Chapter Three

Sophie’s POV

The private elevator smelled like betrayal and expensive cologne—a suffocating blend of sandalwood, leather, and something darker, something that coiled in my lungs and made it hard to breathe.

I stood rigid in the corner, his jacket still draped over my shoulders, the fine Italian wool scratchy against my wine-stained skin. The mirrored walls reflected every flaw—my smudged mascara, the way my ruined dress gaped where the straps had stretched from Daniel’s rough handling. And him. Always him.

Damien Blackstone leaned against the railing, watching me like I was a puzzle he couldn’t solve. His gaze was a physical weight, tracing the curve of my throat, the tremble in my fingers.

"You didn’t thank me," he said, voice smooth as aged whiskey.

The elevator hummed as it climbed the Blackstone Tower, the numbers flickering too fast. I wiped at the dried wine on my chest, the stain a burgundy Rorschach blot of humiliation. "For what?" My voice was raw. "Turning my public execution into a spectator sport?"

His lips twitched. "For saving you."

"I didn’t need saving."

"Liar." He said it softly, like it was a secret between us.

The elevator “dinged.”

Penthouse level.

The doors slid open to reveal a nightmare of glass and steel—a living space so cold it could preserve corpses. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased Manhattan’s glittering skyline, the lights blurring through my unshed tears. The air smelled sterile, like money and emptiness.

"Bathroom’s there." Damien nodded toward a frosted door. "There’s a dress in the closet. Change."

I didn’t move. My heels were rooted to the polished marble. "Why did you bring me here?"

He loosened his tie, the silk slithering through his fingers like a serpent. "Because I want to make you an offer."

Twenty minutes later, I stood in a dress that cost more than my rent for a year—a sleek, emerald-green Versace that clung to my curves suspiciously well. The fabric whispered against my skin, a cruel reminder of how easily luxury could be draped over ruin.

I sipped mineral water from a crystal glass, the liquid bitingly cold. It probably cost more than my weekly groceries.

Damien sat across from me at a glass table that looked like it had been carved from ice, sliding a document toward me. His cufflinks glinted under the recessed lighting, tiny obsidian daggers.

"Marry me."

I choked. Water splashed onto the contract, the droplets spreading like tiny, transparent stains. "What?"

"Six months. Five million dollars. All legal." His finger tapped the paper, right above a clause in bold font. "Page four outlines the non disclosure terms."

The words blurred. "This had to be a joke."

But Damien’s face was dead serious, no smirk, no telltale crinkle at the corners of his eyes. Just those piercing green irises, watching, waiting.

I forced a laugh. "Let me guess this is some twisted revenge against Daniel? You saw his ex -fiancée humiliated at a gala and thought, I’ll take her for a spin?"

"No." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper that skated down my spine. "I need a wife to secure my inheritance. You need money. It’s simple."

Like my father’s suicide had been simple. Like losing our home, our name, everything, had been “simple.”

My fingers trembled around the glass. I set it down before I shattered it.

"Why me?"

"And more importantly why would I marry that man who's company framed my father"

"Because you looked at me like you wanted to set me on fire." His thumb brushed the edge of the contract, a slow, deliberate stroke. "And I admire that."

"And because you need the money I can see it in your eyes."

I read every word. Twice.

“Clause 2.1: Public appearances as a loving couple.

Clause 4.3: No sexual contact unless mutually agreed upon.

Clause 7.8: Wife shall not disclose the terms of this agreement.”

And then I saw it.

The loophole.

Buried in legalese, a single sentence: “This contract becomes void if either party knowingly withholds material information pertaining to the other’s financial or personal welfare.”

A way out. A weapon.

I could use that.

"Add five million to your request and you've gotten yourself a deal," I said suddenly.

Damien arched a brow. "Three."

"Five. And I want my father’s painting "Winter's End" returned to me."

A beat of silence.

Then, slowly, he smiled the kind of smile that made my pulse stutter. "Deal."

He reached for a pen. I grabbed his wrist, my nails digging into his skin hard enough to leave crescent moons.

"One more thing." My voice was steel. "If you ever lie to me, the contract is null. And I keep the money."

His pulse jumped under my fingers. "Agreed."

We signed in blood-red ink.

As I walked out of Blackstone Tower at midnight, the contract burned in my purse like a live coal.

Damien thought he’d bought a temporary wife.

But I’d just signed up to destroy him.