Nine

Chapter 9

KIARA’S POV

The velvet of my dress felt like armor, which was exactly what I needed for my first foray into the den of lions that was a Blackwood Enterprises charity gala. I stood in front of my gold-leaf mirror, adjusting the straps of a gown that probably cost more than a mid-sized sedan. It was elegant, sure, but it was loud—a deep, shimmering sapphire that practically screamed for attention.

Silva walked into the room, looking like he’d been carved out of marble. His black tuxedo was so sharp it could probably draw blood. He didn't look at me with admiration; he looked at me like a project manager inspecting a potentially faulty piece of equipment.

"You’re late," he said, checking his Rolex.

"I’m fashionably timed," I corrected, grabbing my clutch. "Besides, perfection takes effort, Silva. You should try it sometime."

He ignored the jab and handed me a folded piece of paper. "Read this. Memorize it. These are the approved topics for tonight. You are to be elegant, supportive, and, above all, quiet. If someone asks about our merger, you refer them to me. If someone asks about your company, you give a brief, modest answer and shift the focus back to the charity."

I unfolded the paper, my eyes scanning the bullet points. *Smile frequently. Avoid controversial market discussions. Maintain physical proximity without excessive affection. Do not mention the Russian deal.*

"A script?" I laughed, the sound echoing in the sterile hallway. "You actually wrote me a script? Silva, I’m a CEO, not a decorative houseplant."

"Tonight, you are my wife," he gritted out, stepping closer. "The markets are volatile. Any slip-up, any sign of friction between us, and the stock price takes a hit. Just play the part, Kiara. One night of being submissive won't kill you."

"Submissive isn't in my vocabulary, sweetheart," I whispered, patting his cheek. "But don't worry. I’ll be unforgettable."

The gala was a sea of champagne, fake smiles, and men in suits who thought they owned the world. As soon as we stepped onto the red carpet, the flashes were blinding. Silva’s hand settled on the small of my back—a firm, controlling grip that was meant to look like affection but felt like a leash.

"Keep smiling," he muttered through his teeth as we entered the ballroom.

We were immediately swarmed. Silva began the tedious dance of corporate networking, nodding along to boring anecdotes about golf and interest rates. I stood by his side, playing the "elegant wife" for exactly twelve minutes until I saw him: Julian Vane.

Julian was a minor rival of Silva’s, a man who survived on the scraps of Blackwood deals and had a penchant for condescending to women in business. He strolled over with a smirk that made my skin crawl.

"Silva, congratulations on the... sudden nuptials," Julian said, his eyes trailing over me with a dismissive glint. "And to the lovely Kiara. It’s a shame your firm’s recent dip in the textile sector was so public. I suppose it’s good you found a sturdy branch to cling to."

I felt Silva’s grip tighten on my back, a silent warning to stay quiet. I ignored it.

"A sturdy branch?" I asked, tilting my head and flashing a smile that was all teeth. "That’s a curious metaphor, Julian. Especially coming from a man whose company’s market share in the logistics sector is currently being eaten alive by mid-tier startups. I heard your last quarterly report was less of a statement and more of a cry for help."

The circle of socialites around us went dead silent. Silva went rigid.

"I’m sure you’re mistaken," Julian sputtered, his face reddening.

"Oh, I doubt it," I continued, taking a slow sip of my champagne. "I make it a point to study the failures of others. It helps me stay sharp. But do enjoy the caviar; I hear it’s the only thing in this room that’s actually at its peak tonight."

Julian slunk away after a few more awkward stammers. Silva leaned in, his breath hot against my ear.

"What did I tell you about the script?" he hissed.

"I improved it," I replied, unbothered.

Before he could scold me further, a persistent journalist from *The New York Ledger* shouldered her way into our space, her recorder held high.

"Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood! The question on everyone’s lips is about the romance," she chirped. "The world wants to know: was it a whirlwind office romance? People are calling it the most passionate union of the decade. Is there a real spark behind the business facade?"

Silva cleared his throat, his "public face" clicking back into place. "We value our privacy, but I can assure you, the connection was... immediate."

