounded insane.
Now it sounded like the only way to survive.
I pressed my forehead against my knees, breathing slowly, trying to fight the panic clawing at my chest. Images of my mother's frail smile flickered through my mind.
Her hospital bed.
The machines keeping her alive.
The look of hope in her eyes every time I promised, "Don't worry, Mom. I'll figure it out."
I couldn't break that promise.
I wouldn't.
When dawn finally broke, I was still on the couch exhausted, hollowed out, but strangely calm.
I picked up the folder and flipped to the last page.
Signature line.
Simple. Final.
With a shaking hand, I signed my name.
Elena Carter.
There. It was done.
I had just sold myself for a shot at saving my mother's life.
I didn't let myself cry. There was no time for weakness now.
Inside the folder was a business card with Mr. Lewis's number. I dialed it with trembling fingers.
He answered on the first ring. "Miss Carter."
"I've signed," I said. "I accept the offer."
"Good." No surprise in his voice as if he had known I would. "Mr. Blackwood will expect you at his office at noon sharp for final arrangements."
"Today?" I squeaked.
"Today."
Then he hung up.
By 11:45 a.m., I was standing outside a glittering skyscraper in the heart of downtown.
Black glass. Steel edges. The Blackwood Corporation logo shines like a crown at the top.
I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans and caught sight of my reflection in the revolving doors.
Pathetic.
Dark circles under my eyes. A thrift-store blouse. Faded black pants.
I looked like exactly what I was, a desperate girl from nowhere.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed inside.
The lobby was a cathedral of marble and chrome, buzzing with men and women in sharp suits, expensive perfumes clinging to the air. I earned more than a few judgmental glances, but I kept my head down as I approached the front desk.
The receptionist barely glanced up. "Name?"
"Elena Carter. I… I have an appointment with Mr. Blackwood."
Something shifted in her gaze. Pity, maybe. Or maybe it was disdain.
"Penthouse suite," she said, handing me a visitor badge. "Private elevator."
I swallowed and nodded.
The private elevator was gold-trimmed, so clean it gleamed. I stepped inside, alone, and the doors slid shut with a hiss.
My heart thudded against my ribs as the numbers ticked higher.
Thirty floors.
Forty.
Fifty.
At the sixty-fifth floor, the elevator slowed and opened with a soft chime.
I stepped into a different world.
The penthouse office was vast, all sleek lines and brutal luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city skyline. Monochrome furniture gleamed under soft, recessed lighting. Everything screamed power, wealth, control.
And standing behind a glass desk at the far end was him.
Damien Blackwood.
I knew him instantly, though photos hadn't done him justice.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Perfectly tailored black suit. Dark hair that looked effortlessly tousled. A chiseled jawline dusted with stubble. Piercing grey eyes locked onto me the moment I stepped forward sharply, assessing as if stripping me bare in seconds.
I felt like prey caught in the sights of a predator.
He didn't move. Didn't smile.
He simply stared.
The silence stretched.
"Miss Carter," he said finally, his voice low, smooth, dangerous.
I nodded, suddenly aware of every wrinkle in my clothes, every scuffed inch of my shoes.
"You signed the contract," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," I managed to whisper.
"Good."
He came around the desk, moving like a man who owned every inch of the world he walked on. His presence was overwhelming, magnetic, and suffocating.
He stopped a few feet away from me, arms crossed, studying me like a specimen.
"You understand what this arrangement entails?" he asked.
I swallowed. "One year. Marriage. No emotional attachments. No questions."
"No disobedience," he added coldly. "No scandals. You will attend events with me. Smile when necessary. Play the role."
"And after a year?"
"We divorce. You walk away richer. I walk away... free."
Free from what? I almost asked, but bit my tongue.
It wasn't my place to ask questions.
"Are you sure?" he said, his voice softer, more lethal. "You can still walk away, Elena."
I lifted my chin, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "I'm sure."
A flicker of something passed through his eyes approval? Amusement? I couldn't tell.
"Very well," he said. "You will move into my residence tonight. We will be married privately tomorrow morning."
So fast.
My head spun.
"You'll find your new living arrangements... satisfactory," he said dryly.
Somehow, I doubted that "satisfactory" would even begin to describe living in Damien Blackwood's world.
He handed me a sleek black envelope.
"Your first month's payment," he said.
I took it with shaking hands.
Heavy. Thick with cash.
"Consider it an advance on your soul," he said, and for the briefest moment, a cold smile ghosted across his lips.
He turned away then, dismissing me without a second thought.
The meeting was over.
I stumbled back toward the elevator, clutching the envelope like a lifeline.
As the doors closed, I caught one last glimpse of Damien Blackwood standing by the window, his silhouette framed by the endless skyline.
Untouchable. Unbreakable.
My husband-to-be.
Later that evening, a black car arrived to pick me up.
The driver, another silent, black-suited man loaded my single duffel bag into the trunk without comment. No judgment. No pity.
Just business.
The city lights blurred past as we sped through downtown, crossing into a part of the city I'd only ever seen in magazines.
Mansions. Private gates. Tree-lined avenues.
Finally, we pulled up to a towering estate, hidden behind wrought-iron gates and manicured hedges.
More fortress than home.
The driver opened my door without a word.
"This way, Miss Carter."
I followed numbly.
The inside of the house was breathtaking marble floors, vaulted ceilings, and priceless art on the walls.
Yet it felt cold.
Empty.
Like a museum, no one lived in.
A woman in a crisp black dress appeared as the housekeeper, I guessed.
"Good evening, Miss Carter," she said with a stiff nod. "Your room is this way."
Your room.
Not our room.
Of course.
This wasn't a real marriage.
Just a transaction.
I followed her up a sweeping staircase and down a long hall. She opened a door to reveal a bedroom bigger than my entire apartment.
Plush king-size bed. Walk-in closet. An en-suite bathroom that gleamed with gold fixtures.
It was more luxurious than I had ever imagined.
But it felt like a gilded cage.
I dropped my bag on the bed and sank onto the mattress, exhaustion crashing over me.
Tomorrow, I would be married.
Tomorrow, I will belong to Damien Blackwood.
And somehow, I knew...
Nothing would ever be the same again.