Chapter 2 The Contract of No Return

The elevator ride to Damien Blackthorn's penthouse felt like a descent into another world. Selena stood in the gleaming steel box, surrounded by silence and her own pounding heartbeat. The man beside her-her soon-to-be husband-was unreadable, arms crossed, his sharp profile lit by the low glow of ambient lights.

She could feel the heat radiating from him, but his expression was a mask of perfect disinterest. Cold. Untouchable. Infuriating.

Exactly what she needed him to be.

"Don't flatter yourself," she muttered under her breath.

Damien didn't look at her, but the corner of his mouth twitched again. "You keep talking to yourself like that, people might think you're nervous."

"I'm not nervous. Just disgusted."

"Careful," he said. "The press loves a bitter bride."

The elevator chimed.

Selena blinked as the doors slid open-not to a hallway, but directly into his penthouse. Expansive windows wrapped around the open space, offering a glittering view of the city skyline. Marble floors, crystal lighting, clean-cut minimalism. The kind of sterile beauty money could buy. It didn't feel like a home-it felt like a curated cage.

He stepped inside like he owned everything, including the air she breathed.

"You'll stay in the east wing," Damien said, gesturing toward a hallway that curved out of sight. "Your own room, your own closet, your own privacy. As per your... condition."

"And what about yours?"

He turned to her slowly. "I only have one: Obey the terms."

Selena's eyes narrowed. "What terms?"

Damien moved to a side table and retrieved a black folder. With a flick, he opened it and handed her the crisp pages inside.

Marriage Contract.

Her name and his, side by side. Neatly typed clauses. Cold legalese that outlined her life for the next twelve months.

Clause One: Public appearances will be attended together, three times minimum per month.

Clause Two: No scandals, no dating, no compromising behavior.

Clause Three: Selena will assume the Blackthorn name during the marriage.

Clause Four: No physical intimacy unless both parties agree in writing.

Clause Five: Confidentiality is binding. Breach results in immediate legal action.

Clause after clause bled her dry.

But she didn't flinch.

He was giving her survival. She was giving him control. This was business, not emotion.

And yet... her fingers trembled when she signed her name.

Damien watched her, his expression unreadable. When she slid the papers back to him, he signed with effortless grace-no hesitation, no second thought. As if this marriage were no more significant than a quarterly report.

"It's done," he said simply.

Selena turned away, needing distance.

"Tomorrow, the media announcement goes live," Damien continued. "Engagement photos at nine, a curated interview by noon. You'll be briefed on your lines."

"Lines?" she repeated sharply. "You expect me to lie to the world?"

"I expect you to play the part you offered." He crossed the room toward her. "You wanted a deal, Selena. Don't act shocked it comes with rules."

She spun toward him, fire in her eyes. "This is more than rules-this is theater."

"Exactly," Damien said coolly. "And you? You're the lead actress."

Their gazes clashed like steel. She hated how close he was again-how easy it would be to forget why she hated him in the first place. The way he looked at her, like he could break her with a whisper or a kiss.

Damien's hand brushed a strand of hair from her face-his first touch since their deal.

Selena froze.

"I won't touch you again," he said, voice lower now, more dangerous, "unless you beg for it."

Her skin flushed with heat and shame-and something else she refused to name.

"Don't flatter yourself," she whispered again, stepping back.

But he just smiled like he already owned her.

And maybe he did.

Later That Night...

Selena stood in her assigned bedroom-larger than her entire childhood home-feeling like a prisoner in silk pajamas. The city twinkled outside, mocking her. On the vanity sat a silver box with her name etched on it.

Inside?

A diamond ring.

Six carats. Brilliant-cut. Cold as the man who chose it.

She slipped it onto her finger, hating how perfectly it fit.

Tomorrow, the world would believe she belonged to him.

But inside, she made herself a silent promise:

She might be his wife.

But Damien Blackthorn would never have her heart.