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The contract and the kiss
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2025-10-13 19:46:58(Aria’s POV)
The ink was darker than I expected — black, bold, final. It bled slightly into the paper, like a bruise. My hand trembled as I signed my name: Aria Collins. Across the glass table, Damon Hale didn’t move. He was perfectly still, like he’d been carved from the same cold marble that lined his office. His signature already glared back at me from the other line, precise and deliberate. Just like him. “There,” I said softly, setting the pen down. “It’s done.” He leaned back in his chair, studying me. That look again — the one that made me feel like I was being scanned, cataloged, decoded. “It’s not done,” he said. “It’s only beginning.” I forced a shaky breath and folded my hands in my lap. “I still can’t believe this is real.” “It’s real enough for the public,” he said. “That’s all that matters.” The words stung, though I didn’t know why. Maybe because part of me wanted it to mean something more. He slid a folder across the table — the marriage contract. Pages of clauses, terms, and expectations: public appearances, travel schedules, financial compensations. Every line designed to make sure our lie looked perfect. “You’ll move into my penthouse,” he said. “It’s easier for the press to believe the story if we live together.” My pulse jumped. “Live together?” He arched an eyebrow. “You can have your own room. I’m not a monster.” I didn’t reply. My gaze drifted to the skyline outside his office — tall glass towers glinting under the afternoon sun. Somewhere out there, my father’s small design firm was struggling to stay alive. Somewhere out there, the woman I used to be was still clinging to pride. And now, I was marrying a man I barely knew to save it all. “When do we do it?” I asked quietly. “The wedding?” I nodded. “Tomorrow,” he said simply. “Private ceremony. Legal. My lawyer and PR team will handle everything.” I stared at him. “Tomorrow? That soon?” “The faster we control the narrative, the better. Every day we delay gives the press room to twist it.” I should have argued. Should have demanded time to breathe, to think. But my phone buzzed just then — a message from Lena: > Aria, the investors are backing out. If something doesn’t change soon, the firm’s gone. And just like that, the last piece of my hesitation fell apart. “All right,” I whispered. “Tomorrow.” He nodded once, efficient as ever, then stood. “There’s one more thing.” I looked up. “What?” He came around the table, and I had to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes. He was close enough that I could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the sharp lines of a man who rarely allowed softness into his life. “There’s a gala next week,” he said. “The Hale Foundation’s annual press event. We’ll attend as a married couple. That means people will expect a certain… level of intimacy.” My throat went dry. “Intimacy?” He didn’t smile. “We’ll need to act like we care about each other. Photographs. Appearances. Small gestures.” His gaze flicked to my lips, just for a second. “A kiss, perhaps.” My heart stumbled. “Right,” I said quickly. “For the cameras.” “For the cameras,” he echoed, but something in his tone made it sound like a challenge. I tried to steady my breath, to remind myself that this was just a business arrangement. He was my employer now, nothing more. But when his hand brushed mine — a brief, accidental touch — it felt like sparks running under my skin. He must have felt it too, because his expression changed. The mask slipped, just a little. “You should go,” he said, stepping back. “My driver will take you home. Pack what you need. You’ll move in tonight.” I hesitated. “You don’t trust me to show up tomorrow?” His mouth curved faintly. “I trust my system more than I trust people.” I wanted to hate him for saying that. I wanted to tell him that not everyone was like the world that had hardened him. But instead, I just nodded and gathered my things. When I reached the door, his voice stopped me. “Aria.” I turned. He was standing by the window now, city lights beginning to glow behind him. “Once this starts, there’s no turning back. Are you sure you want to do this?” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “No,” I said honestly. “But I don’t see another choice.” His eyes softened — just barely — and for a second, he looked almost human. Then he nodded. “Tomorrow at ten.” --- That night, I stood in front of my tiny apartment’s mirror, staring at the reflection of a woman I barely recognized. Tomorrow, I’d be Mrs. Damon Hale — billionaire’s wife, headline material, a walking lie. But somewhere deep down, beneath the fear and uncertainty, there was a flicker of something else. Curiosity. About the man who built empires out of code and silence. About the way his eyes had softened when he said my name. About the way his hand had felt against mine — cold at first, but steady, like something that could burn if I stayed too close. Maybe Lena was right. Maybe everyone here was just faking it. But as I turned off the lights and crawled into bed, one thought refused to leave me: If this marriage was just a performance, why did it already feel like the beginning of something I couldn’t control? 
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