You have to marry me

The world dissolved into an oppressive, suffocating darkness. Rough hands, impersonal and unyielding, bound a thick cloth around Layla’s eyes, plunging her into a terrifying void.

The muffled roar of traffic, the subtle shifts and turns, told her they were moving swiftly through the city. Each bump and swerve sent a fresh wave of nausea through her. She was a parcel, an object, stripped of her agency. The fear, a cold, sharp blade, pierced deeper with every passing second.

Eventually, the movement ceased. The doors opened, and the chill of an air-conditioned environment washed over her. She was guided, prodded, through what felt like a vast, echoing space. Footsteps, crisp and precise, clicked on a hard floor. The air grew colder, almost icier, carrying with it the scent of expensive polish and a faint, masculine cologne. It was a scent she dimly recognized, a ghost of memory from that terrifying, forgotten night.

The blindfold was yanked off, the sudden light searing her eyes. She blinked rapidly, her vision slowly adjusting to the stark brilliance of the room. It was an office, but unlike any she had ever seen. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a dizzying panorama of the cityscape, reducing the bustling metropolis to a distant, silent diorama.

The decor was minimalist, severe, yet undeniably luxurious – polished chrome, dark wood, and stark white walls. It exuded an aura of immense power and untouchable wealth.

And there he was.

He stood by the expansive windows, his back to her, silhouetted against the blinding city light. Tall, impossibly broad-shouldered, even through the impeccable tailoring of his dark suit. He turned slowly, his movements fluid and deliberate, like a predator assessing its prey.

It was him. The stranger from the hotel room. The man who had been beside her, naked, undeniably gorgeous, a memory that still sent a flush of mortification through her. Only now, in the harsh light of reality, he was more than just a handsome face. He was Colden Frost.

Her mind supplied the details instantly, pulled from fragmented news reports and overheard conversations. Colden Frost. Billionaire. CEO of Frost Enterprises, an empire so vast it felt mythical. Famously emotionless.

The media called him “The Ice King.” He was every bit as intimidating, as breathtakingly attractive, as the rumors suggested. His dark hair, almost black, fell perfectly, framing a chiselled jawline. His eyes, when they finally met hers, were the colour of glacial ice – piercing, unreadable, and utterly devoid of warmth. A shiver, completely unrelated to the cold air, ran down her spine.

A slow, deliberate smirk curved his lips, a flash of white against his tanned skin that sent a fresh wave of fear through her. “You left without saying goodbye,” he said, his voice a low, resonant rumble that seemed to fill the vast office.

It was a voice that commanded attention, a voice that brooked no argument.

Layla was speechless. Her face burned with embarrassment, a hot flush spreading across her cheeks. Anger, sharp and righteous, began to push past the fear. How dare he? How dare he kidnap her, blindfold her, and then mock her?

“Why…why did you kidnap me?” Her voice was a shaky whisper, barely audible in the cavernous room.

He chuckled, a low, unnerving sound that held no genuine amusement. His smirk widened, a cruel, almost predatory expression.

“Kidnapped?” He took a step closer, his gaze unwavering, dissecting her. Layla felt a primal urge to shrink away, to disappear. “I merely brought you here to speak.”

“About what?” she managed, her voice gaining a sliver of defiance despite the terror coiling in her gut.

Colden Frost took another step, closing the distance between them. He stopped just a few feet away, close enough for her to catch the expensive, masculine scent that clung to him – woodsy, sophisticated, and utterly overwhelming. His eyes, those chilling grey eyes, seemed to bore into her very soul.

Then, he dropped the bomb. “Marry me.”

Layla stared at him, sure she hadn’t heard correctly. Marry him? The man who was a complete stranger, the man from her nightmare-turned-reality?

He watched her reaction, his expression unreadable, a faint curve on his lips that was closer to a sneer than a smile.

“A contract marriage,” he clarified, his voice still low, but with an underlying steel that brooked no argument. “You will play the part of my wife. A trophy for events, a silent partner. There will be no emotional expectations. No messy feelings. In return, I will provide you with complete financial security, shelter, and a life beyond anything you could imagine. It’s strictly business.”

Layla finally found her voice, a choked, incredulous sound. “No! Why…why would I?”

The idea was preposterous, insulting. She, a broken, penniless woman, marrying a man like him? It was a sick joke.

