Chapter Three — “Terms and Conditions”

The car waited outside Kingsley Headquarters like a shadow. Black. Polished. Intimidating.

The driver didn’t say a word. Just opened the door and nodded.

I slid in, gripping my coat tighter even though the car was warm. I didn’t speak. I couldn’t.

Because I’d just sold a year of my life.

No. I’d traded it, for Lily.

The city blurred past the window. Cold gray sky. Angry taxis. My face staring back at me in the glass. Pale. Hollow. A stranger.

In my lap sat the folder.

The contract. Signed. Sealed.

Too late to run.

When we reached the mansion, I had to tilt my head to see the top. All glass and stone. The kind of place that made you feel small before you even stepped inside.

Naomi was already waiting at the door. Arms crossed. Lips pressed into a line so sharp it could cut.

“Miss Reynolds,” she said. Not warm. Not kind. Not even curious. “Follow me.”

The inside of the house was silent. Marble floors, spotless walls. It smelled like expensive polish and rules.

I used to dream of homes like this when I was little.

Ones with warmth. Laughter. Smells of garlic bread and old books.

Not marble floors and closed doors.

“Mr. Kingsley has left instructions,” Naomi said, leading me toward a private elevator. “There are seventeen clauses. You’re expected to follow all of them. No exceptions.”

Seventeen.

She handed me a sheet of paper. Thick. Heavy. Legal.

“Clause One through Four: dress code, media behaviour, meal expectations. No personal guests. No press interaction. You’ll speak only from a pre-approved script.”

I nodded slowly, barely keeping up.

We exited the elevator into a long hallway that looked like something out of a dream. Or a nightmare.

Naomi didn’t stop walking. “You’ll stay in the west wing. You are not permitted in the east wing unless accompanied. That includes Mr. Kingsley’s study, his personal quarters, and the lower level.”

“Why?” I asked before I could stop myself.

She glanced at me over her shoulder. “You signed a contract. That should be reason enough.”

We stepped into a massive dressing room. Clothes lined the walls. Black. Navy. Gray. Everything was neat, silent and cold.

“You’ll be dressed by the in-house stylist. You don’t choose anything yourself.”

My fingers brushed a soft black dress on the rack. I could tell from the fabric it cost more than my monthly rent.

Naomi didn’t even look at it. “You’ll wear what you’re told. This marriage may be paper, but the image is real.”

I stayed quiet. What was I supposed to say? That I felt like I was suffocating already?

She led me to a grand bedroom with cream walls and gold trim. Too clean. Too perfect.

“This is yours,” she said. “Schedule’s on the nightstand. Tomorrow you’ll attend a charity gala with Mr. Kingsley. The press will be there. Don’t speak unless prompted.”

She turned to go but paused at the door.

“I suggest you read Clause Seventeen. Carefully.”

And then she left.

I stared at the contract in my hand. My throat was tight. My chest was heavier by the second.

This place. These rules. Him.

I sat on the edge of the bed and unfolded the paper again. Skimmed the top. Dress code. Event etiquette. Clause Seven was about keeping a public distance from Damian unless he said otherwise. That made my skin crawl a little.

Then Clause Seventeen.

“Unauthorized access to personal or private quarters, including the east wing, will be considered a breach of contract, subject to financial penalty or immediate contract termination.”

It sounded like jail. But with prettier walls.

I let out a breath and set the paper down. My eyes burned. I didn’t want to cry in a room that wasn’t even mine.

So I stood up. Quiet. Careful.

Maybe a short walk would clear my head.

I stepped into the hallway, bare feet cold against marble.

The silence felt thicker now.

I turned left. Just wandering. Just looking. Trying to remind myself I wasn’t a prisoner.

Then I saw the door. Slightly open. Dark wood. Just enough space to tempt curiosity.

I peeked inside.

It was a different world.

Deep colours. A fireplace. A rich leather chair facing a low table. A black grand piano in the corner. Bookshelves that stretched to the ceiling. On the far desk, a photo.

I stepped closer.

A woman. Her face turned just slightly away. Smiling. Blonde.

Not Naomi.

Definitely not anyone I’d seen before.

Who was she?

Before I could even blink, I heard the click of the door behind me.

And then his voice.

Low. Steady. Dangerous.

“Did you not read Clause Seventeen?”

My body turned before I even meant to. Damian stood in the doorway. No tie. Collar open. Still sharp, still powerful. Even more dangerous this way.

“I— I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t—”

“Intent doesn’t matter,” he said. “Rules do.”

My heart pounded.

“I thought it was just, I didn’t know this was yours.”

“You’re not allowed in this wing.” His eyes didn’t move. “Ever.”

Behind him, Naomi appeared. Silent fury in her posture.

“You were told,” she said. “You were warned.”

I looked at them. Trapped. My feet rooted. My throat dry.

“I didn’t mean anything,” I whispered.

Damian stepped closer. Just one step. But it felt like a warning.

“Every room you enter in this house says something. Even when you think it doesn’t.”

For a second, something flickered in his eyes.

Not anger. Not desire.

Something else. Then it was gone.

I felt my cheeks burn. But I couldn’t tell if it was from shame… or the way his eyes dropped briefly to my bare legs.

He turned away.

“This marriage has rules, Ava. Break one again, and I won’t just remind you.”

Naomi slammed the door shut behind them as they left.

I stood there. Frozen. A stranger in a house made of secrets and glass.

That photo.

That look in Damian’s eyes.

This wasn’t just about rules.

There were things I wasn’t supposed to see.

And one of them was standing on that desk… smiling back at me.

And suddenly, the thought that this was all about money…

felt like the safest lie I’d told myself all day.