Chapter 4 The Marriage Contract

The silence in the study was weightier than any argument. The thick, mahogany door sealed them inside, and for once, there were no cameras, no stylists, no curated performances.

Just two people... staring at a stack of papers that would define the next three years of their lives.

Elara crossed her arms, her eyes fixed on the pristine contract resting between them on the marble desk. "So this is it?"

Asher stood at the window, arms behind his back like a commander surveying a battlefield. "This is protection-for both of us."

She turned slightly. "Romantic."

He finally faced her. "It was never meant to be romantic."

That sting was subtle, but sharp. She swallowed it down. "Right. Just business."

He walked to the desk and tapped the cover page with a sleek pen. "This outlines everything we discussed-terms, timelines, media coordination, finances, and... personal clauses."

Elara raised a brow. "Personal clauses?"

Asher nodded. "Things that go beyond business-boundaries. Rules. Expectations."

She picked up the contract and started flipping through, scanning the bullet points. Her eyes narrowed as she reached a section titled: Domestic and Public Conduct.

/Clause 5B: Parties will share residence at Lemaire Penthouse.

/Clause 5C: Minimum of one public appearance per week to maintain illusion of normalcy.

/Clause 5D: No romantic entanglements outside the marriage for the duration of the contract.

Elara looked up sharply. "Wait. No dating other people?"

"You're legally my wife," Asher said simply. "It would damage both our reputations if we're caught with someone else."

She gave a dry laugh. "Wow. You really did think of everything."

"I protect my assets."

"And I'm one of them?"

He met her gaze. "We both are."

Setting Boundaries

After reviewing the rest of the terms, Elara leaned back in her chair. "You left out one thing."

Asher tilted his head. "What's that?"

"A clause about... intimacy."

He blinked, expression unreadable. "You think we need one?"

"I think it's better to be clear. No blurred lines. No unexpected... situations."

"Meaning?"

She didn't flinch. "No sex. Not unless we both agree-clearly, consciously."

A long pause stretched between them.

Asher eventually nodded. "Add it. Clause 9C."

"Thank you."

"But let's be realistic, Elara," he said coolly. "In our world, appearances are everything. If people don't see physical chemistry, they'll assume it's fake."

She folded her arms. "So what? You want to schedule public displays of affection?"

"If needed."

Elara leaned forward, voice sharp. "I'm not a puppet, Asher. I'm not here to fake being touched like a trophy for your board."

He didn't back down. "And I'm not going to let whispers destroy the Lemaire name. We both have images to protect."

They glared at each other until the tension crackled.

Finally, Elara sighed. "Then we'll agree to play the part-when necessary. But keep your hands to yourself unless I say otherwise."

"Deal."

The Signature Moment

Elara picked up the fountain pen, poised over the signature line.

"You really want to do this?" she asked softly.

Asher's eyes didn't waver. "We already did it. This just sets the terms."

Her hand shook slightly as she signed: Elara Genevieve Wren-Lemaire.

Asher followed suit, his name curling smoothly across the page: Asher Dane Lemaire.

The moment was quiet. Too quiet. Like the calm before a storm.

He sealed the papers in a leather folder and placed it in the safe behind a hidden panel in the bookshelf.

When he turned back around, she was watching him-closely.

"No regrets?" she asked.

He gave her a half-smile. "Regret is a luxury I don't indulge in."

"Then you've never truly cared about anything."

That hit deeper than either of them expected.

He didn't reply.

Dinner with a Side of Tension

That evening, a chef delivered dinner to the penthouse. Asher insisted they eat together-not for romance, but for optics, in case of any unplanned paparazzi surveillance.

Elara sat at the glass dining table, picking at her grilled sea bass while he scrolled through a tablet, barely touching his food.

"So," she said at last. "What happens if one of us wants out early?"

He looked up. "Then we activate Clause 13."

She raised an eyebrow. "Which says?"

"We pay each other off. Equal compensation. A mutual NDA. And both our families suffer minor scandal fallout."

"Sounds messy."

"It is."

"Which means... we're stuck."

"Only for 1,094 days," he said flatly. "Give or take."

Elara snorted. "How reassuring."

They lapsed into silence again.

But this time, it wasn't awkward-it was strangely... manageable.

Late Night Reflection

Later that night, Elara couldn't sleep. She wandered into the massive library that lined the east side of the penthouse and ran her fingers over the spines of books she knew had probably never been opened.

The city lights blinked through the glass like distant stars. She stood still for a while, letting the quiet swallow her.

Behind her, soft footsteps approached.

"Can't sleep either?" Asher asked.

She shook her head. "Too quiet."

He nodded, joining her near the window. "I've lived alone for years. You get used to it."

"I've never liked silence," she said. "It makes me think too much."

"What are you thinking now?"

She hesitated. "That I've just signed away three years of my life for people who'll never thank me."

"They won't. But you did it anyway."

She looked at him. "So did you."

His gaze didn't waver. "We both did what was necessary."

She studied him in the low light. For the first time, his face didn't look carved from stone. It looked... tired. Human.

"How did you become this person, Asher?"

He gave a mirthless chuckle. "I stopped trusting people. It works."

"But it's lonely."

"Yes," he said quietly. "It is."

They stood there for a while, side by side-not touching, not smiling-but something unspoken bridged the space between them.

A crack in the armor.

A flicker of understanding.

The Next Morning

Elara woke to the smell of espresso and the soft hum of morning news. She stepped into the kitchen to find Asher already dressed, hair damp from a recent shower, suit crisp.

He handed her a coffee.

"No poisoned chalice this time," he joked.

She took it, surprised. "Thanks."

He nodded toward a folder on the counter. "The finalized contract. I'll have the legal team file it today."

She stared at it, then at him.

Something about the way he looked at her now was different-not warmer, but less guarded.

"You know," she said as he walked to the elevator, "for someone who claims to hate emotions, you're not half-bad at pretending to care."

He paused.

Then he turned and offered a rare, genuine smile.

"Neither are you."