Tetangga Culunku Ternyata Big Boss

I signed my name with shaking fingers.

Elara Grey.

The ink bled slightly into the thick, cream vellum, as if even the paper recoiled from the commitment. The pen felt heavier than it should have—solid gold, engraved with the Blackwood crest—almost as if it understood what this signature truly meant. I was selling my freedom, my future, and whatever scraps of pride I had managed to cling to after the last eighteen months of watching everything I loved slip away.

The conference room on the 78th floor of Blackwood Tower smelled of polished leather, fresh coffee, and money. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the glittering sprawl of the city below, indifferent to the small human dramas unfolding inside glass walls. Sunlight sliced across the long table in harsh white bars, catching on the edges of crystal water glasses and the gold cufflinks of the man seated opposite me.

The lawyer—Mr. Hargrove, silver-haired, impeccably tailored—cleared his throat with the practiced delicacy of someone who had witnessed dozens of these transactions.

“Once you sign, the agreement becomes legally binding, Miss Grey. The marriage will last for exactly two years from the date of the ceremony. No emotional obligations will be implied or enforced. No interference in Mr. Blackwood’s personal affairs will be tolerated. In return, all outstanding medical debts for Mrs. Grey will be settled in full, your brother’s university tuition will be covered through graduation, and the mortgage on your family home will be paid off. You will receive a monthly allowance of fifty thousand dollars, deposited discreetly, and full access to appropriate wardrobes and residences as required for public appearances.”

He recited it like a menu. Clean. Final.

I nodded, even though my chest burned with something sharper than fear—something that tasted like betrayal, though I wasn’t sure who I was betraying most: myself or the version of me who once believed love couldn’t be bought.

Two years.

Two years of pretending to be adored by a man who didn’t even know my middle name. Two years of smiling at charity galas, posing for photographers who would caption us “power couple goals,” enduring hushed speculation about how a nobody like me had snared the untouchable Lucien Blackwood.

“Do you have any questions?” Mr. Hargrove asked, folding his hands on the contract as though it were a sacred text.

A thousand questions clawed at the back of my throat.

Would this destroy me?

Was there still some last, desperate way out?

Could I survive two years of being invisible in plain sight?

But the images that had haunted me for weeks flooded back instead: my mother’s pale face against starched hospital sheets, the chemo port taped to her collarbone like an accusation; my brother’s acceptance letter to Stanford crumpled in my fist while the eviction notice sat on the kitchen counter like a death sentence; the landlord’s polite but firm voicemail explaining that “sympathy only stretches so far.”

I swallowed the questions down. “No.”

My voice sounded small in the vast room.

Mr. Hargrove offered a thin, professional smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Very good. Then if you’ll just initial here… and here…”

I did. Each scratch of the pen felt like another piece of myself being carved away.

The door at the far end of the room opened without warning.

The temperature dropped five degrees.

I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The air shifted—charged, heavier, as though gravity itself had realigned around one man.

Everyone in the city knew that presence.

Lucien Blackwood.

Billionaire. CEO of Blackwood Enterprises. The man who bought failing conglomerates the way other people bought coffee. The man whose name appeared in headlines with words like ruthless, visionary, untouchable.

The man I was about to marry.

His footsteps were measured, deliberate. Expensive leather soles on marble. Each one echoed in my ribcage.

He stopped just behind my chair. Close enough that I caught the faint scent of cedarwood and crisp linen—clean, controlled, expensive.

“Is it done?” His voice was deep, low, indifferent. The kind of voice that expected answers before it finished asking questions.

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Hargrove said quickly, rising halfway out of his seat. “Miss Grey has signed. All clauses have been reviewed and initiated. The prenuptial agreement is fully executed.”

A beat of silence.

I felt his gaze settle on me like physical weight.

Slowly—because what else could I do?—I turned.

Lucien Blackwood stood there in a charcoal suit that looked tailored by angels and fury. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair swept back, not a strand out of place. Jawline sharp enough to cut glass. Eyes the color of midnight storms—cold, assessing, empty of anything resembling warmth.

He looked at me the way a collector might appraise a painting he’d just purchased: interesting, perhaps valuable in context, but ultimately just another asset.

No smile. No frown. No flicker of curiosity or pity.

Just… ownership.

Our eyes locked.

For one endless second, something flickered in those dark depths—something unreadable, gone before I could name it.

“Good,” he said.

One word. Flat. Final.

“Then we proceed.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He never did, from what I’d read in endless profiles and gossip columns. He simply turned toward Mr. Hargrove.

“Schedule the civil ceremony for next Friday. Private. No press until the announcement the following week.” His tone left no room for negotiation. “And ensure the necessary accommodations are prepared at the penthouse. She’ll move in Sunday.”

Move in.

The words landed like stones in my stomach.

“Of course, Mr. Blackwood,” the lawyer murmured, already tapping notes into his tablet.

Lucien’s attention returned to me—brief, impersonal.

“Miss Grey.” He inclined his head the barest fraction. “I expect punctuality. Discretion. And compliance.”

That was it. No congratulations. No welcome. No illusion of kindness.

He turned and walked out, the door closing behind him with the soft, expensive click of finality.

The room exhaled.

Mr. Hargrove cleared his throat again. “Well. That concludes our business here today. You’ll receive digital copies of the executed documents within the hour. My assistant will contact you regarding wardrobe fittings and—”

I stood abruptly, chair scraping against marble.

“I need a moment,” I said.

He blinked. “Of course.”

I walked to the window on unsteady legs.

Below, the city pulsed—cars like ants, people like specks, all moving forward while mine had just frozen in place.

I pressed my palm to the cool glass.

Two years.

I could survive two years.

I had to.

For Mom. For Ethan. For the roof over what was left of our family.

But as I stared at my reflection superimposed over the glittering skyline—pale, wide-eyed, a stranger already—I couldn’t shake the feeling that I hadn’t just signed a contract.

I’d signed away the girl who used to dream of real love.

And in her place stood Elara Blackwood-to-be.

A transaction wrapped in white lace and lies.

And just like that, my life stopped being mine.