Chapter Two

Dominic's POV

I woke up early, before the dawn appears, and leaned against the penthouse floor-to-ceiling window. City lights faded to a dim sparkle, and a cold wind battered the half-opened window. I glanced at my hand on the chilled glass. I remembered Elena Hart, the woman who had accepted to marry me. Twenty-four months of marriage. Two years living together in an apartment. I had no notion of what the future held.

Softly the living room door knocked. I turned and approached it. Castillo, my chauffeur, came in bowing. Two bodyguards followed him. Castillo spoke softly to me. "Mr. Blackwood, Miss Hart has arrived."

"Thanks," I replied. I turned and faced away from the windows to the center of the room. The marble floor numbed my socks. The interior design was modern and minimalist. White sofas, glass coffee tables, minimalist ornamentation. I loved the lack of clutter—it left room for my plans and no distractions.

The door creaked open again. Elena entered, holding a single black suitcase. She wore a short gray dress, simple, just enough to impress me. Her hair was tied up into a hard bun, and her eyes swept the room.

She stopped when she saw me. I waved with my one hand. "Welcome to Arcadia Heights," I said to her. My voice echoed slightly in the high-ceilinged spaces.

"Thank you," she breathed. She put down her bag. She seemed extremely fatigued. I hadn't been able to determine if she had slept or not.

I gestured for her to come on. "Please sit down," I said to her, pointing to a white leather chair.

She sat down into the chair and placed the suitcase down on the floor next to her. She placed her hands in her lap. I gazed at her. She was small in the huge room. I crossed my arms.

"I need to review our agreement with you," I said to her. She gazed up at me. I could see the rise and fall of her chest. She was nervous but determined.

I pulled out the folder with our contract and set it on the glass coffee table. I opened it to page one. "First rule," I informed her, my eyes on hers. "No asking about yourself unless I respond."

Her eyebrows shot up. Her lips compressed. Then she nodded once. "I see."

"Second rule," I continued. "No scenes in public. You're going to be yourself, but in public, you hold it together. You're calm, you're composed."

Her fingers curled around one another. "I can do that."

"Third rule," I said, turning the page. "You accompany me to all functions that I ask you to. Board meetings, press conferences, dinner parties—you accompany me as my wife. You sit for interviews and photos."

Her Adam's apple bobbed up and down as she swallowed hard. "If I don't?"

I folded the folder. "You lose all remuneration. You return to square one. Your mom's bills are not paid."

She glanced at the contract. She was gasping, rapidly, superficially. I relaxed my tone. "I don't want to scare. I want us to live. You understand what you signed."

She let her head drop back. Her eyes flashed. "I know."

I rose to my feet and went towards the window. I rested my forehead against the glass and leaned against it. "You will be working tomorrow at nine in the morning. There is a board meeting. I will present you as my wife."

She stood up and accompanied me. She placed her hand on her belly. "Board meetings. I have never been to one of those."

I stood up to her. "Percival will be waiting for you at eight thirty in the conference room. He will discuss protocol and agenda with you."

She sighed. "Very well."

I gestured down the corridor. "I will escort you to your room."

She grabbed her bag and followed me. I walked her down a short corridor with additional gray and white abstract paintings adorning the walls. We came to a door. I opened it and went through.

The room was elegant but decadent. A white-sheeted king bed. A wall desk. A large closet with mirrored doors. An unadorned window chair. No pictures, no mementos. Room and light alone.

"This is your suite," I told him. "Your belongings go in the closet."

She put down her suitcase on the bed and opened it dramatically. She pulled some out: three dresses, two shoes, a stack of blouses. She put them folded on the bed. I was observing her unpacking all her blouses and folding them and putting them on the chair.

"You are going to need more clothes," I told her.

She stood in front of me, halting. "More?"

"Yes. Your wardrobe will be supplemented. You'll have at least five different outfits for every occasion."

She blinked. "Five changes? That sounds. excessive."

I shrugged. "You won't be wearing the same thing twice. Just trust me."

She nodded slowly. "Very well." She returned to the suitcase and closed it, clearing the bed. She reached into the desk drawer and inserted a framed photograph of herself and her mother. I picked up something warm in the motion.

"Your mother is safe," I said softly.

She turned to me. "You did that?"

I nodded. "I told the hospital you'd pay cash. They'll operate on her tomorrow morning."

