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The wedding contract
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2025-10-13 19:47:54(Damon’s POV)
The ceremony was supposed to feel like every other business formality I’d ever orchestrated: efficient, predictable, controlled. It didn’t. From the moment Aria walked into the private hall, all pale silk and unsteady grace, control felt like a concept that belonged to another lifetime. The venue had been chosen for convenience—one of my smaller properties, a rooftop conservatory with glass walls and a view of the skyline. Only a few witnesses: my lawyer, her friend Lena, and a photographer hired to “capture the moment” for the press release. Everything was planned to the minute. And yet my pulse ignored the schedule. Aria hesitated at the entrance, her fingers brushing the veil as if she wasn’t sure whether to wear it. The late-morning light poured in behind her, catching on the edges of her hair until it looked like a halo. Evan leaned toward me. “Breathe, Damon.” “I’m fine.” “You look like you’re about to give a keynote, not get married.” “Same difference,” I muttered. But it wasn’t. When she started walking toward me, each step seemed to pull me out of the neatly walled-off existence I’d built. She stopped in front of me, close enough that I could see the faint freckles across her nose, the tremor in her hands, the determination in her eyes fighting the fear. “This is it?” she whispered. “This is it,” I said. The officiant—one of our company lawyers drafted into temporary service—cleared his throat and began the legal text of the vows. Words about partnership, respect, unity. None of them real. And yet each one landed heavier than it should have. I told myself to keep my eyes on the document, on the script, on anything that wasn’t her. But every time she spoke—soft, clear, sincere—it pulled something tight inside my chest. When it was my turn to speak, the words caught slightly before they left my throat. “I, Damon Hale, take you, Aria Collins…” I paused. The silence stretched just long enough for her to glance up at me. There was no accusation in her eyes, no fear—just quiet understanding, as if she could sense that I was fighting ghosts she couldn’t see. “…to be my lawfully wedded wife,” I finished. The sentence sounded foreign in my mouth, too human, too vulnerable. She repeated her part, voice trembling only once. The officiant nodded. “By the power vested in me—” I felt my heart thud once, hard. “—I now pronounce you husband and wife.” A single camera clicked. The world outside would soon see the still frame: Damon Hale, the untouchable billionaire, finally married. A perfect image. Then came the line I hadn’t planned for. “You may kiss the bride.” Aria looked up, startled. The contract hadn’t mentioned this part. “It’s expected,” I murmured, just loud enough for her to hear. She nodded, barely. Her eyes flickered to my mouth, then back to my eyes. Something fragile and defiant crossed her face—a challenge. I leaned in slowly, careful not to make it real, careful not to lose the thin thread of logic that still held me together. The faint scent of her perfume—citrus and something warm—slipped through my guard. Our lips met lightly, a brief brush that lasted no longer than a breath. It was supposed to be for the cameras, for credibility. But when I pulled back, I felt it—the smallest spark of something genuine, burning quietly where distance used to be. Applause broke the moment. Paperwork followed. Cameras flashed again. Minutes later, we were standing alone by the window, the city spread out beneath us. She was twisting the simple gold band on her finger, as if it belonged to someone else. “So that’s it,” she said. “We’re married.” “For now.” Her gaze met mine. “You don’t sound thrilled.” “Thrill isn’t part of the contract.” Her smile was faint but real. “Maybe it should be.” I didn’t know how to answer that. She turned back to the skyline, and I watched her reflection in the glass. There was no calculation in her, no agenda. Just a quiet courage I couldn’t define. It struck me then—how little I actually knew about her. In my world, everyone came with a file, a motive, a measurable value. Aria Collins had none of those things, and that made her unpredictable. Unpredictable meant dangerous. “Tomorrow,” I said, breaking the silence, “we’ll have interviews to manage. My assistant will brief you.” She nodded. “Understood.” I waited for her to ask something more—about money, publicity, boundaries—but she didn’t. She just looked out over the city and said softly, “You built all this, Damon. Doesn’t it ever feel… lonely?” The question landed somewhere I didn’t expect. I opened my mouth, then closed it. “Lonely,” I repeated. “No. Necessary.” She smiled a little, like she didn’t believe me, then turned to leave. When the door closed behind her, I finally let out the breath I’d been holding. My phone buzzed—another congratulatory message, another investor appeased. Everything was going according to plan. And yet, staring at the thin gold ring on my finger, I couldn’t shake the thought that I’d just entered a deal I didn’t fully understand. The woman I’d married for convenience was already rewriting the terms. 
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