Marrying the Ice King

The steel door clicked shut with a soft, ominous thud, the sound echoing in the opulent silence of the room. Layla rushed forward, her hands pressing against the cool metal, testing the handle. Locked. Of course.

She turned, her glare finding the two impassive men in suits who stood just outside the door, guardians of her gilded cage.

“Let me out,” she demanded, her voice trembling despite her attempt at authority.

One of them, a man with eyes as unyielding as granite, offered a polite, almost regretful smile. “I’m afraid Mr. Frost’s instructions were quite clear, Ms. Hayes. You are to remain here until you’ve come to a decision.”

“My decision is to leave!” she retorted, frustration and fear clawing at her.

The other man, equally stoic, merely inclined his head. “With all due respect, Ms. Hayes, that is not an acceptable answer to Mr. Frost.”

Layla stared at them, helpless. They were polite, yes, but their politeness was more terrifying than any overt threat. It conveyed an absolute, unshakable authority. She was a bird caught in a golden trap. She sighed, a long, shaky breath that did little to calm her racing heart.

She retreated deeper into the room, her eyes scanning its luxurious confines. It was a guest suite, no doubt. Plush, muted tones, expensive artwork on the walls, a vast, comfortable bed that mocked her unrest. Her gaze fell on a sleek, minimalist desk, and her purse, which one of the men must have placed there. Her phone was inside.

With trembling fingers, she pulled it out, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and morbid curiosity. Colden Frost. She typed his name into the search engine, dread coiling in her stomach even as a perverse fascination took hold.

The results flooded the screen, an avalanche of information, images, and headlines. He was everywhere. Business journals, finance news, society pages. His face, omnipresent and impossibly perfect, stared back at her from every angle. He was even more striking in these professional shots – sharp, piercing eyes, a jawline that could cut glass, dark hair swept back with an effortless grace. The articles detailed his meteoric rise, his ruthless business acumen, the sheer scale of Frost Enterprises, a global empire spanning industries. Billions. He was worth billions.

And then the descriptions. The Ice King. Unattainable. The most eligible bachelor. A titan of industry.

Layla scrolled, her thumb numb, her eyes wide with disbelief. She looked from the perfect, intimidating image on her screen to her own reflection in the dark glass of the window – dishevelled, distraught, a stark contrast to the man who commanded empires.

She, Layla Hayes, who had nothing, no one, nowhere, had woken up naked beside him. Colden Frost. The sheer impossibility of it made her stomach churn. A harsh, choked laugh escaped her lips, bordering on a sob.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, burying her face in her hands. “You idiot, Layla! You absolute, pathetic idiot.” She cursed herself, her past choices, her entire cursed life.

Her abusive adoptive parents, their cruelty etched into her very being. Mark, the boyfriend who had twisted the knife of betrayal. And now this. This impossibly handsome, impossibly terrifying man who had just demanded she marry him.

Just what kind of life was this? A cosmic joke? A cruel twist of fate designed to break her entirely?

She walked to the window, staring out at the dizzying expanse of the city below. The tiny cars, the twinkling lights, the endless sprawl. A sudden, jarring thought pierced through her despair. What if this, improbable as it seemed, was actually her chance?

A chance to escape the cycle of abuse, poverty, and betrayal. She had run away from her adoptive home, hadn't she? There was no going back to that. Cami’s tiny apartment, while a haven, wasn’t a permanent solution. She was utterly alone, adrift.

Colden Frost, for all his terrifying intensity, had offered her financial security. Shelter. A way out. The thought settled in her mind, a tiny, flickering flame of hope in the overwhelming darkness. Her life was already fucked up enough. How much worse could this man truly be, compared to what she had already endured?

She spent the rest of the day in that room, pacing, sitting, staring out the window, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Fear warred with a desperate, burgeoning hope. The hours dragged, each tick of the clock a countdown to an impossible decision.

As dusk deepened and the city lights ignited below, there was a soft knock on the door. The same two men, polite and unyielding, informed her that dinner was ready.

