Chapter 3 SIGNED IN CHAINS

Camille's point of view

I didn't sleep.

Not a single second.

The night stretched out like a cold metal chain around my ankles,every hour a new weight, every minute dragging me deeper into a pit I couldn't escape from. I stared at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom, where posters from high school still hung like distant memories from a simpler life. Life before my dad's mistake. Before Sebastian Blackwood.

By dawn, I was numb. But I'd made my choice.

Not for myself. Never for me.

For Dylan Hayes,the broken man who used to carry me on his shoulders and call me his little "comet." The one who messed up but still looked at me like I was his only hope in the world.

I showered in silence, dressed in silence, and caught a cab back to the tower of glass where everything had gone wrong. My heart beat steadily, stubbornly, like it hadn't realized it was about to be signed away.

When I walked into Sebastian's office, he didn't even look up.

He was seated behind his desk, typing something, dressed in another one of his ink-black suits. Always in control. Always three moves ahead.

"I'll do it," I said, voice hoarse.

He paused, hands hovering above the keyboard. Then slowly, deliberately, he met my eyes. His face didn't change. No satisfaction, no gloating.

Just a clinical nod. "Good."

He pulled open the same black folder and slid it across the desk to me again. This time, a pen sat neatly on top, its silver glint catching the morning light.

I opened the folder and skimmed it again,though I knew the words already. Burned into my brain.

Term of one year. No emotional involvement. No physical contact unless agreed upon. Required public appearances. Full cohabitation in the primary residence of Mr. Sebastian Blackwood.

I felt like I was signing away my soul.

The pen scratched against the paper, loud in the silence of the room. One signature. Then another. And with the final loop of my name, Camille Hayes ceased to exist in any meaningful way.

I was a contract now.

Sebastian stood and extended a hand. "Welcome to the merger."

I didn't take it. I stood instead and walked out.

The preparations were done with military efficiency. There was no laughter, no flowers, no vows exchanged in love. Just a team of stylists, assistants, and planners sweeping me into a whirlwind of lace, lip gloss, and cold air.

The wedding dress was designed by someone famous,hand-stitched and worth more than everything in my closet combined. It was beautiful, technically, with soft ivory silk and delicate beadwork. But as I stood in front of the mirror, I didn't feel like a bride.

I felt like a sacrifice.

"This one's the best for photos," one of the stylists said. "It gives you a soft look,more fragile, more poetic."

Fragile. Poetic. Pretty. Obedient.

I swallowed the bile in my throat and nodded.

We were married that afternoon at a courthouse in downtown Manhattan. The ceremony was stripped to its bones,no guests, no cake, no exchange of anything resembling love. Just legal formalities, performed in a marble room with a judge who barely looked at me.

Sebastian didn't touch me once.

We signed more papers. Took a single photo. The press would be sent a carefully written press release about a "private, strategic union between two influential families," complete with a photo of us smiling on cue.

I barely remember blinking.

But I do remember Vanessa.

She appeared on the courthouse steps like a ghost in red.

Her crimson dress clung to her figure like sin itself, her heels clicking loudly as she approached. A smirk played on her lips, venomous and amused.

"Well, well," she purred, eyes flicking over me like I was a lost puppy she couldn't wait to kick. "Didn't think you'd go through with it. Brave,or just stupid?"

"Not today, Vanessa," Sebastian said flatly, brushing past her.

"Come on, darling," she cooed. "Let the poor girl know what she's walking into. Or is that part of the game now? Letting them figure it out after the ink's dry?"

I stared at her, my stomach coiling. "Why are you even here?"

She leaned in, lips just inches from my ear. "Because, sweetheart... I was you. And I want front-row seats to the breakdown."

Then she walked away.

No one stopped her.

The Blackwood penthouse sat atop the sixtieth floor, overlooking a city that pulsed and glittered like it didn't care whose hearts it crushed. It was the kind of place you'd see in a magazine,glass walls, minimalist furniture, polished floors without a speck of dust. Beautiful and sterile, like a hospital for the wealthy.

There were no photos. No warmth. No books or family portraits or signs of life. Just silence.

Sebastian led me in, said nothing, and walked me down a hallway toward a bedroom on the left.

"This is yours," he said. "Mine is down the hall. The kitchen is automated. There's a private gym. You'll be expected to appear at several events this week,details will be sent to your email."

I stood in the doorway, my dress too heavy, my limbs too stiff. "That's it? No 'welcome home' speech?"

He turned slightly. "This isn't home, Camille. This is a contract."

His voice was emotionless. Final.

He handed me a printed page. Rules.

No entering his office without permission.

No unapproved social media posts.

No discussing the marriage with anyone outside the legal team.

Appear happy in public.

Be silent in private.

I blinked at the list. "You know this is insane, right?"

He didn't reply.

Instead, he walked down the hall and closed the door behind him. I heard the soft click of a lock.

That night, I wandered the halls, the hem of my dress trailing behind me like a ghost.

I couldn't sleep. Not in the silk-sheeted bed that didn't smell like anything. Not in the silence that echoed louder than any noise.

Eventually, I found myself standing outside his office door.

I knew it was off-limits. I also didn't care.

The handle turned without resistance.

The room was different than the rest of the penthouse. Dimly lit. More... lived-in. A large desk sat by the window, cluttered with files. A tall bookshelf lined one wall, filled with old hardcovers and dusty folders. On the far side, a corkboard covered in sketches and scribbled notes.

And on the desk,facedown,was a photo.

I picked it up.

It was old. Faded at the edges. A boy no older than six, grinning widely with a tooth missing. Beside him, a woman with kind eyes and dark curls held him tight.

Written in black ink on the bottom corner: Lena & Me , 2002

I stared at the photo, my heart suddenly too soft for my chest. Who was Lena? His mother? A sister?

The boy... was that Sebastian?

Before the chill. Before the walls.

A loud noise startled me.

A scream.

Raw, guttural, and coming from down the hall.

I dropped the photo and ran.

When I reached his door, I hesitated. Another scream echoed from behind it,lower this time, broken, like a man caught in the grip of something dark.

I knocked once.

No answer.

"Sebastian?"

Still nothing.

I pushed the door open.

He was thrashing in bed, the sheets tangled around him, sweat soaking his shirt. His fists clenched, body twitching violently.

"No-Lena-don't-don't go-" he murmured, gasping.

I stepped closer, unsure what to do. "Sebastian?"

His eyes snapped open.

Gray. Wide. Haunted.

For a moment, he just stared at me like he couldn't tell the difference between dream and reality.

Then, just as quickly, he turned his back to me.

"Get out."

"I-"

"GET OUT."

His voice cracked like a whip, cutting through the air.

I stumbled back, heart thudding. The door clicked shut behind me, but the echo of his scream lingered in the hallway like a ghost refusing to leave.

And in that moment, one truth burned brighter than the city outside:

Sebastian Blackwood was hiding more than secrets.

He was haunted by them.