Chapter Two

Sophie's POV

The boardroom table was a slab of black marble, polished to such a mirror finish that every man seated around it could admire his own reflection while pretending to care about mine. The cold surface reflected the chandelier above, fracturing its light into dozens of glittering shards that danced across the walls like trapped fireflies.

I sat perfectly still in my chair, back straight, hands folded on the table, watching the men who thought they could take everything from me. Their tailored suits and practiced smiles couldn't hide the hunger in their eyes—the kind of hunger that came from decades of waiting in the shadows for their moment to strike.

Damien leaned back in his chair, the leather sighing beneath him, letting the silence stretch like a noose. He wanted them to sweat. Wanted them to remember who had rebuilt this empire from the ashes of his father's failures. The tension in the room was so thick I could taste it—coppery and electric, like the moment before a lightning strike.

Then Carlton Whitlock, the ancient lawyer who had served the Blackstone family since before Damien was born, dropped the bomb.

"The will's marriage clause is ironclad." His gnarled fingers, spotted with age, tapped the document with deliberate emphasis. "No wife by your thirtieth birthday, and control of Blackstone Group reverts to the board."

A murmur rippled through the room. I kept my face impassive, even as my blood turned to ice.

"Thirty days," I said, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.

"There's always a loophole."

"Not this time." Marcus Kane, my ever-ambitious CFO, slid a folder toward me with a smirk that made my fingers itch to wipe it off his face. "We've had three teams scour it. Your grandfather learned from your father's... indiscretions."

The unspoken word “bastard” hung in the air like gun smoke.

Specifically, Elijah. The brother who should have inherited half of everything if Father hadn't tried to burn the truth out of existence.

I flipped open the folder, my eyes scanning the terms that were worse than I'd imagined:

"Legal marriage: No proxies, no offshore quickies".

"Public cohabitation: Verified by board-appointed inspectors."

"No annulment for five years or assets freeze. "

Marcus's smirk widened. "Problem, Damien? Not even your money can buy love."

Damien closed the folder with a snap that made the junior executives flinch. "It can buy compliance."

Damien's penthouse smelled like Scotch and stale power plays when he summoned his head of security at midnight. The city lights stretched out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glittering tapestry of ambition and deceit.

Hendricks stood at attention, his military bearing unmistakable even in civilian clothes. He had been with me for years, through boardroom coups and hostile takeovers, and he knew better than to question my orders.

"I need a wife," I said, tossing the dossier onto the coffee table. The files scattered across the polished surface, revealing headshots and dossiers of potential candidates. "Someone presentable but desperate. No family ties. No social media addicts."

Hendricks didn't blink. "Duration?"

"Six months minimum. Seven figures."

He flipped through the files, his expression unreadable. Then he paused at one, his fingers hovering over the photograph. "Sophie Laurent? The artist whose father"

"Jumped from his office window," I finished, swirling my drink. The ice clinked against the crystal, a sharp counterpoint to the silence. "Perfect. She'll have motivation to pretend."

Hendricks frowned. "She'll also want revenge."

I smiled for the first time all day. "Let her try."

**The Gala**

Damine spotted me the moment i walked into the Vanderbilt Ballroom a wounded bird in a thrift-store dress, already bleeding from the socialites' claws.

Sophie Laurent, moved through the crowd like a ghost, my shoulders stiff, my chin held high despite the whispers that followed her.

I was beautiful, but not in the polished, manufactured way of the women who usually filled these rooms. My beauty was raw, untamed, like a storm on the horizon.

Daniel Carter's wine arced toward her chest in slow motion.

He could have stopped it. But he didn't.

"Let her be humiliated. Let her hit rock bottom."

"Only then would my offer taste like salvation instead of poison."

When the red stain bloomed across my ribs, Damien made his move.

I fought like a feral cat in the elevator, his jacket sliding off my shoulders.

"I don't need your pity!"

"I don't need anyone's pity!"

"Good," he said, catching the fabric before it fell. "Because this isn't a pity. It's a business proposal."

The penthouse lights revealed what the ballroom shadows had hidden the sharp intelligence in her gaze, the stubborn set of her jaw. This wasn't some vapid socialite.

This was a weapon.

He handed me the contract.

"Five million dollars. Six months. All I require is your signature..." He leaned in, close enough to smell the wine on my skin. "And your performance."

I laughed, the sound bitter as broken glass. "You can't buy a wife."

"Not a real one," He agreed, tapping Clause 4.3. "But I can rent a very convincing fake."

My eyes flickered. He could see the exact moment desperation outweighed pride.

Then I did what no board member, no rival CEO, no one in a decade had dared.

I negotiated.

"Double it. And I want my father's last painting."

I hid my approval behind a sip of Scotch.

"Deal."

The contract lay between us on the glass table, its terms spelled out in black and white.

"Public Appearances: Required as a loving couple."

"No Sexual Contact: Unless mutually agreed upon."

"Non-Disclosure: Absolute silence on the terms of the agreement."

But buried in the fine print was a single sentence that changed everything:

"This contract becomes void if either party knowingly withholds material information pertaining to the other’s financial or personal welfare."

A loophole.

A weapon.

My fingers trembled fiercely as I reached for the pen.

I watched me sign my name, the ink dark as blood on the page.

I thought I was agreeing to a business arrangement.

But I had just set a trap.

And he had walked right into it.

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

I thought had outmaneuvered Damien.

But he had spent a lifetime playing this game.

And I never lost.