Chapter 5 — On His Knees

Vivienne’s words did not leave the hallway when she did.

They stayed there, pressed into the walls, sliding under Elena’s skin until even the silk of her wedding dress felt too tight.

The child has to be conceived before the contract ends.

Elena stood very still, because if she moved too quickly, she might do something humiliating. Cry. Scream. Tear the dress from her body and walk barefoot out of the Blackwood mansion in front of every rich, smiling stranger who had toasted her like she was the luckiest woman alive.

Damian watched the door Vivienne had disappeared through, his face half-shadowed, his mouth set in a hard line. He looked angry. Not embarrassed. Not guilty enough. Angry, as if the night had betrayed him instead of her.

Elena almost laughed.

“You should go after her,” she said. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. Too calm. Too cold. “She seems to know more about my marriage than I do.”

Damian turned. “Vivienne likes to hurt people.”

“And you don’t?”

That landed.

For a second, something crossed his face — quick, dark, almost human. Then it was gone, buried beneath all that expensive control.

“Elena.”

“No.” She lifted a hand. “Don’t use my name like that. Not after letting me stand in that chapel wearing her ring. Not after letting your grandfather talk about my body like it belongs in one of your board meetings.”

His jaw tightened. “I didn’t know he would say that tonight.”

“But you knew enough.”

Silence.

That was the thing about Damian Blackwood. He didn’t waste words when silence could do the damage for him.

Elena looked away first, because the mirrors were catching too much of her. The messy strands slipping from her bridal hair. The flush high on her cheeks. Her bare finger where the ring had been. She looked less like a wife and more like a girl who had been dressed up beautifully for slaughter.

“I’m leaving,” she said.

“You can’t.”

She laughed then, sharp and tired. “You keep saying that as if it’s normal.”

Damian stepped closer. “If you walk out now, every person in that ballroom will know something is wrong.”

“Something is wrong.”

“They don’t need to know that.”

“Of course. The Blackwood name must remain spotless, even if the bride is falling apart in a hallway.”

His eyes moved over her face. Slowly. As if he noticed every crack she was trying to hide.

“You’re not falling apart,” he said.

Elena hated that her throat tightened.

Because it was the closest thing to kindness he had given her all night, and even now, it was wrapped in command. As if he could decide she was strong and that would make it true.

She stepped back from him. “I will not give you a child.”

“I know.”

“No, Damian. You don’t know.” Her voice lowered, shaking despite how hard she fought it. “Men like you think everything has a price. A home. A hospital bill. A wife. But not this. Not me.”

He did not touch her. That almost made it worse. He only stood there, close enough for her to feel the warmth of him, his tie loosened, his shirt open at the throat, looking nothing like the cold groom from the altar and everything like a man she should have been sensible enough to fear.

“If I ever come to your bed,” she whispered, “it will not be because your grandfather put it in a clause.”

His eyes darkened.

Not with anger.

That was the dangerous part.

His gaze dropped to her mouth, and the hallway seemed to lose air. Elena felt it again, that unwanted pull between them, the memory of his kiss still living somewhere traitorous inside her. She hated him for it. Hated the way her body remembered what her heart refused to forgive.

Damian’s voice came rougher than before. “If you ever come to my bed, Elena, it will be because you want to forget every reason you shouldn’t.”

Her breath caught.

For one foolish second, neither of them moved.

Then the ballroom door opened.

A young servant stood there, pale with nerves. His eyes flicked from Elena’s bare hand to Damian’s clenched jaw and quickly away.

“Mr Blackwood,” he said. “Mrs Blackwood. They’re waiting for the first dance.”

The first dance.

Elena wanted to laugh until she was sick.

Damian looked at her hand.

The ring was still gone.

Without breaking eye contact, Elena walked to the small table near the wall, picked up his whisky glass, and tipped the diamond into her palm. Amber ran over her fingers, warm and sticky, carrying the bitter scent of him.

She held the ring out.

Damian reached for it.

She pulled it back.

“No,” she said softly. “Not like that.”

His eyes narrowed.

Elena stepped close enough that the wet diamond brushed against the front of his suit jacket.

“If you want me to walk back into that room and pretend to be your wife,” she said, “then put the ring on properly.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Elena.”

“On your knees, Damian.”

The hallway went utterly quiet.

For a moment, she thought he would refuse.

Then Damian Blackwood, billionaire, groom, liar, monster — lowered himself to one knee in front of her.

Elena’s heart stopped.

He took her hand, his fingers warm around her whisky-slick skin, and slid the ring back onto her finger as if he had not just turned her entire world into a cage.

Then he looked up at her.

And softly, so only she could hear, he said, “Now smile, wife. Everyone is about to watch us fall in love.”