Chapter 1 — The Wife He Bought

Elena Vale knew she had made a mistake the moment the chapel doors opened.

Not because of the flowers, though there were too many of them — white roses hanging from every arch, spilling over the pews, perfuming the air until it felt almost sweet enough to choke on. Not because of the guests either, all polished smiles and diamond watches, turning to stare as if she were something expensive being delivered.

It was him.

Damian Blackwood waited at the altar like he was attending a funeral instead of his own wedding.

Tall, still, unreadable. Black suit. Dark eyes. A mouth that looked as if it had forgotten how to be kind.

For a second, Elena’s steps faltered.

Her fingers tightened around the bouquet. Somewhere behind her, the wedding planner made a sharp little sound, probably terrified the bride was about to ruin the most photographed marriage deal of the year.

Marriage deal.

That was all it was.

One year. One signature. One ruthless billionaire paying off her family’s debts in exchange for a wife he could parade in front of the board, the press, and his dying grandfather.

Her father’s hospital bills would be covered. Her childhood home would be saved.

And Elena would belong to Damian Blackwood until the contract expired.

She forced herself forward.

The whispers followed her down the aisle.

“She’s beautiful.”

“Where did he find her?”

“Poor girl looks terrified.”

Elena kept her chin high. If they wanted a show, she would give them one. She had not survived debt collectors, hospital corridors, and the humiliation of begging strangers for time just to fall apart in front of people who drank champagne for breakfast.

When she reached Damian, he finally looked at her properly.

His gaze moved over her face first, slow and searching, then dropped for half a second to the bare line of her shoulders, the lace hugging her waist, the trembling hand wrapped around white roses. Something changed in his expression. It was so quick she almost missed it.

Heat.

Then control.

Then nothing.

“You’re late,” he murmured.

Elena almost laughed. Of course those would be his first words to her.

“I considered not coming.”

His eyes sharpened. “And yet here you are.”

“Yes,” she whispered, stepping closer so only he could hear. “Lucky you.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but there was no warmth in it.

The priest began speaking. Elena barely heard him. The chapel blurred at the edges, candlelight flickering against marble, cameras clicking softly from somewhere near the back. Damian’s hand closed around hers when the vows began, and she hated herself for noticing how warm he was. How steady. How real.

Her voice shook when she promised to love him.

His did not.

That hurt more than it should have.

When the priest said, “You may kiss the bride,” the room seemed to hold its breath.

Elena lifted her eyes to Damian’s. “Make it convincing,” she whispered.

His hand slid to her waist.

“Careful,” he said, low enough to touch something under her skin. “I might.”

Then his mouth was on hers.

It was supposed to be nothing. A brief, polite lie for the cameras. But Damian kissed like a man who didn’t believe in half measures. His fingers pressed into the silk at her waist, firm enough to make her breath catch. His lips moved against hers once, slow and controlled, and the whole chapel vanished into the heat of him.

Elena hated it.

Hated that her body softened for him before her pride could stop it.

Then he pulled away.

The applause crashed around them like thunder.

Damian turned to the guests, already composed, already cold, while Elena stood beside him with her lips still burning.

Hours later, she found him on the balcony outside the reception hall.

The party roared behind the glass doors — music, laughter, champagne, people celebrating a love story that did not exist. Out here, the city stretched beneath them in gold and black, all sharp rooftops and glowing windows.

Damian stood with his tie loosened, whisky in hand, looking every inch the man who owned the night.

“You disappeared,” Elena said.

He didn’t turn. “You were surrounded.”

“By strangers.”

“You handled them well.”

She stepped onto the balcony, the cold air catching under her dress. “That isn’t the same as being protected.”

That made him look at her.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

His eyes dropped to her mouth, and she felt it like a touch. It made her angrier than it should have. She didn’t want him to want her. She didn’t want to want him back, not even for a second, not even because he looked at her like she was a match he was trying not to strike.

“I know what I am to you,” she said. “A signature. A favour. A convenient wife. But if you leave me alone in a room full of wolves again, don’t expect me to smile while they bite.”

Damian set his glass down.

Then he walked toward her.

Elena’s back met the balcony rail, but she refused to move away. He stopped close enough that she could see the faint shadow along his jaw, the small loosened button at his collar, the dangerous calm in his eyes.

“You think I don’t know what they are?” he asked.

“I think you don’t care.”

His voice dropped. “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t have married you.”

Her breath caught before she could stop it.

Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded document.

Reality returned cold and fast.

“What is that?” she asked.

“The final copy of our agreement.”

“I already signed it.”

“This one has been updated.”

Elena stared at him, then took the paper with stiff fingers. She read the new clause once.

Then again.

The words blurred, but their meaning was brutally clear.

If she left before the year was over, every payment he had made would be reversed. Her father’s treatment. The mortgage. Everything.

Her throat tightened.

“You added this after I signed.”

Damian said nothing.

“You trapped me.”

His face didn’t change, but something dark passed through his eyes.

“No, Elena,” he said softly.

The music swelled behind them.

“I made sure you couldn’t run.”