Chapter 8 A Proposal Made of Iron

"Marry me. Not for love. Not yet. For war."

Damon's words settled into the room like smoke-slow, choking, and impossible to ignore.

There was no diamond in his hand. No sweet speech. No trembling hope.

Only a ring-cold, silver, engraved with the Blackwood crest.

He didn't kneel.

He didn't ask twice.

Because this wasn't a proposal for a future.

It was a contract for survival.

I stared down at the ring inside the velvet box. It was heavy just to look at-like a crown forged from secrets.

"You're serious," I whispered.

"I've never been more."

I looked up. "And what would this marriage actually mean?"

His gaze didn't waver. "Protection. Stability. Legitimacy for Micah, for you. A shield."

"A cage."

He said nothing.

"I won't be your next PR move," I added. "Or a pawn to save your empire's reputation."

"I don't care about the empire," he said. "I care about keeping you safe."

"But not because you love me?"

"I don't trust love." His voice dipped, low and brutal. "Love made my mother weak. It ruined my father. It's messy. Unreliable. Unstable."

I took a step back, breath catching in my throat.

"And yet you still want me in your bed. Your name. Your world."

"I want you alive," he said. "And the only way to do that now is to make you untouchable."

I snapped the box shut.

"That's not marriage. That's war strategy."

He didn't flinch.

"Then you understand what's at stake."

The next morning, the internet was a jungle.

I hadn't even made it out of bed when Mrs. Voclain knocked and handed me her phone.

"You need to see this," she murmured.

The screen displayed a blog post from a popular entertainment site.

"EXCLUSIVE: Billionaire Damon Blackwood's Secret Child?"

A blurred image of Micah's face beneath the headline.

The red jacket. The bunny. My baby.

My hands shook.

"They published it," I breathed. "They actually did it."

Mrs. Voclain nodded grimly. "It's already been reposted across a dozen platforms."

I sat down hard on the edge of the bed.

"I didn't think they'd go this far."

"They always do, darling," she said. "Especially when power is involved."

By midday, Blackwood Estate was under siege-figuratively, not physically.

Calls poured in. Journalists stalked the outer gates. A helicopter circled the estate once before being chased off by private security. Even the staff moved differently-quieter, tighter, heads ducked and mouths shut.

Micah remained blissfully unaware.

He built towers with his blocks in the corner of the room, humming to himself while the world outside tried to shatter ours.

I envied him for it.

The innocence.

The peace.

But innocence doesn't survive scandal.

And neither does silence.

Damon didn't speak to me all morning. We moved like ghosts in the same house-avoiding each other, orbiting around a shared storm.

By afternoon, I finally left the room. I needed air. Space. Sanity.

That's when I saw her.

Tall. Elegant. Ice blonde. Dressed in a white pantsuit that looked like it cost more than my rent had ever been.

She stood on the southern terrace with a cigarette poised between two fingers and sunglasses shielding her eyes-even though the sun was hiding.

She looked up as I approached and smiled.

"Finally," she said. "The woman everyone's whispering about."

I stiffened. "Who are you?"

"Sylvia Carrington," she replied smoothly. "Ex-fiancée. Legacy stockholder. Still on the board."

She didn't offer her hand. I wouldn't have taken it anyway.

"Nice outfit," she added. "Very... unbranded. Charming."

"I wasn't dressing to impress."

"You don't need to. You already made quite the impression-sleeping your way into an heir and an inheritance."

I smiled thinly. "Is that what they're calling motherhood now?"

She laughed. "Touché. You've got bite."

"I've got survival instincts."

"Same thing."

She took a long drag from her cigarette and looked out across the vineyard.

"I've seen them all come and go, you know. The dancers. The models. Even a duchess once. None of them made it past month three."

"Let me guess," I said. "You're the only one who mattered?"

She turned, smiling like a knife. "I was the one who matched his darkness."

"That's not love."

"That's the only kind Damon understands."

I didn't answer.

Because part of me feared she was right.

Sylvia stepped closer, lowering her sunglasses to meet my eyes.

"Here's my advice, Liana-don't marry him."

I blinked. "Is that a warning?"

"It's a favor. From one woman to another."

"Why would you care?"

"I don't," she said. "But I hate seeing history repeat itself."

"I'm not you."

"No. You're worse. Because you actually think he's capable of loving you."

Her words hit like a slap.

"You know what happens when Damon feels out of control?" she went on. "He creates new rules. New contracts. New boundaries. He rewrites the game to keep himself from bleeding."

She dropped the cigarette and crushed it beneath her heel.

"Enjoy the storm, sweetheart."

Then she walked away, heels echoing like gunshots down the terrace.

Later that night, I sat at my window, watching lightning flicker across the sky. The estate felt like a fortress now-too many cameras, too many locked doors, too many secrets.

Micah was asleep in my bed, holding that damn bunny like it could save him.

I wanted to cry.

I didn't.

I wrote.

A list.

Reasons to marry Damon:

Micah will be protected.

The media will back off.

I'll have control over what gets revealed.

I'll be safe.

Reasons not to:

I'll lose my freedom.

I'll become a symbol, not a person.

I don't know if I can trust him.

I don't know if I trust myself.

I dropped the pen and closed my eyes.

That's when my phone buzzed.

A message from an unknown number.

I know what Project Geneva really was.

Meet me before Damon finds out you're reading this.

Attached: a location. An address in the city. A timestamp-tomorrow, midnight.

Then another message followed seconds later:

You're being watched. Don't trust anyone. Not even him.

My heart thundered.

I didn't realize I was holding my breath until the door creaked behind me.

Damon stepped into the room, looking like sin in a black dress shirt and unspoken rage. He crossed to the balcony beside me.

"I expected an answer by now," he said quietly.

I didn't move. "Do you always expect things to happen on your timeline?"

"I don't have time for hesitation. Not now."

"That's because you make decisions like war strategies."

He looked at me. "And you're still alive because of it."

"Maybe I don't want to just be alive," I whispered. "Maybe I want to matter."

He stepped closer.

"You do."

"No, Damon. I matter as long as I fit the plan. As long as I stay in the right place, wear the ring, play the role."

He didn't deny it.

I turned toward him slowly. "Tell me the truth. If that photo hadn't been leaked... would you still be asking me to marry you?"

His silence was louder than any answer.

I stared at him, anger bubbling beneath my skin.

"What happens after the headlines fade? After the public gets bored? Will you still want us? Will you still want me? Or will you send us back into the shadows because we served our purpose?"

"I would never-"

"Don't say it unless you mean it."

He exhaled, jaw tight. "You're not just strategy. You're not just survival."

"Then what am I?"

He looked at me, and for the first time, something inside him cracked-just enough.

"You're the only decision I've ever made that wasn't calculated. And I can't afford to lose you again."

I should've said something.

But then my phone buzzed again.

Unknown Number:

He's lying about Geneva. You were never the only candidate. You were just the only one who disappeared.