The Deal

The ink was barely dry on the contract when Nova Lawson realized she'd sold her soul for silence.

It was a crisp black-and-white document, without emotion or a name for the man on the other line. It was just a firm offer: her father's entire debt would be paid in full, her failing bookstore would be funded for a year, and her mother would have complete medical coverage. The only catch?

Nova had to marry a stranger for one year.

No questions. No escape clauses. No intimacy is required… unless initiated.

It sounded clinical. Clean. Like a business transaction.

But Nova knew better. Nothing in her life came without a price tag stitched in blood.

Her pen trembled against the final line, Nova Camille Lawson, and with one last breath, she signed it.

The car that came for her the following day was matte black, with windows tinted so dark they looked dipped in oil. The driver didn't speak. The silence was intentional, sharp, and surgical.

Nova's palms were slick. Her curves hugged a thrifted blue dress that felt too tight now. She crossed her legs, uncrossed them, and froze as they passed city limits.

Wherever Nova was going, it wasn't anywhere close to home.

They pulled through wrought iron gates into a private estate surrounded by tall pines and silence. The house wasn't old; it was cold. It was all glass and steel, like something out of a villain's lair: beautiful and isolated.

Trapped. The door opened, and Nova stepped out to meet her husband.

He stood there like he'd been carved from marble and frozen in a tailored black suit. Tall, broad-shouldered, storm-dark hair slicked back and cheekbones that gods could've cut. But his eyes, clear, ice-blue, expressionless, gave him away.

This was not a man who loved. This was a man who owned.

"Nova Lawson," he said, voice like crushed velvet with a faint accent she couldn't place—Eastern European, maybe? "You came."

"I signed a contract," Nova said stiffly, eyes narrowing. "That doesn't mean I came willingly."

"Willingness is a luxury," he replied. "You came. That's enough."

He extended a hand. Nova didn't take it.

The courthouse wedding was over in seven minutes.

No ring. No vows. No kiss.

Just her new name stamped on a certificate: Nova Lawson Drăghici. He told her to call him "Damian," but it was not his real name. He had the kind of presence that whispered of a longer name, a bloodline that didn't trace back to the IRS.

Damian offered her a glass of champagne, which she hadn't drunk. He then handed her a credit card she didn't want. He led her through his mansion like she was a guest, not a bride.

"This will be your room," Damian said, opening the door to a sleek bedroom in dark blues and muted golds. Not a single personal item. Not even a book.

"My room?" Nova asked, heart thudding.

He looked at her, unreadable. "Yes. I don't expect your body. Just your presence."

A pause.

"But if that ever changes…"

He stepped closer, close enough for her to see the scar below his jawline. "…it will be because you ask."

Nova swallowed. Her lips parted, but no words came.

Then he turned, just like that, and disappeared down the hall. That night, she lay in a bed that didn't smell like anything, staring at a ceiling that felt too quiet.

Her phone had been taken to the door, and Nova's books were still in boxes. She'd been given a house key and a list of rules typed in bullet points. Curfew: 10 PM. No entering his office, no bringing in guests, and no access to the east wing.

Rule #7 stood out in bold:

Do not enter the locked room at the end of the hall.

And Rule #8:

If you do, you will not like what you find.

"I didn’t fall in love with my husband. I fell into his trap... at first."
– Married to My Stalker