She followed them, her legs feeling like lead, down a hushed corridor and into an elegant dining room. A single, long mahogany table dominated the space, set with gleaming silverware and crystal. At the head of the table sat Colden Frost.

He was even more striking in the warm, ambient light of the dining room. His dark suit was perfectly tailored, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, the lean power of his physique. His dark hair was impeccably styled, framing a face that was a study in sharp angles and captivating shadows.

He exuded an aura of effortless class, an almost dangerous magnetism that made it impossible to look away. He was, undeniably, breathtakingly handsome, a living sculpture of masculine perfection.

He gestured towards the chair opposite him, a silent command. Layla moved to it, her movements stiff, and sat down. A plate of exquisitely presented food was already before her, but her stomach churned. She said nothing, her gaze fixed on the pristine white tablecloth, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Are you quite finished contemplating your predicament, Ms. Hayes?” His voice, smooth and resonant, broke the silence. Layla flinched, her eyes darting up to meet his. He watched her, a faint, unreadable expression on his face. “Or would you prefer to give me your answer before we proceed with dinner?”

Layla hesitated, then, pulling a shred of courage from somewhere deep inside her, she met his gaze squarely. “What are the…what are the perks of this marriage,” she asked, her voice surprisingly steady, “if I say yes?”

Colden Frost leaned back in his chair, his long fingers steepled under his chin. His eyes, those piercing glacial eyes, held hers for a long, assessing moment, as if he were looking deep into her soul. A slow, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.

“Anything you want, Layla,” he said, his voice a low, seductive drawl. “Within reason, of course. Financial freedom, a comfortable home, a life without… the nuisances you’ve grown accustomed to.”

Layla swallowed hard. Her gaze flickered to the untouched food on her plate, then back to him. “Even after… after I give birth,” she began, choosing her words carefully, “I want to live with that child. And I want to take care of it.”

The thought of being separated from her own child, after all she had endured, was unbearable.

He hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. The faint smile remained. “That… might not be entirely possible, darling.”

Layla frowned, a knot forming in her stomach. “Why not?”

“Because,” he said, his voice suddenly losing its playful edge, becoming coldly authoritative, “if you bear my child, you will have to live here. Forever.”

The implication hung in the air. She would be bound to him, to this life, to this gilded cage, for eternity. She stared at him, trying to read his emotionless face. He didn't love her. He clearly didn't. He only wanted a child. And she… she didn't love him either. All men were the same, weren't they? They only wanted advantage, control, something for themselves. Her adoptive parents, Mark, and now him.

But if she got a place to stay, a permanent sanctuary, and even a child to love and cherish… was it so bad? Her life was already irrevocably fucked up. How much worse could being Mrs. Colden Frost be, compared to the abyss she’d been staring into? It was a desperate gamble, a terrifying leap into the unknown, but the alternative was a return to a past she could no longer bear.

A long, silent moment passed. Then, Layla took a deep breath, the decision solidifying in her mind. “Alright, I agree.”

Colden’s expression remained unchanged, but a flicker of something, perhaps amusement, danced in his eyes. He watched her closely, a faint, almost imperceptible curve on his lips. How quickly she had accepted. It seemed her desperation, as he had so cleverly assessed, outweighed any reservations.

The marriage was swift, almost clinical. The next morning, Colden’s lead lawyer, a stern woman with a perpetually unimpressed expression, oversaw the proceedings at a hushed courthouse. There were no grand ceremonies, no witnesses beyond the necessary few, no joyful guests. No rings were exchanged, a stark omission that underscored the purely contractual nature of their union. No kisses, no tender touches, just the cold, sterile formalities. Just the scratching of ink on paper as they signed the documents that bound their lives together.

Layla felt a profound emptiness, a chilling sense of unreality. She was married to Colden Frost. The Ice King. And all it had taken was a desperate agreement and a few strokes of a pen. It was done. Her life, irrevocably changed, had just begun a new, terrifying chapter.