Chapter Two: Four Days

POV: ELENA 

The next four days passed like a slow, heavy countdown.

I barely left my room. Victor knocked once on the second morning, left a tray of food outside the door, and walked away without speaking. I ate because my body demanded it, not because I had any appetite. Most of the time I sat on the edge of the bed with my phone in my hand, refreshing the same three articles about Damian Sterling until the words blurred.

He had been twenty-nine when the accident happened. The reports were carefully vague. A late-night drive along the coastal highway. Wet roads. One passenger dead. Damian left unable to walk. After that, the Sterling family had closed ranks so tightly that almost nothing new had leaked.

On the third night I finally slept, but only in short, restless stretches. Every time I closed my eyes I saw the photograph from the contract—those cold grey eyes, the controlled mouth, the quiet power that seemed to radiate even from a still image. I hated that I noticed. I hated that my pulse reacted to a man I had never met. I hated that the contract had already decided what my body would do for him.

Saturday arrived grey and windy.

At exactly 8:55am. The same black town car pulled up in front of the house. I was already waiting by the door in the only decent dress I owned, a simple navy one that suddenly felt too plain. Victor stood in the hallway with his hands in his pockets.

“You look fine,” he said.

I did not answer. I stepped past him and out into the morning air.

The drive to the Sterling estate took forty minutes. The city fell away, replaced by long stretches of trees and high stone walls. When the car finally turned through a pair of tall iron gates, my stomach tightened. The estate was larger than I had expected—wide lawns, a pale stone mansion that looked as if it had stood for generations, and a separate glass-and-steel wing that felt newer and colder.

The car stopped at the main entrance. A woman in a tailored black suit was already waiting. She introduced herself as Ms. Renner, the household manager, and led me inside without small talk.

“The ceremony will be held in the east garden,” she said as we walked. “It will be brief and private. Only immediate family and the necessary legal witnesses. Afterward you will be shown to the east wing, which has been prepared for you and Mr. Sterling. The physician will arrive this evening for the preliminary consultation. The consummation clause begins tonight.”

I nodded, absorbing the information like instructions for a job I had already accepted.

She took me to a guest suite on the second floor. A white dress hung on a stand—simple, elegant, long-sleeved, with no train and almost no decoration. It looked expensive and impersonal at the same time. A makeup artist and a hairdresser waited inside. They worked quickly and quietly.

When they finished, I barely recognized the woman in the mirror. The dress fit perfectly. My hair was swept up in a soft style that made my face look sharper. I looked like someone who belonged in this house. I did not feel like her.

Ms. Renner returned at 10:40.

“It’s time.”

We walked through the quiet halls and out into the east garden. A small white canopy had been set up between two tall hedges. There were only a handful of chairs. I saw Victor standing near the back. Near the front sat a tall, silver-haired man I recognized as Sebastian Sterling—Damian’s father. He glanced at me once, his expression unreadable, then looked away.

There was no music.

A lawyer stood beneath the canopy with a thin folder. He gave me a polite nod as I approached.

And then I saw him.

Damian Sterling sat in a black wheelchair a few feet to the right of the lawyer. He wore a dark charcoal suit that fit him with the kind of precision money could buy. His shoulders were broad, his posture straight despite the chair. His hair was dark and slightly longer than in the photograph, falling just above his collar. He did not look at me as I walked the short path toward him.

Only when I stopped beside the chair did he finally turn his head.

His eyes were a cold, clear grey. They moved over my face once, slowly, without any visible reaction. No surprise. No curiosity. No welcome. Just a flat, assessing look that made the air between us feel thinner—and somehow warmer.

My pulse stuttered. I forced myself to hold his gaze.

The lawyer cleared his throat and began speaking. The words washed over me in a blur of legal language. I answered when prompted. Damian’s voice, when he spoke, was low and controlled, each word precise. It slid under my skin in a way I was not prepared for.

We signed the final papers on a small table placed at wheelchair height. His hand was steady. Mine was not. When our fingers brushed for the briefest second as he passed the pen, a spark of awareness shot up my arm and settled low between my legs. I pulled back too quickly. He noticed. I saw it in the slight narrowing of his eyes.

When it was done, the lawyer closed the folder.

“You are now legally married.”

There was no applause. No congratulations. Sebastian Sterling stood, gave his son a single nod, and walked away. Victor lingered for a moment, then followed without looking at me.

Ms. Renner stepped forward.

“Mr. and Mrs. Sterling, the east wing is ready. I’ll show you the way.”

Damian turned the wheelchair with a soft electronic hum and began moving toward the house. I walked beside him in silence. The path was smooth and wide. He did not speak. He did not look at me again. But I was painfully aware of every inch of space between us—the controlled power in the way he moved the chair, the clean line of his profile, the quiet intensity that seemed to follow him like a second shadow.

We entered through a side door and took a private elevator to the second floor of the east wing. The hallway was quiet, the walls a soft cream colour. Ms. Renner stopped in front of a set of double doors and opened them.

“These are your rooms. The sitting area is shared. Mr. Sterling’s bedroom is to the left. Yours is to the right. Dinner will be sent up at seven. The physician arrives at eight. After that… the rest of the evening is yours.”

She left without waiting for a reply.

The doors closed behind her with a soft click.

Damian rolled forward into the sitting room and stopped in the centre. For a long moment neither of us moved. The only sound was the faint ticking of a clock somewhere on the wall.

Then he spoke for the first time since the ceremony, his voice low and even.

“There are rules.”

I turned to face him fully.

He looked at me with those same cold grey eyes, and for the first time since I signed the contract I felt something sharp and real cut through the numbness—something that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the man sitting in front of me.

“You will hear them now,” he said. “And you will follow them exactly. Including the one that begins tonight.”