Chapter 2

The Contract Marriage

The mansion was silent, except for the faint hum of the city outside. I sank into the velvet armchair, feeling the weight of a life I hadn’t chosen settle heavily on my shoulders. The place was beautiful—too beautiful—but it never felt like home. It felt like a cage made of marble and glass.

I remembered the day we signed the contract marriage papers—so official, so cold. The room had smelled of expensive leather and polished wood, and he had looked at me the same way he looked at documents across his desk. Detached. Calculating. Uninterested. I had stood there in a simple dress, my hands clasped together, trying not to tremble as his lawyer explained the terms of our marriage like it was a business merger.

No love.

No expectations.

No emotional involvement.

Just appearances.

I nodded along, telling myself I could handle it. That I was strong enough. That maybe—just maybe—time would soften him. That living together might turn indifference into something warmer.

I was wrong.

Every day since then has followed the same quiet pattern. I woke up early, before he did, and moved through the mansion like a ghost. I made breakfast he rarely touched, cleaned rooms that were already spotless, and waited for conversations that never came. When he passed me in the hallway, his eyes slid over me as if I were part of the furniture.

Sometimes, I wondered if he even remembered my birthday. Or the day we got married. Or the sound of my laugh.

At night, I retreated to my room—the one space that felt truly mine. I would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of him moving around the house. Even when we were under the same roof, we lived completely separate lives.

That evening, I heard the front door open and close sharply. His footsteps echoed through the marble halls, steady and purposeful. I straightened instinctively, my body reacting before my mind did. Old habits were hard to break.

He walked into the living room, loosening his tie, his phone pressed to his ear. He didn’t glance in my direction.

“Yes,” he said coolly. “Schedule the meeting for tomorrow morning. I don’t want any delays.”

I rose from the chair and went to the dining area. “Dinner is ready,” I said softly.

He ended the call and looked at me briefly, his eyes distant. “I’ll eat later.”

That was all.

No thank you.

No acknowledgment.

Just a statement.

I nodded and stepped back, pretending it didn’t sting. Pretending I wasn’t tired of pretending.

We sat at opposite ends of the long dining table when he finally joined me, the silence thick between us. The chandelier above us glowed warmly, but the space between us felt colder than ever. I pushed my food around my plate, my appetite long gone.

He checked his phone again, frowning slightly. “There’s a charity gala next week,” he said. “You’ll attend with me.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Okay,” I replied.

“You’ll wear something appropriate,” he added. “No mistakes.”

I swallowed. “I understand.”

That was our marriage in a nutshell. Instructions. Expectations. Compliance.

After dinner, he stood and walked away without another word. I remained seated, staring at the untouched food on my plate. For a moment, a dangerous thought crossed my mind.

What if I left?

The idea scared me as much as it comforted me.

Later that night, as I prepared for bed, I heard his voice again—this time coming from his study. The door was slightly open. I hadn’t meant to listen, but his tone made my steps falter.

“She won’t be a problem,” he said calmly. “She knows the terms.”

My heart thudded painfully in my chest.

“Yes, Isabella will attend the gala with me,” he continued. “Everything is proceeding as planned.”

I pressed my hand against the wall to steady myself. So this was what I was to him. A clause in a contract. A placeholder. Someone to manage, not cherish.

I returned to my room quietly, closing the door behind me. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I barely recognized the woman looking back at me. She looked tired. Smaller somehow.

That night, as I lay in bed, sleep refused to come. One thought repeated itself over and over in my mind:

I cannot live like this forever.

And for the first time since signing those papers, the idea of leaving no longer felt impossible.