Chapter 2

The judge, well over fifty years of age with a little silver stubble and moustache, barely glanced at us. He looked utterly bored, like marriages were no more significant than land transfers. He scribbled something on the marrage slip and showed us where we were each supposed to sign.

Maverick took the pen from him and signed quickly, his signature as bold and sharp,as though he didn't want this too. If he didn't want this why was he even getting involved in the first place? What does Father have over him to make his hands tied? He's the Maverick Shelby, it's almost impossible for him to be trapped, so what kind of business deal did he have with Dad?

After signing, Maverick handed me the pen to sign too. My hand trembled slightly as I took it from him. I took hold of the slip too and my hand hovered over where my signature should have been. It was not too late. I could ditch this marriage here and be done with it. Am I really

going to do this?

"You're doing this for your family"

I recalled Father's words. This was a necessary evil. I had to make this sacrifice for them.

My hand shook as I lowered the pen to the paper.

Here goes nothing.

I signed.

Done. My life signed away to a man I didn’t love, didn’t know, didn’t even register my existence.

Mrs. slammed against my ribs. I wanted to rip it away, scream, deny it—but...my voice was gone.

Maverick didn’t look at me. “We’re done here. Let’s go.

Back in the car, silence pressed on my chest. I blurted, “Where are we going now? The church”

“Work,” he answered, clipped.

“Today?”

“Yes. My driver will take you home.”

My heart stumbled. “So that’s it? Court signing, and then—you take me back to my father's house?”

His gaze finally met mine, steady and cutting. “You wanted this marriage, didn’t you? Your family begged for it. Don’t act surprised it’s transactional.”

The words knocked the air from my lungs.

“I didn’t want this,” I whispered, voice cracking. “My family forced me—”

“Then maybe you should learn to stand up to them.” His tone was colder than stone. Eyes flicked back to the phone, dismissing me entirely. “You’re my wife now. Adjust accordingly.”

Silence deafened.

I pressed my forehead to the glass, fighting the sting in my eyes. The window cool against burning skin. Outside, vendors shouted, motorcycles weaved close to cars, a dog barked. Vibrant, free. While I sat shackled beside the man who had turned my life into a business deal.

The car slowed into my father’s driveway. Maverick didn’t move, not even to bid me farewell. The driver opened my door.

I hesitated, fingers tightening around the purse. Lips parted, desperate for one word.

“Maverick…”

Flat voice. No discussion. “I’ll send someone for you and your belongings a week from today.”

For the first time, he looked at me, cold and unblinking. Beneath the flat tone simmered a warning.

“Don’t disappoint me, Mrs. Shelby. You won’t like the consequences if you do.”

The driver shut the door. The car pulled away, leaving the words hanging in the burning air. And somewhere insiide me, I knew , this was only the beginning.

What an asshole!

He didn’t even have the courtesy to take me to my new home and show me around.

Behind me, my mother’s voice floated from the porch, eager, nosy. “Well? How was it?”

Her words clawed at the air like talons.

I turned slowly. My throat was dry, my eyes raw from the tears I’d been swallowing since the courthouse. My dress clung to my ankles with sweat, the fabric suffocating against my ribs. I lifted my chin because that’s what she expected, though my hands shook against the purse Maverick had practically shoved me back with.

“It went well. He… he’ll send someone to pick me up.” My voice came out small, as though it belonged to someone else.

My father appeared behind her, expression carved from stone. Not joy. Not pride. Just cold calculation.

“Well, that’s that,” he said, brushing past me into the house as though I’d just completed an errand.

Their silence was heavier than words. The truth pressed against my chest: nothing about this was “well” or “fine.” Not even close.

A week later, I was painting in my bedroom when I heard the sound of car. The smell of paint clung to my fingers as I dragged a brush across canvas, trying to capture the colors of a fading sunset. My strokes were uneven, clumsy, but painting was the only thing that made sense to me anymore. Something I had chosen.

The golden light filtered through my bedroom window, warming the jars of paint scattered across my desk. Outside, palm leaves rustled, a fountain murmured down the street. For a fleeting moment, life felt normal again. No cold men in pressed suits. No parents treating me like currency.

But the day had arrived. The day Maverick said he'd send someone to pick me up.

My brush slipped, a streak of blue dripping onto the edge of the canvas. My pulse kicked. Had he come for me himself?

By the time I reached the window, hope collapsed into something heavier. It wasn’t him. A driver in a sharp uniform stepped out of a black car, polished like obsidian. His movements were precise, practiced. He spoke quietly to my father at the gate.

“Camilla!” My father’s voice thundered from below.

My stomach twisted.

My gaze slid to the corner of my room. Three suitcases. Packed days ago. My life, folded neatly against the wall, ready for someone else’s hands to move.

The driver’s voice was crisp, detached. “Miss Santos. Mr. Shelby is expecting you at the manor.”

Manor.

The ride was a blur. The windows were tinted and the silence, suffocating. The faint scent of leather and cedar filled the car, edged with something familiar—Maverick’s cologne. My pulse betrayed me, catching in my throat. He was here a few moments ago. It’s his car so….

The city peeled away in fragments: skyscrapers shimmering, roads thinning, houses spreading farther apart. Each one larger, colder, fenced off by iron gates. Fortresses. And I was being delivered into one.

The Shelby Manor rose before me like a monument. Marble and glass stretched high, sharp-edged and gleaming under the evening sun. Wide steps, black double doors, fountains whispering at the drive. But there was no warmth, no soul, only the pure shine of perfection visible.

The driver stacked my suitcases at the base of the steps. He didn’t carry them in. Didn’t even glance at me with sympathy.

“Mr. Shelby instructed me to tell you this,” he said, his cap shadowing his eyes. “There are no servants in the house. From now on, as lady of the house, it is your responsibility to care for it—and for its occupants.”

Lady of the house.

The title rang like mockery. A disguise for what I really was: an unpaid maid with a marriage certificate. Some wife I was.

By the time I dragged my suitcases over the marble and shouldered the heavy door open, the driver was gone.

Inside, the silence was absolute.

The air smelled faintly of citrus, sharp and artificial, as though the house itself had been scrubbed clean of anything resembling life. Marble stretched beneath my feet, glossy and pale. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed gardens outside, but not a single person greeted me. No instructions. No welcome.

Just space and...silence

As I wandered through hallways, my footsteps echoed past staircases that twisted upward like something out of a palace. Each room was flawless, untouched, empty.

On the second floor, I found a smaller bedroom tucked into the corner. The sheets were crisp and blue, the window overlooking swaying palms. It felt less like a stage and more like somewhere I could breathe. It felt more...me.

“This will do,” I whispered to no one.