Chapter 2 The Contract and the Lie

The next morning, I woke up in a bed softer than any cloud I'd ever imagined, alone, but still uncomfortable.

I was someone's wife now.

A stranger's wife.

A man who whispered about control behind closed doors.

A man who hadn't spoken a single word to me since we got back from our fake wedding.

I sat up, still in yesterday's silk gown, and pulled the sheets around me like they could protect me from whatever I'd gotten myself into.

Downstairs, the apartment was dead silent, no breakfast, no staff, not even the sound of movement. If not for the faint ticking of the wall clock, I'd think I was alone.

Then I saw the envelope on the marble kitchen island.

My name was written in bold, all caps.

AMIRA.

I opened it slowly, hands trembling.

Inside was a thick document titled "Temporary Marriage Contract – Confidential."

Page after page of legal jargon, payment breakdowns, NDA clauses... and rules.

Lots of rules.

❖ No uninvited guests.

❖ No interviews or media leaks.

❖ No romantic involvement with any third parties.

❖ No emotional entanglements with Damon Blackwood.

❖ Violation of any clause will void all payments.

My eyes narrowed at the last line on the final page.

❖ If the subject fails to fulfill the required duration of one year, she forfeits all rights to compensation and will be sued for breach of contract.

I let the papers fall.

A whole year? Living with a stranger who talked about me like I was a tool? Playing happy wife in a mansion that felt colder than prison?

What had I signed up for?

He returned later that evening.

No knock. No sound. Just the beep of the security lock and the scent of his cologne filling the room like a silent warning.

"You read the contract?" he asked, shrugging off his coat.

I folded my arms. "Didn't exactly scream 'happily ever after.'"

"It's not supposed to." He walked past me like I didn't exist.

I followed. "Then why go through all this? Why me, Damon? What is this really about?"

He turned, slowly.

"You're asking too many questions."

"And you're giving too many non-answers."

His jaw tightened. For a second, I thought he'd yell. Instead, he stepped closer, just inches away.

"You think this is a joke? This fake marriage? This... arrangement? It's not. I chose you because you were desperate. And I need desperate people. They don't run."

I swallowed hard.

"Run from what?" I asked, almost a whisper.

He stared at me, something unreadable flashing in his eyes.

Then, without warning, he stepped back. "Get dressed. We have a party to attend tonight. The world's expecting to see the glowing newlyweds."

A party?

"I don't have a dress."

"You do now. Check your room."

He walked away before I could protest.

Two hours later, I stood in front of the mirror in a black gown that hugged my body like sin. The kind of dress that made people stare, made them forget your name but remember your silhouette.

"Perfect," Damon said from the doorway. His gaze scanned me quickly, then shifted away. "Try to smile when we get there."

"Oh, I'll fake it like everything else," I muttered.

He almost smirked.

Almost.

The party was all glass chandeliers and gold-plated lies. Everyone wore masks, not the literal kind, but the rich, polished kind. Fake laughter, fake congratulations, fake smiles.

"Damon," a man called out, walking toward us. He looked older, but sharper. His eyes flicked to me like I was merchandise. "This must be the wife."

I smiled tightly.

"This is Amira," Damon said. "My wife."

I hated how he said it. Like a title. Not a person.

The man shook my hand. "I'm Vincent Shaw. Investor. Friend. And the one who told Damon not to go through with this madness."

"Nice to meet you," I replied, keeping my voice sweet.

"Watch your back, darling," he whispered, lips barely moving. "Men like him don't marry without motive."

Then he let go and disappeared into the crowd.

My heart pounded.

I turned to Damon. "What is he talking about?"

He didn't look at me.

Instead, he lifted his glass and toasted with a group of men in suits.

Like nothing had happened.

Like everything was fine.

I felt the chill return to my spine.

And then...

My phone buzzed in my clutch.

A text from an unknown number.

"You don't know who you married."

"But I do."

"Check the photo I just sent you."

I opened the message.

And froze.

The picture was old.

A newspaper clipping.

Damon Blackwood... with blood on his shirt.

Standing next to a body bag.

And the headline read:

"Tech Genius' Brother Found Dead After Mysterious Family Dispute."

To be continued...