༶•┈┈❦ Signed, Sealed And Delivered ❦┈┈•༶

     ✦ ❦ ✦ Selena Pov ✦ ❦ ✦

The courthouse ceremony was quick, cold, and exactly what I signed up for. 

No big ballroom, no dramatic walk down the aisle, just a judge with reading glasses and tired eyes, two courthouse employees who'd probably witnessed a hundred marriages today, and the sharp smell of polished wood and old paper. The kind of place where love came to get officially documented and then moved on. 

I wore a sleek white tailored dress that hugged my body like it was made for me — classy but with enough edge that I still felt like myself. Not a bridel or soft. Just me, elevated. The dress showed off my curves, the neckline was strategic, and the way it fell made me look expensive. I had spent an hour doing my makeup that morning, perfecting the look. Not too much — just enough to photograph well if this moment ended up in any official records. 

Matthew stood beside me in a dark suit, looking every bit the powerful CEO. His blonde hair was perfectly styled, jaw tight, grey eyes focused on the papers instead of me. He'd barely looked at me since I arrived at the courthouse. Just a nod, a gesture for me to stand beside him, and then his full attention shifted back to the legal documents. 

The judge adjusted his glasses and began reading the standard lines. I listened with half my brain while the other half was already thinking about the photos. We would need good ones for the announcement. Official. Polished. The kind that would make it convincing if anyone actually cared. 

"Do you, Matthew Kingland, take Selena Jesus to be your lawful wedded wife?" 

Matthew didn't hesitate. "I do." 

His voice was flat. Businesslike. Like he was confirming a transaction rather than making a vow. Which, honestly, was what this was. 

"And do you, Selena Jesus, take Matthew Kingland to be your lawful wedded husband?" 

I said "I do" with a steady voice and a small smirk playing on my lips. I could feel Matthew's eyes flick toward me, probably registering the smirk. Good. Let him know I wasn't taking it seriously enough to be nervous. 

The judge didn't seem to notice or care. He just continued with the practiced words, moving through the ceremony like we were the hundredth couple he'd joinwd together today. Which we probably were. 

Then came the rings. 

Matthew took a small velvet box from his lawyer and opened it. Inside were two rings — his was a simple platinum band, mine was a diamond solitaire that caught the fluorescent courthouse lights and threw rainbows across the judge's desk. I lifted my hand and watched as Matthew slid the ring onto my finger. His hand was warm. Strong. And his touch was completely neutral — no tenderness, no possession, just the mechanical action of putting a ring on a woman's finger. 

I looked down at it. The diamond was massive. Tastefully massive, and expensive in that understated billionaire way. It caught the light beautifully and would photograph like a dream. Perfect for the "accidentally" candid shots I'd be taking for I*******m.

I handed him his ring and he slid it on, and that was it. We were married. 

Papers signed. Photos taken for the official record. Done. 

Just like that, I was Mrs. Selena Kingland — on paper at least. 

The judge said the words that made it official, and Matthew turned to me. For a split second, I thought he might kiss me — it's what you're supposed to do. But he didn't. He just inclined his head slightly, like we'd just closed a business deal, and walked toward the courthouse exit. 

I followed, already pulling out my phone to text Isabelle: *It's done 🔥 Mrs. Kingland now baby*. 

                          ༺✿༻ ༺✿༻ 

Outside, the black Rolls Royce waited, sleek and intimidating. 

Matthew held the door for me without a word. Polite but cold. The kind of gesture that looked good for the cameras that were still snapping a few official shots — apparently the courthouse had photographers documenting the event. Good. Let them get the shots. Let them capture the moment when Matthew Kingland acquired his contract wife. 

I slid in, crossing my legs, already scrolling my phone to respond to Isabelle's excited messages. The leather seats were soft and expensive, the kind that probably cost more than my car. The interior smelled like money — leather, wood polish, something that probably came from a luxury car freshener. 

The city blurred past the tinted windows as we drove to the mansion in silence. Matthew stared out his side window. I stared out mine. Zero awkward small talk. No attempt at conversation. Just two people who'd just legally bound themselves together for a year, sitting in complete silence. 

I used the quiet to mentally prepare myself. To shift into the headspace I'd need to survive a year in this mansion. I pulled up my I*******m and scrolled through my girls' posts. Them at the beach, restaurants, looking effortlessly rich and beautiful. That was going to be me soon. That was going to be my life for the next year — curating luxury, living luxury, documenting luxury.

When we pulled up to the Kingland mansion, my jaw almost dropped. 

The place was massive, modern glass and stone architecture that looked like it had been designed by someone who understood that wealth didn't need to shout. It just needed to exist. The structure rose up against the evening sky like something out of an architecture magazine. Sprawling gardens with perfectly manicured landscaping, a fountain in the front courtyard glowing under the evening lights, ivy-covered stone walls that looked like old money mixed with new design. 

As soon as the car stopped, the front doors opened and a whole line of staff stepped out like something from a movie. Maids in crisp uniforms, a butler in a three-piece suit, what looked like a chef in chef's whites — at least fifteen people standing neatly arranged, waiting to welcome us. This was the kind of staffing most people only saw in movies about rich people. 

*Damn,* I thought, feeling a slow, satisfied smile spreading inside me. *This is the life. No more scrubbing my own bathroom, no more cooking tired meals after part-time shifts. No more being my own maid, my own chef, my own everything. One year of this? Of people just handling shit for me? I could absolutely get used to not lifting a single finger.* The baddie in me was already winning. 

Matthew got out first and offered his hand. I took it for the cameras that were still snapping official shots — had to keep up appearances, had to make this look real — but dropped it the second we were inside the grand foyer. The marble floors gleamed under crystal chandeliers. The space opened up like a cathedral to wealth. Paintings hung on the walls that probably cost more than my entire neighborhood. 

