Chapter 2 The Rules of His House

The mansion was colder than she imagined.

Marble floors stretched across the hall like a palace, tall windows looked out over a city that didn't care who lived or died, and every step Amara took echoed like she was trespassing somewhere sacred. Somewhere forbidden.

Damien walked two steps ahead of her, not once looking back.

"This is your room." He stopped in front of a dark wooden door and opened it without ceremony.

Amara stepped in.

It was beautiful-lavish, feminine, and completely impersonal. Cream walls. A queen-sized bed. A vanity she'd never use. A view she didn't care about.

"Is it locked from the outside?" she asked calmly.

He turned to her. "You think I'm that kind of man?"

She met his eyes. "I don't know what kind of man you are."

He smirked. "You'll learn."

He turned to leave, but she stopped him.

"What are the rules, Mr. Blackwood?"

Damien looked over his shoulder. "Simple. Don't bring drama into my house. Don't ask personal questions. Don't interfere with my business or my schedule."

"And in return?"

"You get paid at the end of the year. You get your clean divorce. And your name stays out of the press."

She nodded, arms crossed. "And if someone finds out the marriage is fake?"

He stepped toward her now, his presence like a shadow wrapping around her throat. "Then you'll be the one answering questions. Not me."

She didn't flinch. "Good. I prefer attention."

His eyes darkened at her boldness, and for a split second, something unreadable flashed in them.

Was it interest?

No. Not Damien Blackwood. He didn't feel things. Especially not for women he bought off paper.

"I'll have the staff bring up your things," he said, straightening. "Dinner is served at seven. Don't be late. I hate lateness."

He left, and the door clicked behind him.

Amara exhaled slowly and dropped her bag on the bed.

She was now legally married to the most powerful man in the city. And he didn't even know her real name.

Later that Night

She sat across from Damien at a long, painfully quiet dining table. He was on one end. She was on the other. Silverware clinked. No words passed between them.

But she could feel his eyes on her now and then. Like he was trying to read something hidden under her skin.

"I assume you know how to behave in public," he said finally.

She wiped her lips with a napkin. "Smile, hold your hand, act like I adore you?"

"Don't overdo it."

"Don't worry." She sipped her wine. "I'm not a fan of acting."

He tilted his head. "Is that what this is to you? An act?"

She smiled, and this time, it wasn't fake. "Isn't it for you?"

The air between them tightened.

And then his phone buzzed. One glance, and his face shifted.

"I have to go."

"Of course," she said.

He stood, buttoned his suit jacket, and started walking out.

But before he reached the door, he paused. His back still turned.

"Stay away from the third floor," he said quietly. "That wing is off-limits."

Then he left.

And Amara sat there in silence.

A forbidden floor. A guarded CEO. A contract marriage.

This wasn't just a fake marriage anymore.

It was a game.

And she intended to win.