She blinked and her eyes watered. She swallowed. "Thank you."

I smiled woodenly. "You're welcome." I walked back from the window. "Dinner at eight. The chef will have something brought up."

She sat up straight and placed her hand on the frame once more. "May I change my morning schedule?"

I checked my watch. "Very well. Tomorrow eight thirty, Percival. Nine hundred hours board meeting."

She nodded, pursing her lips stubbornly. "I will be ready."

That I opened the door and let her in and then returned to the living room. I followed behind her silent footsteps through to when the door slammed behind me. Then I breathed deeply out.

I went back to the window and sat in the blackness. The city still stretched out below. I looked at the contract on my desk, expecting its terms to be tested. I thought of Elena Hart, sitting alone in a strange room. I thought of her courage in the face of fear.

I wheeled around and made my way down the corridor, my office door to the left. It was shut. There, on the mahogany, lay the contract, waiting for the next move.

I stood in front of the photograph of my parents on the wall—a family photo of a smiling family on a hot summer day. I leaned against the frame. They had trusted love. They trusted each other. I had lost it.

I walked to the private elevator at the opposite end of the hall. I pressed the basement button. The doors slid shut and the car started downward. My face stretched across the metal walls—black, tall suit, untroubled face. I couldn't help but wonder if that would be altered in the next few weeks.

The ground floor elevator bell. I exited and walked directly to my car. It was a black sedan with tinted glass. I opened the door, entered the car, and sat behind it. Castillo sat beside me.

"Sir," he inquired, "where would you have me take you?"

"No," I replied. "Take me to my private club."

The motor purred. The car departed the building garage.

On the drive over, I thought through tomorrow. Board meeting. Meeting new wife. Photos in the papers.

Perfect. No mistakes. No errors.

I did relax and closed my eyes for a minute. I pictured Elena's face—tired, hopeful, no fear.

She'd entered my life with a suitcase and a huge determination to save her mother. She'd accepted my bet.

I wanted to know how she would fare in my world of power and strength. I wondered if she would break under the weight of it, or soar.

A brief specter of a smile was coaxed onto my lips. I enjoyed the challenge.

The car swerved onto the sidewalk and careened into an alley. We arrived in front of a rundown building with intimate lights on either side. I recognized it—my own club, for special contacts. Where business was done, information exchanged, and oath of allegiance promised.

"We're here," Castillo declared. He seemed to open the door of my car. I stepped out into the evening air and took a deep breath. There was old wood and leather in the air that welcomed me through heavy doors. Dark walls and muted light lay ahead of me indoors. I smiled at the doorman, and he led me to the bar.

I sat on a stool. Johan, the barman, nodded. I ordered my usual—single malt scotch over ice—and he filled it into the glass. I lifted the glass and took it to my lips. The alcohol was warm, burning but not so much.

I stared into the amber color of the whiskey. Elena's contract came wafting into my mind. Two years of wedlock. Two years of watching her learn about my world. Two years of holding or revealing my secrets.

I held the glass to the photo of my parents that I had caressed seconds earlier. I mouthed silently, "Protect me."

I swallowed. The scotch burned my skin.

A voice hollered behind me. "Blackwood."

I spun around. It was Percival, my CFO and friend. His temples had grayed out. His eyes were warm. He sat beside me.

"Percival," I said. "Good to see you."

He nodded and took the glass I'd handed him. He sipped. "She came?"

I glanced across the room I'd just entered. "Yes. She is in the tower."

Percival's eyebrow went up. "Elena Hart. The medical researcher."

I nodded. "The one."

Percival set down his glass. "She is intelligent. I have read her file. She studied at Oxford. She authored two papers."

I waited. "And she is fearless. She signed in a dudgeon."

Percival leaned forward. "She signed as an individual?"

I nodded. "In a toilet." I sipped again. "At a ball, of all things."

Percival softly whistled. "Impressive."

I set down the glass. "She begins tomorrow. I would like to have you train her."

He winced into a smile. "Consider it done. I will coach her for the board meeting. I will educate her on protocol, strategy. I will follow her."

I put my hand on his shoulder. "Thank y

ou."

He rubbed my hand. "You know that I would do anything for you."

I nodded.

He set his drink aside and stood up. "I will see you tomorrow at eight."