"But is it passionate?" the journalist pressed, her eyes gleaming. "The public is skeptical of power couples. Give us something real. A sign of that famous passion."

The crowd started to close in, sensing a moment. I could see the headlines flashing in my mind. If we didn't do something, the "fake marriage" rumors would start by midnight.

"Passion?" I asked, looking up at Silva. I saw the hesitation in his eyes, the calculation. He knew we had to sell it.

"More than you can imagine," Silva said.

He reached out, his hand sliding from my back to the nape of my neck, his fingers tangling in the stray hairs of my bun. He pulled me toward him with a sudden, jarring intensity. I didn't have time to think. I didn't have time to prepare.

His lips crashed into mine.

I expected it to be cold. I expected a clinical, staged press of lips that would satisfy the cameras and nothing else. But the second we touched, the world tilted. Silva didn't just kiss me for the photo; he kissed me like he was trying to reclaim something. It was aggressive, demanding, and terrifyingly hot.

My hand, which I’d intended to keep flat against his chest to push him away, ended up clutching his lapel. I felt the vibration of a low groan in his chest. My eyes fluttered shut as a surge of undeniable, unadulterated heat shot through me, blurring the lines of the ballroom, the cameras, and our mutual hatred.

It wasn't a "no emotions" kiss. It was a violation of every rule we’d written.

When he finally pulled away, his pupils were blown wide, and his breathing was as ragged as mine. The journalists were stunned into a brief silence before the shutter clicks became deafening.

"I think that answers your question," Silva said, his voice lower and raspier than usual.

I couldn't speak. I just stood there, my lips tingling and my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I looked at him, searching for the mask, but for a split second, the "Mr. Impossible" I’d met in the club was looking back at me.

We spent the rest of the night in a daze, barely speaking as we navigated the remaining social obligations. The heat lingered between us like a physical weight, thick and confusing.

SILVA’S POV

My mind was a chaotic mess of data points and the lingering taste of champagne and Kiara’s lipstick. I sat in the back of the car on the way home, staring out at the city lights, my jaw set so tight it ached.

That kiss was supposed to be a tactical maneuver. A PR stunt. A way to silence the skeptics and protect the Blackwood brand. Instead, it had felt like a live wire hitting a pool of water.

I looked at Kiara. She was staring out the opposite window, her fingers tracing the edge of her sapphire dress. She hadn't said a word since we left the gala.

"The comment to Julian was unnecessary," I said, my voice sounding forced even to my own ears.

"It worked, didn't it?" she replied, not looking at me. "His investors will be calling their brokers by morning."

"That’s not the point. You ignored the protocol."

"The protocol was boring, Silva."

Silence fell again. The air in the car was suffocating. I couldn't stop thinking about the way she’d responded to the kiss—the way her fingers had curled into my jacket, the way she’d leaned into me. It wasn't the reaction of a woman who loathed me.

*No emotions,* I reminded myself. *No strings. No love shit.*

But my body wasn't listening to the contract. My blood was still humming with a restless, frustrated energy that had nothing to do with market shares.

"We need to be more careful," I said, more to myself than her.

"About Julian?"

"About everything," I snapped.

I was furious—at her for being so unpredictable, and at myself for the way my heart had stuttered when she looked at me after the kiss. This was a business arrangement. She was a security risk. She was a means to an end.

So why did I feel like I was the one being trapped?

I looked at her one last time before we reached the penthouse. She looked tired, her "Ice Queen" facade cracked just enough to show the exhaustion underneath. For a fleeting second, I wanted to reach out, to say something that wasn't a critique or a command.

I turned away instead.

The gala had been a success. The "love story" was sold. But as the elevator doors opened into my sterile, grey sanctuary, I realized the lie was becoming a lot harder to manage than the truth.

I had a dissolution plan. I had a custody strategy. I had the power.

But as I watched Kiara walk toward her room without a backward glance, I realized that for the first time in my life, I had absolutely no control over the situation. And that terrified me more than any market crash ever could.