THE WEDDING CONTRACT

The veil clung to her skin like a web spun in haste.

Lyanna Gray stood still beneath the weight of her wedding gown, that had layers of white silk cascading around her like water pooling at her feet. The bodice pinched too tightly at her ribs.

The scent of jasmine from the centrepiece arrangements turned her stomach. And around her, the cathedral-like ballroom of the Ward Estate shimmered in white-gold candlelight. 

With crystal chandeliers loomed overhead, glittering like threats. Gold trim adorned the towering columns. A harpist sat silent in the corner. The marble floor beneath her heels gleamed with obsessive polish, like even the ground was expected to perform. 

Only, there was no music, no tears of joy, no clinking champagne flutes, only pens, papers, and tension thick as smoke. 

Cassian Elijah Ward, her husband-to-be,  hadn’t looked at her more than once. He sat perfectly still, immaculate in a black Tom Ford suit, one hand resting on the mahogany table beside the ceremonial contract. The other held a pen, which he moved with clinical ease as he signed his name. 

His expression didn’t flicker. His signature was precise. Final... Like a man closing a deal, because that’s what this was, a transaction, a trade, a secret buried beneath velvet and vows.

Lyanna blinked back the sting behind her eyes. Her fingers trembled as she picked up the pen. A thousand invisible hands seemed to shove her forward. Her heart thudded a dull rhythm against her ribs as she signed beside his name.

Cassian stood the moment she finished. He slid the contract back into its leather folder with a silent finality.

The officiant cleared his throat awkwardly.

“You may now… well. That concludes it.”

No kiss, no vows, no promises, Only silence, and the suffocating echo of her new name, Mrs. Cassian Elijah Ward.

Six Months Earlier

Brooklyn, New York.

Lyanna Gray was clawing her way through life, one fractured day at a time. Twenty-four years old. Working two jobs,  during the day she worked as an assistant editor at a dying literary magazine. And at night a barista at a jazz café that never slept.

It wasn’t glamorous nor was it what she'd imagined for herself, but it kept the lights on. Paid the rent in a shoebox apartment with flaking wallpaper and a rusty fire escape. The hallway had a stubborn cockroach she named Roach. He was her longest relationship.

She’d dropped out of Columbia in her third year. Creative writing major. Full scholarship. Her mother died, and the rest unravelled quickly. Her father, once polished and powerful, had crumbled like a man made of paper. Gambling. Lies. A thousand wrong turns. And she’d stayed loyal, she was always loyal.

She was soft-spoken, but not fragile. Pretty, but not obviously so. She had wide, dark eyes, they were sharp when watching, dull when thinking. A mouth people remembered. A mole by her lip they always mentioned like it gave her character.


 She smelled of cinnamon and stress. Her hair was a tumble of dark curls, often piled into a bun with whatever writing utensil was nearby. A poet’s daughter. A girl in survival mode.

No boyfriends. No free time. Her friend Nina joked about men in the café like they were mythological creatures, “Tall, handsome, emotionally unavailable. Unicorns in leather jackets.”

“Just sleep with a customer,” Nina once said, sipping oat milk from a chipped mug. “If he sucks, you can poison his latte.”

Lyanna had laughed, but her chest stayed heavy.

At least life was still hers. Messy. Quiet. Real.

Until the call came, on a Friday Night, she was on the train home, coat collar up, watching a couple argue across the aisle in low, passionate Spanish. Her phone buzzed.

Dad.

She hesitated for a bit, then she answered.

“Lya…” His voice sounded wet. Frantic.

“Baby, please. Come to the W Hotel. Room 2105. Please…just come.”

“What’s going on?”

“I might have messed up.”

The Room 2105 smelled like citrus and carpet glue. The light buzzed faintly in the ceiling. Her father sat on the edge of the couch his eyes darting, hands twitching. But it was the man across from him that made her breath stall.

Cassian Elijah Ward.

He didn’t rise when she entered. Just lifted a bourbon glass and studied her over the rim like she was a risk he’d already calculated. Tall, a cold expression on his face. His grey eyes held no warmth. His suit was dark, flawless. His presence filled the room like a silent threat. His gaze lingered, but not with lust. With assessment.

“Daddy what is this?” Lyanna asked, stepping forward, heart sinking.

Her father’s mouth opened. Closed. Nothing came out.

Cassian gestured toward the table. Her eyes dropped to the paperwork.

Loan documents. Forgeries. Her signature. Her name.

Her spine stiffened. “I didn’t sign these.”

Cassian’s voice was low and measured.

“No. But your daddy did. In your name. He owes me just under two million dollars.”

Her pulse pounded. “That’s not possible.”

He didn’t blink. “It’s real. I have everything I need to press charges tonight.”

Her father gasped. “I…I was going to fix it, Lya…”

“You won’t,” Cassian interrupted, not even sparing him a glance.

He reached into a folder and slid a document across the glass.

A marriage contract.

Cassian Elijah Ward & Lyanna Gray. 

Duration: Six months. 

Clauses: No romantic obligation. No intimacy required. Full discretion. Debt forgiveness upon fulfilment.

Lyanna stared at it.

“Why me?” she asked, barely able to keep her voice steady.

For the first time, Cassian looked directly at her. His voice turned almost… quiet.

“Because you’re loyal. He gambled on that. So will I.”

There was no arrogance in his tone. Just certainty. Like he already knew what she’d choose.

Because what other choice did she have?

Present day…

Eight months later, she stood in a gown she hadn’t chosen, next to a man she didn’t understand, in a house that felt more like a mausoleum than a home.

A signature. A contract. A cage.

She looked at him from across the wide, echoing space. The guests had already filtered out like ghosts. Only the low hum of the estate remained, muffled by velvet drapes and the stifling scent of money. Cassian finally turned to face her. His eyes were unreadable.

“You belong to me now, Lyanna Gray.”

She flinched.

Not at the words. But because some cracked, grieving part of her wasn’t entirely sure she hated the way it sounded. And in the shadows of the ballroom, a pair of eyes watched from the mezzanine.

Vera.

Silently, with a dreadful smile on her lips.