Chapter 4 The Contract and the Cold Wedding

"Miss Hart, carefully read it. I don't want you to subsequently claim ignorance.

As he moved the heavy contract across the desk, Nicholas spoke in a cool, collected tone. It was heavier than paper should have been as if the weight of my future were contained in the ink that bound its words.

I snatched it up and skimmed the exact words that described the conditions of this strange arrangement. A marriage of one year. Restrictions on appearances in public. Clauses of confidentiality. Monetary arrangements that would keep the art center afloat for many years to come. The chilling fact that I was going to trade my freedom was buried deep behind the clinical legalese.

I murmured, "This is... detailed," with a little tremble in my voice.

"Of course," said Nicholas, reclining in his seat. "Success depends on the details. Do you find the terms satisfactory?"

Are you happy? No. Captured? Totally.

"I need one thing added," I murmured, trying to keep my voice steady.

A tiny glimmer of astonishment pierced his cold façade as his eyebrow raised. "Go on." "My art center," I murmured, holding onto the contract's edge. "Regardless of what transpires between us, I want it safeguarded. "The center is unaffected if this... deal goes south."

Adrian looked at me for a while, his face unreadable. At last, he gave a nod. "Done."

I became even more wary of him since his acquiescence was almost too simple.

"Why are you agreeing so quickly?"

"Because I'm not the villain you think I am," he added, holding his lips in a little grin.

Though I didn't have the luxury of further investigation, I didn't believe him. He offered me a pen across the desk, and I took it and wrote my name over the dotted line.

I could feel my heart pounding on my ribs, urging me to halt, think twice, and flee. However, I didn't.

Nicholas accepted the contract and got up as I raised the pen. He extended a hand and remarked, "Welcome to the beginning of your new life," with ease.

I refused to accept it.

The wedding was clinical, emotionless, and cold-exactly what I had anticipated.

Far from the prying eyes of the media, the ceremony was held in a lavish room at a private courthouse. There was just one witness and Nicholas's attorney present. Not a family. No companions. No romanticism.

As though someone had looked at my measurements without ever asking, the dress they gave me fit me like a glove. Like the event itself, it was exquisite, lovely, and completely dead.

Beside me, Nicholas was spotless in a black suit that seemed to catch every ray of light in the space. He looked at the officiant with a stony attitude as if this were a routine business meeting rather than the start of a marriage.

The officiant's voice was cold and monotonous when it came time to exchange vows. With a calm, quick hand, Nicholas placed the ring on my finger with the same accuracy he might use to sign a contract.

As the officiant said, "You may kiss the bride,"

Nicholas hesitated a bit. Something inscrutable flickered across his face as our eyes connected. Then he leaned in and gave me the shortest, most robotic kiss he could manage. It wasn't more than a formality.

We turned to the two witnesses, and I felt the cold metal of the ring pressing down on my finger. A single, abrupt clap from Nicholas's attorney reverberated through the quiet.

It was over in an instant. Mrs. Nicholas Scott was my name.

Unspoken tension hung in the air between us during the quiet limo trip to Nicholas's apartment. While Nicholas browsed through his phone, utterly unaffected by the momentous step we had just taken, I gazed out the window, seeing the city fade by.

"Do you always compartmentalize your life this well?" I broke the stillness by asking.

He didn't raise his head. "It's a necessary skill."

I whispered, "For you, maybe," and looked back out the window.

The penthouse was sleek, contemporary, and impersonal, just as magnificent as I had anticipated. There was no sign of closeness or warmth-it was a mansion designed for one person.

I was shown to a guest room by Nicholas. He said, "This will be yours," in a tone that made no space for disagreement. "I assume you'll want your privacy."

I responded dryly, "Thank you for your generosity," as I entered the room.

His mouth moved in what may have been laughter. "Goodnight, Mrs. Scott."

He then walked away from me.

The days that followed were filled with last-minute changes and well-planned appearances. An agenda detailing charity activities, galas, and meals where I would pretend to be Nicholas's loyal wife was given to me by his assistant.

Pretending to be a part of an imaginary relationship was tiresome. Nicholas was courteous but aloof; he was constantly preoccupied with his business. Unless required, we hardly spoke, and when we did, it was in a stiff, clipped tone.

However, there were times-rare, fleeting times-when I saw glimmers of something more profound beneath his cold veneer-a tense jaw, a prolonged look, a remark that suggested weakness.

The walls would then rise again in an instant, leaving me to wonder if I had dreamed it.

After another formal dinner one evening, I discovered a message hidden beneath my door. Nicholas's exact handwriting was used to write it.

I'll see you in the library. Midnight.

I stared at the note, curiosity battling caution. I couldn't get rid of the feeling that something wasn't right, and Nicholas wasn't the kind to send mysterious messages.

As midnight rolled around, I headed to the library. Long shadows were created on the walls by the flickering glow of the fireplace in the dimly lit room.

Nicholas's profile against the city lights was stark as he stood near the window.

"You wanted to see me?" I entered the room and inquired.

He turned slowly, his expression unreadable. "There's something you ought to know."

My heart fell. He spoke in a somber, even remorseful tone.

"What is it?" My question was hardly audible above a whisper.

Nicholas's jaw tensed as he paused. "Our marriage isn't the only deal I've made."

The door behind me creaked open before I could comprehend what he had said. As a man I didn't recognize entered the room, his presence as commanding as Nicholas's, I whirled around, gasping for air.

The visitor answered, "Well," with a tone full of laughter. "I suppose it's time we told her everything."

The secrets I believed I could manage multiplied before my eyes as the section came to a close, and my world began to tilt once more.