Chapter 3 Cold Hands, Warm lies

Sophia woke to the sound of classical music drifting from the hallway-soft piano notes twining through the morning air like silk thread.

For a moment, she forgot where she was. The sheets were Egyptian cotton, the mattress cradled her like a cloud, and the room smelled of cedarwood and crisp linen.

The space was obscene in its luxury floor-to-ceiling windows framed like a silver skyline ,the walls were an elegant blend of steel, glass and deep charcoal stone.

Sophia was glamed up with the most expensive jewellery and a gold pair of earrings with an exquisite make up that made her looked so ravishing.

"You had Renée go through this stress for me"? Sophia asked looking all emotional.

"You actually brougt life into the whole make over plans by unleashing your inner beauty" Damon replied softly with a smiling face.

Then reality returned like a splash of ice water.

She was in Damon Wolfe's penthouse.

And as of 9:00 a.m. that morning, she was his wife-at least on paper.

A wedding without a kiss. A vow without emotion. A signature that sold a year of her life for the chance to save everything she'd ever loved.

She slid out of bed and padded toward the adjoining closet, where a row of designer clothes had appeared overnight.

Every item was custom, color-coordinated, and far beyond anything she'd ever worn. Still, she pulled on a silk blouse, tailored slacks, and the low heels Renée insisted were "casually commanding."

When she emerged into the kitchen, Damon was already there-reading the Financial Times, dressed in another dark suit. He looked up as she entered, his expression unreadable.

"Morning," she said carefully.

He tilted his head. "You slept well?"

"I did, surprisingly." She glanced at the glass wall behind him. The skyline was breathtaking, like a painting no artist could replicate.

"Good," he said. "We have a full schedule. Breakfast, then an interview with Elite Magazine."

Sophia blinked. "Already?"

"They're the first outlet to officially break the news. We'll be photographed, asked questions about our 'whirlwind romance.' I expect discretion and consistency."

She sat across from him. "Should we practice our love story, then?"

His mouth twitched. "Smart."

Sophia leaned forward, playful despite her nerves. "How did we meet?"

"At a gallery in SoHo. You spilled wine on my shoes. I offered to replace them."

She raised a brow. "And I said no, because I thought you were arrogant and entitled."

He smirked. "But also handsome."

She gave him a look. "You added that part."

Damon shrugged. "Truth sells."

They worked out the rest of the narrative over scrambled eggs and espresso-first date in Central Park, late-night calls that turned into sunrise conversations, the infamous proposal at a private rooftop garden.

By the time they left for the studio, Sophia almost believed the story herself.

The magazine shoot was a blur of camera flashes, fabric swishes, and carefully crafted smiles. Sophia posed with Damon in front of minimalist backdrops-her hand in his, her head on his shoulder. Their chemistry was effortless, almost dangerous.

Between shots, the stylist whispered, "You two actually seem in love. Is it real?"

Sophia smiled tightly. "Feels that way sometimes."

By the end of the afternoon, she was exhausted. Every part of her felt scrubbed, polished, and presented. But as she stepped out of the changing room, Damon was waiting.

His gaze lingered.

"You clean up well," he said.

She rolled her eyes. "Is that your version of a compliment?"

He didn't smile. "You did well today."

It was the closest thing to approval she'd heard from him.

"Thanks," she said. "Maybe I'll survive this year after all."

That evening, Sophia wandered into the penthouse's private library. It was an unexpected sanctuary-floor-to-ceiling books, worn leather chairs, a crackling fire that softened the modern cold of the rest of the home.

She sank into a chair with a sigh, pulling a novel from the shelf at random. Halfway through the first chapter, she heard the soft shuffle of footsteps behind her.

"You're hiding," Damon said.

"I'm recovering," she corrected.

He stepped into the firelight, jacket gone, sleeves rolled. He looked less like the icy billionaire and more like a man with too many thoughts behind quiet eyes.

She watched him carefully. "You really don't like talking about yourself, do you?"

"There's nothing worth talking about."

She tilted her head. "You were once in love. You said so."

A flicker of something crossed his face.

"It ended badly," he said simply.

"What happened?"

He looked at her for a long moment. "She didn't want my world. And I couldn't give her a different one."

Sophia nodded, quiet. She understood that more than she liked to admit.

"I know what it's like to need something desperately and not be able to have it," she said softly. "Not because you don't want it. But because it costs more than you can afford."

Damon sat across from her, his eyes dark and intense.

"And what is it you want most, Sophia?"

She met his gaze. "Freedom."

He nodded slowly. "Then help me win this war. And I'll make sure you get it."

They sat in silence, the fire crackling between them. The air shifted-not quite romantic, not yet dangerous-but charged all the same.

"Why do I get the feeling," she said quietly, "that this arrangement will cost more than either of us expected?"

Damon stood and looked down at her with something unreadable in his eyes.

"Because you're not as naïve as you look."

Then he walked away, leaving her alone in a room full of stories.

Later that night, Sophia stood by the window in her bedroom, watching the city pulse beneath her. She felt changed already-like the girl who walked into that auction no longer existed.

She was someone else now.

Someone who belonged to the night. To a man with a past. To a future wrapped in paper promises and shadowed secrets.

But she wasn't afraid.

Not anymore.

Because for the first time in her life, the stakes were high enough to make her feel alive.