Married for a moment, Loved for a lifetime.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, but the tension in Aria Bennett's chest rang louder than anything around her. She stepped out onto the 41st floor of Blackwell Enterprises, her heels tapping against the glossy marble like distant echoes of a past she had buried long ago.

The receptionist at the front desk barely met her eyes.

"He's expecting you," the woman said quietly, almost with pity, motioning toward the double glass doors at the end of the corridor.

Aria swallowed hard.

Everything about this place screamed power-cold, clinical, and calculating. The walls were silver and white, every surface spotless. And at the very end of it all, behind those closed doors, waited the man she hadn't seen in five years. The man she once called husband. The man whose name she had tried so hard to forget.

Her fingers brushed the folder she carried, filled with documents, desperation, and one final thread of dignity. She took a breath she didn't feel and pushed the door open.

Damon Blackwell didn't even glance up.

He sat behind a massive glass desk, dressed in obsidian black, pen gliding across paper as if her arrival were just a scheduled inconvenience. His features were sharper than she remembered-his jaw more defined, the lines around his eyes deeper, colder. There was no trace of the boy who once kissed her under the rain. Only the tycoon who had built empires-and destroyed them.

"You came," he said without emotion, eyes finally meeting hers.

Aria lifted her chin. "You summoned me."

He set his pen down slowly. "Everyone has a choice, Aria. You just always seem to choose betrayal."

Her stomach twisted. She had braced herself for cruelty-but not the familiar sting of his voice. Not the weight of her name rolling off his tongue like a curse.

"I'm not here to argue," she said, forcing her voice steady. "Let's just get this over with."

Damon's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Oh, I agree."

He reached beneath his desk and slid a thick folder across the surface toward her.

She stared at it without touching it.

"What is this?"

He leaned back, folding his arms. "A contract. You marry me. For ninety days."

Aria didn't move. Her fingers stayed clenched around her file as her gaze locked onto the contract on his desk. Damon sat like a statue, waiting. Silent. Powerful. Like he knew she'd cave, like he'd already won.

"How long have you been planning this?" she asked, voice tight.

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. "Since the moment your father's company fell into flames-flames he lit with lies and fraud. I thought you might visit me sooner... but I suppose pride kept you starving longer than necessary."

The heat in her cheeks had nothing to do with embarrassment-it was fury, shame, and helplessness twisting together.

"You don't know anything about me anymore, Damon."

"I know enough." He stood slowly, rounding the desk like a panther circling wounded prey. "I know your mother's in a private hospital with mounting bills. I know your brother's missing again, likely in trouble. And I know you're desperate enough to walk into the devil's den with a heartbeat full of regret."

She flinched, but held her ground. "And you think this-marriage-will make you feel better? Like vengeance tastes sweeter when it's wrapped in silk and signatures?"

He was in front of her now, so close she could smell his cologne-dark, expensive, intoxicating. "This isn't about feeling better. This is about control. You want help? Then it comes with a price."

His gaze dropped briefly to her lips, then flicked away. Dismissive.

Aria's throat ached from holding back all the words she wanted to throw in his face. But this wasn't about pride anymore. It was about survival. She thought she'd buried that chapter of her life-him, them-but apparently Damon Blackwell wasn't done writing their story.

"What's in it for you?" she asked finally, her voice hoarse.

His lips curved, but it wasn't a smile. "Everything."

The air between them crackled with unresolved history-love twisted into rivalry, affection warped into cold transactions. She reached out slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the folder.

"I'll read it," she said.

"You'll sign it," he corrected. "Because the longer you hesitate, the more damage your silence costs your family."

She hated him in that moment. Not because he was cruel. But because he was right.

Aria opened the folder, and her world narrowed into black text and a line for her name.

Marry me for ninety days.

No love. No promises. No escape.

Just a signature between salvation and surrender.

And Damon Blackwell was holding the pen.

Aria's fingers trembled as she held the pen Damon handed her. She hadn't even read the fine print yet, but she already felt the weight of each word like chains waiting to close around her wrists.

Her eyes scanned the first page. A legally binding union. Term: ninety days. Public appearances required. Shared residence mandatory. Clause 7: All media inquiries will be managed by Blackwell Enterprises' legal department. Clause 12: No physical intimacy required unless both parties agree.

That last one made her heart skip a beat-and not in a way that thrilled her.

She looked up at him. "So that's what this is? A façade to protect your precious image?"

Damon leaned against the edge of his desk, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. "Call it what you want. My investors need stability. A reckless bachelor CEO doesn't inspire much confidence. A married man, on the other hand..." He shrugged. "It's a chess move. And you're the queen I need on the board."

She hated how calmly he said it. Like their past didn't matter. Like her heart hadn't been shattered when he walked away years ago with nothing more than a note.

"No one else wanted to play house with the ice king?" she snapped.

Something dark flickered in his eyes. "I didn't want anyone else."

The silence between them thickened. Aria gripped the pen tighter, trying to breathe through the noise in her head.

"You left me," she said, almost a whisper. "No closure. No explanation. You vanished. And now you're asking me to pretend we're something we're not?"

His jaw tensed, but he didn't respond. Not immediately.

"I'm not asking," he finally said. "I'm offering you a lifeline. You need me, Aria. Don't pretend you walked in here for charity."

That hurt more than it should have. But he wasn't wrong. Her mother's condition had worsened. Her bills were snowballing. And her pride? It was already in pieces on this office floor.