The chief maid — an older woman with kind but professional eyes and grey hair pulled back neatly — stepped forward and gave a small bow. 

"Welcome home, Mr. and Mrs. Kingland. Everything is prepared as requested. Mrs. Kingland, I'll show you to your private wing and suite. It has its own living area, walk-in closet, and balcony overlooking the gardens." 

I looked around the luxurious space — marble floors, chandeliers, art worth more than my old apartment, everything designed to make you feel small and rich at the same time. Then I looked at Matthew and saw him relax slightly. He was probably relieved. Separate quarters meant he didn't have to pretend any more than he already had. 

I shook my head with a sweet but firm smile. "No need. I'll be sleeping in Matthew's room." 

Mrs. Hargrove blinked, her professional composure slipping for just a second. The other staff members exchanged glances. 

Matthew turned to me sharply, grey eyes narrowing like he was trying to calculate what I was doing. "Selena, the contract clearly states separate quarters." 

I tilted my head, looking up at him with that rebellious sparkle in my hazel eyes. I could see him trying to figure me out, trying to understand the angle. "The contract also says I have to play the perfect wife in public. How does it look if we sleep in different wings on our wedding night? People talk, baby. Housekeeping talks. Staff talks. And I'm not about to give anyone ammunition to say this is fake. So… your bed it is." 

I wasn't backing down. I could see him processing this, see the moment he realized I wasn't going to be pushed around or controlled. I wasn't some desperate woman grateful to be in his mansion. I was someone who understood leverage and wasn't afraid to use it. 

He could either compromise or look like he was forcing his new wife away on their first night together. 

I could see the muscle in his jaw flex as he worked through the calculation. He wasn't used to being challenged. But after a long second, he gave a short nod to Mrs. Hargrove. "Prepare the main master suite for both of us." 

"Yes, sir," Mrs. Hargrove said, her professional demeanor snapping back into place immediately. 

I smiled sweetly at Matthew, the kind of smile that said I'd just won. Then I turned to Mrs. Hargrove. "And I'll need those gardens photographed in different lighting throughout the day. I'm thinking there might be some aesthetic opportunities there." 

Mrs. Hargrove looked confused but nodded. "Of course, Mrs. Kingland." 

As we walked upstairs, I felt a little rush of victory. 

I wasn't going to let him box me away like some convenient accessory. If we were doing this, we were doing it on terms that worked for me too. Plus, lowkey, I wanted to see how uncomfortable Mr. Cold could get. 

The hallway leading to the master suite was lined with more art, more windows overlooking the grounds, everything designed to remind you that you were in a space that mattered. I mentally noted the lighting at different times of day — this hallway was going to photograph beautifully in the morning light. 

The master bedroom was an insanely huge king-sized bed with silk sheets that probably had a thread count I couldn't even calculate, floor-to-ceiling windows that opened onto a private balcony overlooking the gardens, a sitting area with velvet chairs, and a bathroom bigger than my old living room. The bedroom itself was designed in cool greys and whites with touches of deep blue, minimalist but luxurious. It was exactly the kind of room that would make my followers lose their minds. 

I kicked off my heels the moment we were alone, sighing in relief as my feet sank into the soft carpet. My feet were killing me. Six inches of heel for six hours was catching up with me. 

Matthew loosened his tie, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "You enjoy pushing boundaries, don't you?" 

I laughed lightly, unzipping the side of my dress. "I enjoy getting what I want. And right now, I want a comfortable bed and to keep up appearances. Don't worry I'll stay on my side. I'm not here for you like that." 

The dress slipped down as I unzipped it, and I stepped out of it carefully so it wouldn't wrinkle. Can't have wrinkled designer looks. I hung it up in the closet  which was indeed massive, empty except for Matthew's perfectly organized suits and then padded to my overnight bag. 

He didn't reply, just disappeared into the massive walk-in closet to change. I could hear him moving around in there, the sounds of fabric, the clink of a belt, the quiet rustling of someone changing clothes. 

I slipped into my silk pajamas, they were black and expensive-looking, the kind of thing that would photograph well if anyone ever saw me in them and climbed into the bed. The mattress felt like a cloud. Like sleeping on money. Like every luxury brand had decided to collaborate on the perfect sleeping experience. 

*This is the bag talking,* I thought happily, running my hands over the silk sheets. *Maids, mansion, no chores, no responsibilities except looking pretty and being present. One year of this luxury while I plan my girls' trip? Document the aesthetic, drop photos that make my I*******m followers lose their minds? Worth every second of pretending to be Mrs. Kingland.*

Matthew came out in grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt, looking annoyingly good. Like he'd just stepped out of a luxury brand advertisement. Broad shoulders, the kind of casual confidence that came with money and power. He got in on his side of the bed, keeping plenty of distance between us. At least three feet of empty silk sheets between his body and mine. 

The silence stretched between us like a living thing. 

I turned on my side, facing away from him, and let myself relax into the bed. The pillow was soft. Everything here was soft. Everything was designed to make you feel like you'd made it. 

"Goodnight, husband," I said into the darkness, my voice light and amused. 

He didn't answer right away. I thought maybe he was already asleep. Then, quietly, from the other side of the bed: "Goodnight, Selena." 

I smiled into my pillow. Day one completed. Money secured. Life upgrading. 

Tomorrow I was going to start photographing this place. I was going to show my girls exactly what ten million dollars looked like when you had the aesthetic to match it. 

Tomorrow was going to be another story. 

But tonight, I was going to sleep in the most comfortable bed I'd ever experienced, as the legal wife of a billionaire, exactly where I'd planned to be.