A Contract Made of Chains

The limousine door shut behind me with a final, echoing thud.

My father hadn’t given me a choice. Two weeks after the humiliation at the altar, I was being delivered like an offering into the lion’s den. No time to grieve, no time to heal. Just a new cage waiting with my name carved into it.

The car pulled up to a building that scraped the sky, steel and glass gleaming under the evening sun. King Enterprises. Alexander King’s empire.

I swallowed hard, palms slick against the fabric of my dress. It wasn’t white this time. My father had insisted on something formal, elegant, “worthy.” I hated it already.

Inside, the lobby was all marble and shadows, every surface polished to reflect my unease. People in sharp suits hurried past, each one moving as though the air itself belonged to him.

And then I saw him.

Alexander King.

He was taller than I remembered from the gala, broad-shouldered, dressed in black like he’d stepped straight out of a magazine, and yet there was nothing warm about him. His presence was a storm contained in human form, controlled, dangerous. His eyes were the kind of cold that didn’t just look at you—they judged you, weighed you, decided your worth in a heartbeat.

And mine had already been decided.

“Miss Hart." His voice was low, smooth, but there was no welcome in it. Only certainty. “Sit.”

I obeyed, though my spine stiffened as I sank into the leather chair across from his massive desk. The glass walls framed the city behind him, as if he owned the skyline itself.

He slid a file toward me. “This is our marriage agreement.”

My throat went dry. “Marriage agreement?”

“Yes.” His gaze was steady, merciless. “A contract. Terms. Conditions. What you give me, what I give you. Nothing more, nothing less.”

I stared at the folder, the black ink like a chain coiled and waiting. “And what exactly do I give you?”

His lips curved slightly, though it wasn’t a smile. “A wife. A name. Legitimacy where I need it. In return, your family’s debts disappear, and you get to hold your head high again.”

Heat flared in my chest, anger, humiliation, grief. “So that’s it? I become your… your trophy?”

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a blade’s edge. “No. You become mine. There’s a difference.”

The words hit harder than I wanted to admit, stealing the breath from my lungs. His gaze pinned me to the chair, unblinking, daring me to object.

I clenched my fists in my lap, forcing steel into my voice. “And if I refuse?”

Alexander King’s expression didn’t change. He simply tilted his head, as though amused by the thought. “You won’t. But if you did… your father would be ruined. And so would you. Choices are illusions, Miss Elena Hart.This is the only one that matters.”

The silence stretched between us, thick as smoke. My heart thundered in my chest, but somewhere beneath the fear was a spark of defiance. He thought I was broken. He thought I was desperate enough to accept his chains without question.

Maybe I was.

But if I had to be his wife, I wouldn’t be silent. And I wouldn’t be weak.

I lifted my chin, meeting his gaze head-on. “Fine. I’ll sign your contract. But don’t mistake survival for obedience, Mr. King. You may own my vows, but you will never own me.”

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes. Amusement? Interest? Or perhaps the thrill of a challenge.

His lips curved again, sharper this time. “We’ll see.”

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