"Will you really help my mother?" she asked quietly. "You'll pay the hospital bills? Keep her treatment going?"

"Yes," Damon said, without hesitation. "Full coverage. For as long as the contract is honored."

Aria felt the sting of tears but blinked them away before he could see. This wasn't about emotion anymore. This was survival-hers and her family's.

Her signature slid across the line before she could overthink it.

Damon reached out, took the folder, and shut it with a soft snap that sounded more like a trap closing than a business transaction ending.

"Good," he said smoothly. "We're married."

She stared at him. "We're not even wearing rings."

Without missing a beat, he opened his drawer and pulled out a velvet box. Inside was a diamond ring-massive, cold, and lifeless.

"Welcome back to the family, Mrs. Blackwell," he said, his voice cool silk. "Your role begins tonight."

Aria sat in stunned silence as Damon slipped the diamond ring onto her finger. It was heavier than she expected-too perfect, too cold. Just like the man who had chosen it.

No vows. No ceremony. No witnesses. Just a signature and a diamond that sparkled like a warning.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered under her breath, but Damon ignored her. He had already moved to his phone, speaking to his assistant in sharp, commanding tones.

"Prepare the press statement. Schedule an appearance at tonight's gala. Yes. She'll be attending. Understood."

Aria's head snapped toward him. "Tonight? You want to parade me in front of your elite audience hours after I signed your damn contract?"

He turned back to her, that glacial calm never breaking. "Of course. What's the point of a chess piece if no one sees it move?"

"I'm not a pawn-"

"You're not," he said, interrupting her sharply. "You're my wife now, Aria. Even if only on paper. And wives stand beside their husbands, especially when the entire board is watching."

A bitter laugh escaped her. "You really haven't changed."

"And yet, here you are."

His words stung, mostly because they were true. She should've walked away. Should've slammed the door on his twisted game. But instead, she stood there, in his office, wearing his ring and burying everything she once felt beneath cold logic.

"Fine," she said, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Where is this gala?"

"Lyonnaise Hotel. Seven sharp. My driver will pick you up at six. A stylist will arrive at your apartment within the hour."

He looked her over then, gaze drifting down her body-not with lust, but with brutal precision.

"You'll need something less... bargain bin."

Her cheeks flushed. "I'm not here for your approval."

"No. You're here for your mother's life. Don't forget that."

The door opened, and his assistant appeared with a folder. "Mr. Blackwell, the media release has been drafted. Would you like to review?"

He waved a hand. "Send it out."

Aria's heart dropped. "You already told the media?"

He looked at her like she'd asked something obvious. "The news will break within the hour. I prefer to control the narrative."

She felt sick. The world would know. Her friends. Her enemies. Everyone. And they'd all think she married Damon Blackwell for love-or worse, for money.

But no one would know the truth.

And she wasn't sure if that made it better or worse.

Damon moved toward the window, hands in his pockets, looking out at the skyline. "Play your role, Aria. Be the doting wife. Smile. Lie if you must. Just make it convincing."

She stood, chest tight, fingers curled at her sides.

"I hope you know what you've started," she said, voice low.

He didn't turn around.

"So do I."

The grand ballroom of the Lyonnaise Hotel shimmered under crystal chandeliers, the scent of champagne and old money thick in the air. Aria stood at the top of the marble staircase, her fingers clenching the clutch bag the stylist had forced into her palm.

She wore a crimson silk gown that hugged her curves like a second skin-chosen, tailored, and delivered within three hours. Everything about her screamed elegance and opulence... except the haunted look in her eyes.

She didn't belong here.

But when Damon extended a hand to her at the bottom of the stairs, smiling like a man who had just won the world, she forced her spine straight and descended. Flashbulbs exploded. Camera lenses zoomed in. Reporters gasped.

"Mr. Blackwell!"

"Who's the stunning woman with you?"

"Is this the rumored wife?"

"When did the wedding happen?"

"Is it true you married a former lover?"

Aria held his arm as Damon guided her through the chaos like a ship through a storm. She smiled, posed, waved-everything he instructed. But every click of the camera felt like a nail in her coffin.

Inside the ballroom, high society buzzed like bees in designer suits and six-inch heels.

"Damon, you never told us you were taken!" purred a platinum-blonde heiress.

"Congratulations," sneered a man in a sharp navy tux, his tone anything but sincere. "I didn't think you had a heart."

Aria remained poised, but the storm inside her churned with every fake smile and venom-laced compliment. Damon's grip never loosened on her waist. To the crowd, they were golden. Perfect. Powerful.

To her, they were strangers playing a farce.

As she tried to escape toward the refreshment table, a soft voice cut through the chatter.

"Aria?"

Her entire body froze.

She turned slowly-and came face to face with a man she hadn't seen in three years. Julian Ward. Her ex-fiancé.

His brown eyes widened as they dropped to the glittering ring on her finger. "You married Damon Blackwell?"

Her breath caught. Her world narrowed. She opened her mouth-but Damon was already beside her, sliding an arm around her shoulders like armor.

"Yes," he said coolly, "She's mine now. I suggest you remember that."

Julian's eyes darkened. "Does she feel the same?"

Damon's smirk was slow. Dangerous. "Ask her yourself."

Both men turned to her.

Waiting.

Testing.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

And for the first time that night, Aria didn't have a script.