Chapter 2 Signed and Sealed

The papers lay on the glass table like a trap disguised as salvation.

Mila sat in Lucien's office once again, this time in dry clothes, her damp curls pulled into a tight bun and her hands resting nervously on her lap. The silk blouse and fitted skirt she wore weren't hers-Lucien's assistant had provided them that morning, along with a message: "He expects you by ten. Don't be late."

Ten sharp. Just like last night. Except this time, there was no rain to hide behind. No excuses.

Only a pen. A contract. And a man watching her like a hawk.

As she looked to her side, Lucien was across from her in spotless charcoal-gray clothing, his face showing no hints of anything. You could only hear the clock ticking and the window making its quiet hissing sound.

"You've already read it?" he remarked without emotion.

Mila nodded. "Twice."

"And?"

"It's thorough. Alarming. And you're more paranoid than I thought."

"You'll thank me for that later."

She looked down at the pages again, her eyes catching on the bolded clauses:

Clause 3B: No romantic or sexual involvement unless explicitly agreed to in writing.

Clause 4: No personal interviews, photos, or social media activity unless approved by Mr Blackwood.

Clause 6A: In the event of early termination initiated by the spouse, all funds will be revoked.

Clause 10: The marriage must be legally binding and publicly acknowledged.

There were twenty-five pages in total, each one colder than the last. A business deal. Nothing more.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" she whispered back.

"Are you?" he countered.

Mila glanced at the check on the table-already written. Five million dollars. More money than she'd ever seen in her life. Her brother's future, her freedom, her chance at dignity... all wrapped in seven zeroes and Lucien Blackwood's flawless signature.

"Yes," she said finally. "I'm sure."

Lucien reached forward, handing her the pen. "Then sign."

She hesitated only a second longer before pressing the pen to paper. Her signature looked small beneath his-uncertain, almost like it didn't belong there.

But it was done.

As soon as Penelope finished writing, the atmosphere changed. He leaned back in his seat, looking at her with a look that might mean satisfaction. Or triumph.

"You'll move into my penthouse this evening," he said. "The staff has been briefed. My housekeeper, Mrs. Granger, will show you around. You're to accompany me to an event tomorrow night. Black tie."

So it's straight to the media for us now.

"This is not a rehearsal. You are Mrs. Blackwood now." He paused. "At least, you will be tomorrow morning."

Mila's pulse jumped. "Tomorrow?"

"The ceremony is private. At the courthouse. No press."

"You don't waste time, do you?"

Lucien's expression remained flat. "Time is the most valuable currency I own. I don't waste it on sentiment."

She almost pitied him.

Almost.

But there wasn't room for pity here. Only strategy. Mila stood and gathered her bag, her heart pounding. The contract burned in her chest like a brand.

"One year," she said quietly. "That's what we agreed."

He nodded once. "To the day."

What if we step over some unspoken border and create danger?

Lucien's gaze sharpened. "We won't."

And just like that, the wall dropped between them again.

Later that evening...

The penthouse was ridiculous.

Mila had never seen a space so... excessive. Crystal chandeliers. Polished black marble floors. A piano she was sure hadn't been touched in years. Being in the room made it seem like she was floating high over the city.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Granger, was well into her sixties and looked sharp, but wasn't exactly as warm as Mila had hoped.

She led her into a hallway and told her, "You'll be in the guest room on the east wing." "Mr. Blackwood occupies the master suite."

"Of course he does," Mila murmured.

The guest room was still the size of her old apartment. The bed alone could have hosted a small concert. Slowly moving in the middle of the room, she had the sense she had blundered into the wrong setting.

Someone richer. Colder. More controlled.

"Dinner is at seven," Mrs. Granger said. "Mr. Blackwood is never late."

She answered quietly, "I'm glad I know what to do."

As soon as the door shut, she took a deep breath. Hard.

She was in.

But at what cost?

Hours later...

Our family dinner was always stiff, hushed, and not at all easy.

Lucien sat at the leader's chair, hardly eating his meal. Mila picked at hers, unsure if speaking was allowed. The chef had made something French and complicated. It was a name she couldn't speak, let alone enjoy.

Finally, she asked, "Is this the way it's going to continue?"

He looked up. "What do you mean?"

"This. Us. Sitting in silence like strangers in a hotel lobby."

Lucien's gaze held hers. "You are a stranger."

Mila pushed her plate away. "Not for long."

"You want small talk?" he asked with a faint smirk. "Fine. What's your favorite color?"

She blinked. "Seriously?"

"Answer the question."

"...Green."

He nodded. "Mine's black."

"Shocking."

That earned her the slightest flicker of amusement in his eyes. Just a flicker. Then he stood.

"Tomorrow we're expected at the Steinway Gala. You'll wear black. I'll have something sent up."

"And what should I say to your friends? Your business partners? The media?"

"Say nothing. Just smile. You're my wife now. That's all anyone needs to know."

He left without another word.

And for the first time, Mila realized something chilling.

She might be wearing the ring soon. But the real price of this marriage wasn't her signature. It was her silence.