Chapter 2 ~ The Contract

The suite smelled of cedar, polished leather, and something faintly metallic the scent of order, maybe. Even the air-conditioning hummed with precision. Talia Monroe sat on the edge of a velvet chair that probably cost more than her car, wrinkled wedding dress dragging over the marble floor, her sanity hanging by a bobby pin.

Across from her, Adrian Voss didn't move. Not a twitch, not a fidget. Just stillness calculated and predatory. He turned a page, the paper barely whispering against his fingertips.

"You're quiet," he said without looking up.

"I'm thinking," she answered, voice sharp enough to hide the tremor underneath.

His pen paused. "Dangerous habit."

She scowled. "You asked me to marry you. I'm allowed a few thoughts before I join your... whatever this is."

He looked up then, and the room seemed to shrink a little. There was nothing fiery about his gaze no visible emotion at all. Just steady, analytical focus, like she was a new business model he was deciding whether to invest in or dismantle.

"Correction," he said. "I didn't ask. I offered a deal."

Oh, great, her inner voice muttered. The romance version of a corporate merger.

"You know," she said, "most people pretend to be charming when they want something."

"I'm not most people."

"No kidding."

Adrian's gaze dropped back to the papers in front of him. His wrist flicked once - a quiet, controlled gesture - and a thick document slid across the table toward her.

"You'll find the terms straightforward," he said. "Six months. Mutual benefit. Public appearances only. You'll live here. You'll be paid handsomely."

Her hand hovered above the paper, then stopped. "You're serious."

"I don't say things I don't mean."

He leaned back, not to relax but to observe her reaction. There was a cold sort of curiosity in the way his eyes tracked every movement she made - not lust, not warmth, just precise attention, like she was data.

She flipped through the pages, her fingers trembling despite her effort to look unbothered. "Six months," she repeated softly. "And what happens after that?"

"You walk away with your name intact. And so do I."

Her laugh came out brittle. "You realize this is insane, right?"

He didn't even blink. "Only if you're sentimental."

He says that like he hasn't been engaged for five minutes, her subconscious grumbled.

"Why me?" she asked suddenly.

He tilted his head slightly. "Excuse me?"

"You could've picked anyone. Someone who looks good on magazine covers. Why a stranger with a ruined wedding and a bad sense of humor?"

A faint movement - almost a smile. "Because you're inconvenient enough to be believable."

"Inconvenient?"

He nodded once. "You're not easy to control. The press will find that... fascinating."

"So I'm your chaos hire," she said, a bitter laugh slipping out.

He didn't deny it. "Exactly."

And you're about to say yes, aren't you, you glorious idiot, her inner voice whispered.

She stood abruptly, needing space to breathe. The air in the suite felt too structured, too deliberate. Even the silence seemed organized.

"This is ridiculous," she said. "You can't just-"

"I can," he interrupted, voice even, quiet, and somehow final. "You'll spend months dodging paparazzi if you walk out of here. They'll hound you for every tear you shed at that church. Or-" He motioned toward the papers. "You can take back control of the story."

Talia froze.

"Control," he repeated softly, as if he knew exactly which word would gut her.

Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. "You're using me."

He shrugged, the smallest lift of his shoulders. "You're free to use me back."

You hate him. You hate him so much it's starting to sound like interest.

Talia crossed her arms, refusing to look intimidated. "You don't even feel bad about any of this, do you?"

"Feelings," he said, tone flat, "are liabilities. I prefer precision."

She wanted to throw something at him just to see if he'd flinch. He wouldn't. He was too controlled, too still - like even his heartbeat took orders.

"Pity looks good on no one," he added quietly. "But power? That's a different story."

The words hit harder than she wanted them to.

Power. That was the word her ex-fiancé had taken from her the moment he ran. The word every headline would strip away tomorrow. Adrian was offering it back - not kindly, not gently, but with the same ruthless efficiency he offered everything else.

And that's when she realized this wasn't surrender. It was strategy.

She wasn't signing to hide. She was signing to fight back.

"Fine," she said finally, stepping forward. "Six months. But I'm not your puppet."

Adrian's gaze flicked up faint interest, maybe even amusement. "Don't test me, Talia."

Her name in his mouth was a warning.

"Do we have a deal?" he asked.

Her pulse kicked hard. "You'll regret this."

"I rarely do."

She took the pen. It was heavy real gold, of course. The kind of pen people used to write history or ruin lives. She signed anyway.

When she slid the document back, he didn't smile. Didn't thank her. Just tapped once on the signature line, checking her work like a teacher grading an exam.

"Welcome to your new life," he said simply.

"Do I get a raise if I survive it?"

He stood, buttoning his jacket. "Survival is its own reward."

By morning, her phone was a war zone.

Hundreds of notifications. Calls from Maya. Headlines everywhere.

#VossWedding

London's Coldest Bachelor Secretly Marries Jilted Bride!

She was still staring at her screen when Adrian walked out of the ensuite, hair damp, shirt crisp, tie already knotted.

"You did this," she said, stunned.

"I did," he said. "The publicist released it at six. Right on schedule."

"Schedule? You planned this?"

"Of course." He adjusted his cufflinks without looking at her. "I don't improvise."

"You could've warned me!"

"You signed a contract, not a friendship."

Her jaw dropped. "You're-"

He glanced up. "Efficient. You've said that."

Efficient, manipulative, emotionally frozen congratulations, you married an Excel spreadsheet.

"You're unbelievable," she muttered.

He stepped closer, slow enough that she felt the temperature dip. His cologne was subtle cedar, something dark, something unfairly expensive.

"And yet," he said, voice low, "you're standing here, wearing my name."

She tried to match his calm. "You don't scare me."

He stopped a breath away, eyes steady on hers. "Good. Fear is unproductive."

Then, after a beat that stretched too long: "Obedience, however... that might save you."

Her breath caught.

He picked up his briefcase and walked toward the door without another glance. "Seven o'clock," he said. "Don't be late."

"For what?"

"Our first public appearance."

"And if I don't show up?"

He didn't turn around. "Then I'll find a way to make you."

The door clicked shut behind him, soft as a gunshot.

Talia exhaled, half a laugh, half disbelief.

You married the devil, babe, her subconscious whispered. And he didn't even have to sell you your soul. You handed it over yourself.