Chapter 2 The Proposal

Aria Monroe had never imagined that the first marriage proposal she'd receive would come with a legally binding contract and a diamond ring she needed a forklift to wear. Yet here she was, sitting across from Damien Sinclair in a minimalist glass office overlooking Manhattan, feeling like she'd stepped into someone else's life. Someone wealthier. Someone colder. Someone much more desperate.

He hadn't smiled once.

Not when she entered. Not when she hesitantly said yes. Not even when she signed the contract that would tether them together for the next twelve months.

She tried not to feel insulted. This wasn't a romance. It was a business arrangement-one he had orchestrated with surgical precision.

Damien slid the marriage license across the sleek table, the edges of the paper crisp, official. She stared at it for a moment longer than necessary.

"You can still back out," he said quietly, watching her. "Until it's signed, you're free to walk."

"I've signed leases scarier than this," Aria replied, managing a small smirk.

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but something close.

She signed her name with a slow exhale. "There. Aria Monroe. Or is it Sinclair now?"

"In public, yes," Damien said. "Privately, you can remain who you are."

He pulled open a drawer and placed a small velvet box on the table. Aria's brows lifted.

"I figured if we're going to fool the world, we may as well make it believable."

She opened the box-and gasped. Inside, nestled against black velvet, was a ring so luminous it made her eyes water.

"That's... a lot of diamonds."

"Two carats. Cushion-cut. Platinum band. Harry Winston," he said, like he was reciting data from a spreadsheet.

"I feel like I should thank a small village for mining this."

Damien allowed a breath of amusement. "It's yours for the duration of the contract."

She slipped the ring onto her finger. It was heavier than she expected. It glittered like it belonged on someone else's hand-someone with a trust fund, a stylist, and an army of social media followers.

Not a broke artist from Brooklyn who painted portraits of grief.

He stood, buttoning his suit. "We'll get married tonight. Quietly. My legal team has secured a notary. My driver will pick you up at six."

"Six?" Her eyes widened. "That's just a few hours from now."

"We're on a deadline."

"Right. Midnight."

He didn't elaborate, and she didn't ask again. Whatever this deadline meant, it mattered deeply to him-and not just financially. She could see it in his posture, his unflinching focus. Damien Sinclair was a man on the edge, and this marriage was his last line of defense.

"Wear something simple," he added. "You'll need to move in with me tomorrow. The press will expect it."

"Of course they will," she said, mostly to herself.

As she stood to leave, he paused and looked directly at her.

"This isn't personal, Aria. It's strategy."

She met his gaze. "And yet it feels like war."

By the time she returned to her apartment, her legs felt like they'd borrowed someone else's strength. She stared at the engagement ring on her finger, turning it in the light. It was breathtaking. Stunning. Fake.

In the bathroom mirror, she rehearsed smiling.

It came out brittle.

She couldn't tell if the anxiety tightening her chest was from entering a sham marriage or from the texts still haunting her phone.

Unknown Number: You think a rich husband can save you? He doesn't know who you really are.

She deleted it, heart pounding.

Then she opened her closet. Simple, he said. Her definition of "simple" was probably very different from Damien's, but she chose a pale cream dress-vintage lace, hemmed just above the knee. Feminine. Modest. Timeless.

At exactly 6:00 PM, a sleek black town car waited outside. The driver opened the door wordlessly, and Aria slid in, hugging her small clutch to her chest. As the city passed in a blur, she thought of her mother. How she'd always said Aria was a firecracker-fierce, creative, unpredictable.

"Mom," she whispered, "what would you think of this?"

The car pulled up to an estate that looked like it belonged on the cover of Architectural Digest. Damien was waiting at the entrance, dressed in a classic black tuxedo, his expression unreadable.

"You look... appropriate," he said.

"Gee, thanks."

Inside, the ceremony was quick and cold. The notary was efficient, barely looking up as he read through the vows. Aria signed. Damien signed. No guests. No champagne. No first dance.

When the notary pronounced them husband and wife, a strange silence settled between them.

Damien turned to her. "Tradition requires a kiss."

She raised an eyebrow. "You don't strike me as traditional."

"I'm not. But this marriage needs to look real, especially if anyone ever asks."

He leaned in, brushed his lips softly against her cheek. It was formal. Controlled. Yet her skin tingled afterward.

They stood in the ornate parlor, surrounded by gilded mirrors and silence.

"We're married," she said quietly.

"Contractually," he replied, without missing a beat.

A housekeeper entered, announcing dinner. Damien waved her off.

"No need. I have work to finish."

Aria blinked. "So, that's it? We marry and then go to separate corners of the castle?"

He paused. "You're free to explore the house. Just... stay out of the west wing. It's under renovation."

She nearly laughed. "Seriously? That's the most ominous thing you could say."

His mouth quirked. "Then take it however you'd like."

And with that, he left her standing alone, married to a man who treated her like a line item on a balance sheet.

As she wandered through the quiet halls, her heels echoing on marble floors, Aria realized something: she wasn't just stepping into Damien Sinclair's world-she was entering his cage. And despite the diamond ring and designer walls, it was colder than she'd ever imagined.

But she wasn't the only one with secrets.

And Damien Sinclair, for all his control, had walls built too high for any honest man.

She glanced down at the ring again, feeling its weight.

"Twelve months," she whispered to herself. "I can survive twelve months."

But something deep inside warned her: surviving wasn't going to be the hardest part.

Falling for him might be.