The following days passed in a blur of designer fittings, endless photoshoots, and carefully curated appearances. Isabella smiled through all of it — her expression flawless, her posture elegant, her answers rehearsed.
She was learning the game.
And she was learning him.
Dominic Volkov may have been cold, but he wasn't careless. Every step he took, every word he spoke in public, was calculated. Precise. Like a man constantly walking a tightrope.
But Isabella had never been good at staying quiet. And she was growing tired of pretending.
By the end of their third media event that week, she was exhausted. As the car pulled into the estate's long driveway, she kicked off her heels and curled into the corner of the seat.
Dominic sat beside her, scanning messages on his phone. Always working. Always avoiding.
"Do you sleep?" she asked.
"No."
She raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"
He looked at her, eyes shadowed. "Three to four hours. That's enough."
"For a machine, maybe."
He pocketed his phone. "The world doesn't slow down for feelings, Isabella."
"No," she said, "but people do. Normal ones, anyway."
His jaw flexed. "Normal people don't get where I am."
She didn't reply — because maybe that was true. Maybe normal people didn't become billionaires by thirty-two. Maybe they didn't build empires.
But they also didn't look so alone.
Later that night, she wandered into the private library.
Books lined every inch of the walls — classic literature, economics, political theory. Everything cold and calculated. She expected as much.
But what she didn't expect was the photo.
A single frame on the bottom shelf, hidden behind a stack of hardcovers. It had slipped forward, slightly tilted. She pulled it out.
A younger Dominic. Maybe early twenties. Shirtless, holding a boy — no older than five — on his shoulders. Both were smiling. Genuinely. The boy's laugh was frozen mid-sound, his cheeks flushed with joy.
Isabella frowned.
Dominic didn't smile like that anymore.
She heard footsteps behind her and turned quickly, hiding the photo behind her back.
He was standing in the doorway.
"What are you doing in here?" he asked, his voice unreadable.
"I was looking for a distraction," she said, forcing a light tone. "Didn't expect to find a memory."
His eyes dropped to the photo. "Put it back."
She hesitated. "Is he your brother?"
A beat.
"No. He was my son."
The words hit her like a truck.
She stared at him, shocked. "You… you have a son?"
Had.
He took the photo from her and placed it carefully back on the shelf.
"His name was Nico."
Isabella's breath caught.
"What happened?" she asked gently.
Dominic didn't look at her. "Three years ago. He was kidnapped during a company security breach. They wanted leverage. Power. Payment."
Her chest tightened. "Did they…?"
"I paid," he said quietly. "It didn't matter. He was gone before I even arrived."
Silence.
Isabella's throat burned. "I'm so sorry, Dominic."
He turned away. "Don't. I don't talk about it."
"Why are you telling me now?"
"I don't know."
She stepped closer. "Maybe because you needed someone to know."
He looked at her then — really looked. His eyes weren't cold now. They were shattered.
"I swore I'd never let anyone close again. Not after that."
Her voice was barely a whisper. "Is that why you created the contract?"
He nodded once. "Love makes people reckless. Weak. And when you're weak, people get hurt."
She understood, now. The rules. The walls. The absence of emotion. It wasn't just control.
It was grief.
And guilt.
And fear.
He turned to leave — then paused.
"For what it's worth," he said quietly, "you're doing better than I expected."
And then he was gone.
The next morning, the tabloids exploded.
"Ice CEO's New Wife: Gold-Digger or Genius?"
"Insiders Say the Marriage Is a Lie — Is Volkov Hiding Something?"
Isabella stared at the headlines, nauseated. Her phone buzzed with messages. Helena had already called twice, telling her to ignore the press. To smile harder. Be sweeter.
But she was done staying silent.
She stormed into Dominic's home office, waving the tablet in her hand.
"This is insane!" she said. "They're calling me a fraud! A fake wife! Some are saying I'm pregnant with your child!"
He looked up from his laptop. Calm. Too calm.
"It will pass."
"It will pass?" she shouted. "Dominic, they're tearing me apart! I'm the one taking all the hits while you sit behind your bulletproof reputation!"
He stood. "That's the role you agreed to."
"No," she snapped. "I agreed to a marriage. Not to becoming your emotional punching bag."
His eyes narrowed. "Watch your tone."
"Or what?" she demanded. "You'll ice me out? Again? Go ahead. But maybe, just maybe, the reason your life is so cold is because you keep killing anything that tries to make it warm."
His jaw clenched. For a moment, it looked like he might lash out. But instead, he turned away.
She waited for a response.
Instead, he said quietly, "You're not pregnant, right?"
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I'm asking."
"No, Dominic. I'm not pregnant," she said, voice shaking. "But God, for a moment I wish I was. Because then at least there'd be a reason for all of this madness. A reason to feel something."
He was silent.
Then he walked past her, leaving the room.
She stood there, heart pounding, chest rising and falling with frustration.
She was tired of playing the perfect wife. Of hiding his secrets. Of carrying this alone.
But she didn't know yet that she'd just lit a spark.
One Dominic couldn't ignore.
And one that would either destroy their fragile contract…
…or set fire to everything they thought they knew about love.