Chapter 5 Married

{Anya}

His voice doesn't shake. Doesn't waver. Just hanging there, three syllables so foreign it sounded sarcastic.

"Marry me"

I laugh. Or maybe it's a sob. The sound gets trapped somewhere between my ribs and the shattered photo in my hands - Mom, Dad, David, and me, grinning on Coney Island, cotton candy smeared across David's chin. Now the image is torn right through the middle. Just like everything else.

"What?" I say, because my brain's stuck on the audacity. The gall. The way he stands there, pristine in his thousand-dollar suit, surrounded by the wreckage of my life, and has the nerve to-

"A contract marriage," he clarifies, like I'm slow. Like this is a boardroom negotiation. "Public. Legal. You get access to my resources. Security, investigators, everything you need to keep yourself and family safe while you investigate who's responsible for everything. I get..."

I step closer, glass crunching under my boots. "A shield? A pawn?"

His jaw flexes. "A partner."

The lie is so obvious I almost pity him. Partners don't have eyes that cold. Partners don't show up uninvited, trailing blood and bullets and promises that reek of manipulation.

"Why?" I snap.

For a second, his mask slips. Just a flicker- something raw, almost human -in those inkwell eyes. Then it's gone. "Because it's the only way to keep them safe." He nods at the chaos. "And the only way you'll ever get the truth." I have my own mysteries to solve. Your help would be an asset."

The truth. The word tastes bitter. Dad's voice whispers in my head: Truth is a weapon, Anya. Sharper than any lie.

I straightened. "You think I'd trust you?"

"No." His lips quirked, a ghost of a smile. "But you'll use me. Same way I'm using you."

Bastard.

He's right, and we both know it. David's voice drifts from the hospital bed in my memory: "You're going to say yes, aren't you? Even though he's got 'sociopath' written all over him."

I stare at the photo again. Dad's face, half-ripped away. Where are you?

"How long?" I ask.

"As long as it takes. Then we dissolve it quietly."

"And if I say no?"

He doesn't blink. "You won't."

I want to scream. To throw the photo in his face. But that isn't the woman Mom and Dad raised. This shell of a man- this stranger -is the only thread left.

I lift my chin. "One condition."

"Name it."

"You don't lie to me. Not once."

His pause is barely a breath. "Deal."

Liar.

But I nod anyway.

***

The courthouse feels different today. It's no wonder why... Alexander's lawyer hands me a pen, the contract sprawling across the table; prenups, NDAs, clauses about "public appearances" and "media discretion." I sign without reading. What's the point? I've already sold my name.

"Happy wedding day," I mutter.

Alexander's tie is too tight. "I can tell by the way his fingers keep tugging at the knot. "We'll file the paperwork tonight. The press will get the announcement tomorrow."

"Can't wait."

His driver took us to the penthouse. Our penthouse, now. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a view of the city that feels like a threat. He shows me to a guest room. Silk sheets. Minimalist art. A closet full of clothes in my size.

"Security detail arrives at six," he says. "Don't leave without them."

"What, no chaperon? "Isn't that part of the deal?"

He hesitates in the doorway. "This isn't a cage, Anya."

"Sure. Just a gilded leash."

The door clicks shut. I collapsed on the bed, clutching Dad's old press pass like a talisman. You'd hate this, wouldn't you? But he's not here. Hasn't been here for ten years.

My phone buzzes.

David: so? When's the wedding?

Me: He snores. Divorcing him tomorrow.

David: knew it. But he sleeps in a coffin.

I smile, but it fades fleetly, like everything else.

I had to be ready. Our wedding was going to happen swiftly. It would still be extravagant. This truly was a whole new world.

The day of the wedding came swiftly.

The cathedral felt like a fever dream. Crystal chandeliers dripping from ceilings higher than heaven. Faces I've only seen on Forbes covers smirk from the pews. My reflection glides across marble floors - ivory lace, blood-red lips, a stranger playing bride.

Mom fidgets with her pearl necklace, a gift from Alexander's vault. "You look..." Her voice cracks. David, in a tux that costs more than our salaries combined, finishes for her: "Like you're going to bolt."

"Not yet."

The organ swells. All eyes turned.

Him.

Alexander waits at the altar, a black tux tailored to every lethal angle. His hair swept back, jaw sharp enough to draw blood. Our gazes lock. For a heartbeat, the lie falters.

Then he offers his hand.

I take it. His grip is warm, grounding. His thumb brushes my knuckles, a flicker of something, before his face shutters back into marble.

The vows are smoke. I do. I do.

His ring slides onto my finger, cold and heavy. Mine fits him like a shackle.

"Kiss the bride," the priest says.

Alexander hesitates. A beat too long. Then he leans in, lips grazing mine. Soft. Chaste. A performance.

The crowd erupts. Cheers, champagne flutes clinking, cameras flashing. But his breath hitches, just once, against my mouth.

Liar.

The reception is a gilded cage. I float through the constellations of the CEO and his heiresses, their congratulations like barbed wire. Mom whispers to David, "Is that the senator?"

Alexander's hand rests on my lower back, branding through lace. Every touch is a live wire. Every glance is a collision.

"Smile," he murmurs as a reporter snaps our photo.

"Make me."

His thumb strokes my spine. I shiver.

Focus.

In the limo, silence thrums. His cologne fills the space between us.

"You played the part well," he says.

"You are the part."

He studies me, eyes black and bottomless. "And you're..."

Don't say beautiful. Don't you dare.

"...thorough."

"Thorough,'' I laugh, sharp as a shattered crystal. But as the city blurs past, his knee brushes mine. And for the first time, he doesn't pull away.