Chapter 10

Helton James’ POV

Okay, maybe I’d said more than I should have.

Truth? I wasn’t used to cleaning. I’d probably suck at it. Never scrubbed a floor, never done laundry. But cooking, that was different. That I actually enjoyed. Not that I’d ever admit it out loud.

Still, it was the way she looked at me. Like I was some pampered rich boy who couldn’t take care of himself. And I wasn’t. I’d fought my way here. Dragged the Blake name out of scandal and made it worth something again.

So why the hell was I trying so hard to prove myself to someone who was only going to be my wife for a year?

God. Something was wrong with me. I needed to shut this down. Focus. This was a contract. A transaction. Nothing more.

She nodded, eyes back on the papers. “Okay… cohabitating at my place until Mom’s better. Then we can shift as needed.”

Shit. No turning back now. I’d given my word. And Helton James Blake never went back on his word.

“Alright,” I said.

She kept reading, then let out a soft laugh. “I don’t think I own enough gowns to attend this many balls.”

The sarcasm was dry, but there was a spark in her eyes. And it hit me harder than it should have.

“Don’t worry,” I said, smirking. “You’ll have more than enough. One for every day of the year if you want.”

She blinked, mouth opening then shutting again. No comeback. For once.

Weirdly satisfying.

She sighed and brushed her hair behind her ear. A small move, but the curve of her neck, the flicker of vulnerability, knocked the air right out of me. I looked away, swallowing hard.

And then, she signed.

A clean, steady signature at the bottom of the page. No hesitation. No second glance.

She handed the pen back. Her fingers brushed mine, and I froze. Just stared at her. The set of her shoulders. The tiny tremor in her hand.

She was trying so damn hard to stay composed. Anyone else wouldn’t notice. But I did.

“About the ceremony…” she started, hesitating. “You’ll have to give me a little time to convince my mom to come.”

“Will a week do?” I asked, keeping my voice as even as I could.

Her eyes widened, then she gave a slow nod. “That’s okay. Yeah. That’ll be okay.”

Was she saying it to me, or to herself?

We finished the wine. She stood, stretching, and I gathered the signed file before locking it away in my office safe.

When I turned back, she was by the window, arms crossed, city lights flickering in her eyes.

I walked over, closer than I should have.

“Now then, dear wife,” I said smoothly, stopping just a breath away.

Her head turned, lips parting as she looked up at me. The chandelier light caught her eyes, turning them almost golden.

I could’ve kissed her.

God, I wanted to.

Instead, I leaned in, brushing close enough for her breath to catch, and pressed my lips to her forehead.

Her eyes widened. For a heartbeat she didn’t move, didn’t even blink.

I smirked at her dumbfounded expression.

“Shall we go celebrate?”

She nodded wordlessly, still stunned. I took her hand and led her out.

The night was young, barely past eight. The air was cool as we exited the building. I unlocked the car, and this time she didn’t rush to open the door herself. Progress.

She arched a brow when I steered downtown. “Where are we going?”

“To get you a dress.”

“I can just go home and change,” she said, sounding exasperated. “I haven’t showered in two days. I probably smell.”

I leaned closer, breathing her in, cinnamon, vanilla, and beneath it, the faint bite of hospital antiseptic.

“You smell like antiseptic and stubbornness,” I said. “Not unpleasant.”

She huffed a laugh, shaking her head, but didn’t argue further. Still, her gaze drifted to the window, and I knew where her thoughts had gone. Her mother.

And she had reason. But I also knew the surgeon. The man was the best of the best. If he said Zia would recover, then she would.

I’m not a saint. But I’m not a complete bastard either.

I wanted to take her mind off the wreckage of the last forty-eight hours. Truth is, I expected her to be broken, her father gone, her fiancé exposed. When I heard she’d shown up at my office after all that, I was… unsettled.

Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t stalking her. Not then, anyway. My men were tracking my brother. Zenith just happened to cross their path. And when they told me she caught Dori in bed with someone else? Yeah. That got under my skin.

She loved the idiot. Why else put up with him? Two heartbreaks in one day make people reckless. I wasn’t about to sit back and watch her burn herself down.

But I’ll admit this, none of it played out the way I thought it would. Her mother’s condition. The money. She walked straight into my office. I hadn’t expected that. Not until the call came in, telling me she was on her way. That’s when I knew.

We stepped into the boutique where Natalie, Dexter’s mother, usually shopped. Even here, Zenith didn’t blink. She didn’t trail her fingers across the silk or widen her eyes at the price tags. She simply followed me, arms crossed, scanning the space.

Money didn’t faze her. That much was obvious.

Her excuse about marrying Dexter for money had been a lie. I’d checked his accounts, and she hadn’t touched a cent.

I liked that. Not because I despised gold diggers. Honestly, I never understood the insult. Only insecure men whined about women “digging” for gold they didn’t have. Women were expensive. Simple math. A man should choose in his own price range, not complain about standards he couldn’t afford.

No, what I liked was simpler: she wasn’t comfortable taking from him. She might have loved him, but she didn’t trust him. And for some reason, that sat right with me.

I drifted through the racks until I found three dresses.

The first: a soft moss-green that would pull out the earthy tone in her eyes. Flowing. Elegant. Understated. I could already see the quiet grace it would give her.

The second: white silk, stitched from moonlight itself. It would cling, shimmer, catch every light like a second skin. I imagined every man in the room trying not to stare, and failing.

The third: beige linen, clean-cut and simple. Comfortable. Modest.

Three options. Three statements.

I wanted to see which version of herself she’d choose to wear around me.

I handed them to her. “Pick one.”

She arched a brow. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

A store attendant appeared as if conjured. “This way, miss.”

She accepted the dresses and followed him. I leaned back against the wall, folding my arms.

This woman… she unsettled me. Not because she was beautiful, though she was. Not because she was stubborn, though that sharpened her appeal.

But because she didn’t want anything from me. Not really.

She hadn’t stepped into this contract marriage for money. She wanted..