Colden’s gaze remained fixed on her. He took another step, closing the final gap between them. He was so close now she could feel the faint warmth radiating from his body, the sheer physical presence of him. He loomed over her, his height and muscled frame making her feel impossibly small and vulnerable.

“You see, I want an heir,” he stated, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, as if discussing a business transaction.

Layla flinched, a visceral reaction to the starkness of his demand. The blood drained from her face. An heir. That meant…

He seemed to sense her unspoken horror. The faint smirk returned, a chilling sight. “I know about your home life. Your… adoptive parents. The beatings. Your current…predicament. The boyfriend who betrayed you. The fact that you have nowhere else to go.”

The words were a calculated strike, hitting every raw nerve, every open wound. The air left her lungs in a whoosh. How did he know? The shame, the pain, the utter humiliation of her situation, laid bare before this cold, magnificent stranger.

Something in her cracked. He wasn’t forcing her physically, not yet. But the choice he presented, stark and brutal, felt cruelly simple. Survival. Or oblivion.

“You… you were spying on me?” she whispered, a fresh wave of fear washing over her. The implications were terrifying. He knew everything. He had been watching her.

He smiled again, a full, predatory flash of white teeth that did nothing to reassure her. Instead, it sent a deep shiver down her spine, raising goosebumps on her arms.

“I merely wanted to know more about the girl who ditched me in the middle of the night,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous purr. His eyes, those glacial eyes, lingered on her face, making her feel utterly exposed.

“That n-night was a mistake,” she blurted out, desperation rising. “It was…I was drunk. I don’t remember anything. It was a horrible mistake!”

His smile vanished instantly. The amusement in his eyes was replaced by something cold and hard, a glint of steel. He took another step, invading her personal space entirely.

Layla instinctively recoiled, her back hitting the cold, smooth surface of the desk behind her. His hand, large and surprisingly warm, reached out and gently, almost delicately, brushed a strand of hair from her face. The touch, though light, felt like a brand.

“No one,” he let out, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl that vibrated through her, “gets to play Colden Frost.” He leaned closer, his scent enveloping her, his eyes boring into hers. “You will think about my offer, Layla Hayes. And you will give me your answer tomorrow.”

He straightened, a formidable, unyielding presence. His voice returned to its controlled, emotionless tone, but the underlying threat was palpable. “I prefer ‘yes’.”

He turned away, walking back towards the panoramic window, his broad shoulders a wall against the glittering city. Layla stood frozen, trembling, the weight of his words pressing down on her. He found her fear amusing, she realized.

And that, more than anything, terrified her. He was beautiful, powerful, and utterly ruthless.

Why does she feel like he held her entire future in his hands right now?

Layla, her mind reeling from the terrifying ultimatum, spun on her heel, her instincts screaming at her to flee. She took two desperate steps towards the imposing double doors, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs.

But before she could reach them, two dark-suited figures materialized, their impassive faces grim, blocking her path with unyielding resolve. They didn't speak, but their silent presence was a concrete wall.

She whirled back around, her eyes blazing with a mixture of fear and furious defiance, to glare at Colden Frost. He remained by the window, the setting sun painting him in stark gold and shadow, making him look impossibly grand and menacing. A slow, chilling smile spread across his lips, revealing a flash of perfect white teeth. It wasn't a comforting smile, but one that held a hint of amusement at her futile attempt.

"And where, pray tell, are you off to in such a hurry, Layla?" His voice, a low, velvet rumble, drifted across the vast office, carrying with it a deceptive lightness that did nothing to quell her terror. He took a leisurely step away from the window, his gaze never leaving her. "I don't recall dismissing you."

Her breath hitched in her throat. Her face, already pale with fear, drained of all remaining color. "I... I'm not staying.”

He chuckled, a soft, dry sound that grated on her nerves. "Oh, but you are. Unless, of course, you've already made your decision?" He cocked his head slightly, his eyes glittering with a predatory amusement. "You can't leave, darling, until you've given me your answer."

Layla's eyes widened, a raw, naked horror spreading across her features. She was trapped. Trapped with him, in this cold, sterile monument to his power. The reality of her situation, bleak and inescapable, solidified around her. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her horrified gaze flickered between his unreadable face and the unmoving figures of his silent guards.

There was no escape.