CHAPTER 8 — SIGNING HER LIFE AWAY

The check sat like a foreign object in Arielle’s hands.

A lifeline, but one tied to a man who didn’t give freely, A man who didn’t move without purpose, A man who didn’t breathe without calculation she's learning to hate.

Damian Blackwood didn’t do kindness.

So whatever he wanted…it would cost her.

And she dreaded the price.

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By the time Arielle finally left the hospital, the sky had bled into deep orange. Her feet carried her automatically, her mind on a loop, Emma, Deposit, Damian, Contract, Check, Choices, No choices.

The subway ride blurred past. The city noise became a distant thrum. She barely realized where she was until she stood in front of Blackwood Enterprise towering glass entrance once again.

She stared up at it, cold, gleaming, merciless.

She hated this building.

But tonight, it held the only door open to saving Emma.

Her fingers tightened around her bag as she walked inside. The security guard immediately recognized her.

“Mr. Blackwood is expecting you,” the guard said in a tone too smooth, too rehearsed.

Arielle blinked. “He…is?”

The guard nodded and gestured to the private elevator. “Top floor.”

Of course. Damian probably knew she’d come the moment he left that check in her lap. She hated that he anticipated her moves so easily, hated that he understood her in ways that made her feel exposed and she hated him for taking advantage of her like this.

The elevator ride was long, silent, suffocating. With every passing floor, her stomach tightened.

When the elevator doors opened to Damian office floor, she was directed to his office, as she stepped into Damian’s office, dark wood, steel accents, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. He stood with his back to her, hands in his pockets, shoulders rigid.

Like a statue carved from midnight.

Only when the doors closed behind her did he speak.

“You’re late.”

No greeting. No acknowledgment. Just that.

Arielle swallowed. “I came as soon as I,”

“You hesitated.” His voice cut through the shadows like a blade. “That’s what made you late.”

She clenched her fists. “Damian, I,”

“Sit.”

The command was soft and Unavoidable.

Arielle sat.

Damian turned finally, walking toward her with the slow, measured steps of a predator calculating the distance to its prey. He placed a thick folder on the table in front of her.

“This,” he said, “is the contract.”

The air left her lungs.

She stared at the folder like it was a weapon. Maybe it was.

Damian took a seat opposite her, unbuttoning his suit jacket with cold precision.

“I don’t believe in marriage,” he began. “I don’t tolerate emotional complications. And I don’t have time for melodrama. But I need a wife for the next thirty days.”

His eyes locked on hers, sharp enough to pin her in place.

“And you need money.”

It wasn’t cruelty. It wasn’t pity.

It was a statement of facts.

Earth shattering ones.

Arielle swallowed hard. “So that’s it? A transactional marriage?”

“Yes.” His voice didn’t waver. “Completely transactional.”

He opened the folder, sliding the papers toward her.

“Read.”

She lifted the first page, her hands trembling. The contract was long, detailed, suffocatingly thorough. Damian watched her silently, his gaze heavy on her skin.

The terms felt unreal.

But the rules…

The rules were worse.

She reached the page titled:

CONDITIONS OF THE CONTRACTUAL MARRIAGE

Her heart pounded as she read.

1. No Leaving Without Permission

Arielle must remain accessible at all times. No extended absences. No sudden disappearances. Damian must know her location for public scheduling and safety reasons.

Her stomach twisted. Permission? He wants control.

She kept reading.

2. Public Affection Required

For appearances, she must play the role of a loving wife in public. Hand holding. Standing close, Occasional displays of affection, Events, galas, business gatherings.

Her throat grew tight. He wants to touch me.

3. Zero Romantic Expectations

She must not develop or request romantic involvement. The marriage is not emotional. Damian will not provide affection, intimacy, or emotional support.

The words felt like ice water poured on her chest.

He assumed she would fall for him.

He assumed she would want him.

She grit her teeth. Arrogant man.

4. Shared Living Space

They would share a penthouse. Separate bedrooms, but daily proximity was mandatory for the image of a real marriage.

Her pulse quickened. “Shared…living space?”

Damian nodded slightly. “It’s necessary.”

“You mean I’ll be living with you.”

“Yes.”

She almost choked.

5. No Leaks, No Media, No Mistakes

Any breach of privacy or public mishap would void the contract—and he could sue.

She exhaled shakily.

This was not a contract.

This was a cage.

And yet…

Emma needed the surgery.

Her lungs hurt with the weight of it all.

“What happens if I refuse?” she whispered.

Damian’s gaze sharpened. “Then you walk out of this building, and Emma’s treatment is delayed, Possibly denied and then you bear the consequences of your action, right now your pride doesn't matter, this decision dictate your sister life.”

Her heart cracked.

He didn’t say it with cruelty, just certainty.

“You said this was an advance,” she said. “An advance for this decision.”

“Yes.”

“And if I sign…you’ll cover everything?”

“Everything.”

The room felt like it was shrinking. Arielle’s eyes blurred.

“I don’t want to be owned,” she whispered.

“You won’t be.” His voice was quiet. Controlled. “You will be partnered. Temporarily.”

“It feels like ownership.”

“It feels like survival,” he corrected. “For both of us.”

Silence thickened between them.

Arielle looked down at the signature line. Her name printed neatly beneath it. A place waiting for her to surrender.

For Emma.

For the surgery.

For the only chance left.

Her hand shook as she picked up the pen.

Damian watched her like a man observing a critical business acquisition, intense, focused, expression unreadable.

“Arielle,” he said softly, his voice surprisingly steady. “Look at me.”

She forced her gaze up.

“This contract is cold,” he said. “But I am not signing you into pain. I won’t hurt you.”

She didn’t know if she believed him.

But she believed in Emma’s life more.

Arielle sucked in a breath,

and signed.

Every letter felt like it stole a piece of her freedom. Every stroke felt like it carved her fate into stone.

When the pen lifted, she felt the weight of the world crash into her chest.

“It’s done,” she whispered.

Damian reached forward, his fingers grazing the edge of the paper as he pulled it back. Their hands didn’t touch, but the air between them sparked.

He scanned her signature, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

“Good.”

“What now?” she asked, voice barely a sound.

He stood.

Buttoned his jacket.

And said calmly,

“Move in tonight.”

Her heart stopped. “Tonight?”

“Yes.” His tone left no room for negotiation. “Pack what you need. My driver will take you to the penthouse.”

Arielle’s breath shook. “I, I can’t just, tonight?”

“You can,” he said, stepping closer, his shadow falling over her. “And you will. Our marriage begins immediately, Appearances must too.”

She stared up at him, pulse racing, chest tight.

“Are you ordering me?” she whispered.

Damian’s eyes darkened, voice low and dangerous.

“No, Arielle. I’m preparing you, so stop questioning me and please don't make it look like I'm forcing you into this.”

He leaned in, not touching, not breathing against her, but close enough to make her skin burn.

“Tonight,” he repeated. “You become my wife.”

A soft rap on the door distracted them.

A soft reminder.

A countdown.

A point of no return.