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The car was silent.

The kind of silence that presses on your chest until you can’t breathe.

I sat as far away from Damian Harrison as the leather seats would allow. The red dress felt like it was burning my skin.

My lips still tingled.

His hands had been on my hips.

He stood up for me.

In front of everyone. In front of Rachel.

“What was that?” Damian finally said. His voice was low. Dangerous. He wasn’t looking at me. He was staring out the window at the city lights.

“I…” I swallowed. “I’m sorry. I just—”

“Don’t.” He cut me off. “Don’t apologize for doing your job.”

Oh, I’m just doing my job. I’m his contractual wife, after all. Saving him from humiliation is the least I can do. That’s all this ever was to him—a job.

I blinked. “Then what is it?”

“It’s the fact that in 10 minutes, that photo is going to be on every news site, every blog, every gossip page in the country.” He turned to me then. His dark eyes were unreadable. “Damian Harrison kisses his new wife at a charity gala.”

My stomach dropped.

The contract. The secrecy.

“Is that a problem?” I whispered.

Damian laughed. But there was no humor in it. “Problem? Arabella, you just made us the most talked-about couple in the whole country and perhaps in the whole world.”

My breath caught.

Arabella.

It's the first time he called me by my name. Not Mrs. Carter. Not "you".

My first name. And it rolled off his tongue perfectly.

Like he’d practiced saying it. Like it belonged in his mouth.

Before I could answer, his phone rang.

Grandfather.

The name flashed on the screen. Damian’s whole body went rigid.

He answered in the second ring. “Grandfather.”

I couldn’t hear the other side. But I could hear the anger. The excitement. The demand.

Damian’s jaw clenched. “Yes. I saw it.” A pause. “No, it wasn’t planned.” Another pause. Longer.

Then he looked at me. And something in his eyes changed. I feel naked under his gaze.

“Yes grandpa,” he said finally. “She’s right here. We’ll be at the house tomorrow morning. For breakfast. Both of us.”

He hung up.

The air got even colder.

“My grandfather saw the news,” he said flatly. “He’s... pleased. He wants to meet his new granddaughter-in-law. Tomorrow, 8 AM.”

Eight AM. At the Harrison mansion.

“Damian, I can’t—”

“You can,” he said. “You will.”

My phone buzzed in my clutch. Then again. And again.

I pulled it out.

47 missed calls. 200 messages.

From numbers, I didn’t know. From reporters.

And one from a number I did know.

Debt Collector.

The message just said: Saw the news. We need to talk about your debt.

I was about to throw up.

Damian saw my face. “What?”

“The debt collectors,” I whispered. “They saw it too.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached over and took my phone from my hand.

Before I could stop him, he blocked the number. Deleted the message.

“From now on,” he said, his voice steel, “no one touches you. No one calls you. No one looks at you.”

“Why do you care?” The question slipped out before I could stop it. “I’m just a contract.”

Damian didn’t answer. He just looked out the window again.

My phone buzzed one last time. A news alert.

BREAKING: HARRISON CEO DEFENDS WIFE. LOCAL BUSINESSWOMAN’S COMPANY FILES FOR BANKRUPTCY HOURS AFTER GALA INCIDENT

My blood ran cold.

I clicked it.

There was the photo. Me on his lap. His hands on my hips.

The caption: A Fairytale Beginning.

And underneath:

Sources say Mrs. Harrison was called a “gold digger” at the event by socialite Vanessa Cole. Hours later, Cole Enterprises announced it was filing for Chapter 11 bankruptcy. Mr. Harrison declined to comment, but a source close to the company stated: “Mr. Harrison made it clear that Mrs. Harrison is a Harrison now. If you insult his wife, you insult him.”

Vanessa Cole. The woman in the blue dress who whispered it behind her fan.

Bankrupt. Because of me. Because of him.

“Damian,” I breathed. “Did you do this?”

He finally turned to me.

His expression was blank. But his eyes... his eyes were dark. Possessive. Protective.

“I told you,” he said quietly. “Protection was part of the contract.”

The car stopped in front of my apartment building.

The chauffeur got out and opened my door.

I reached for the handle to get out.

But before I could, Damian’s hand shot out.

He caught my right wrist. His grip was firm. Warm.

My breath caught.

Slowly, with his other hand, he placed something in my palm.

A small red box. Velvet.

My heart stopped.

He didn’t let go of my wrist. His thumb brushed over my skin once. Just once.

“For tomorrow,” he murmured, his voice so low only I could hear. “You can’t meet my grandfather without it.”

Without thinking, I opened it.

A diamond ring. Massive. It caught the light of the car and threw it back at me like fire.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

But it looked real. It felt real.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Harrison,” he said, and finally released me.

The chauffeur stood there, holding the door.

I got out on shaky legs, the red box clutched in my hand. My name was still ringing in my ears.

Arabella.

And as the car pulled away, I realized: This contract was already getting dangerous.

Because Damian Harrison didn’t just protect what was his.

But how can I protect my heart from him?