Chapter Nine

Paper Chains

Camille stood before the sprawling floor-to-ceiling windows of Julian’s penthouse, her arms crossed over her chest like a shield. The view of Manhattan glittered below, but all she could see was the reflection of a man she no longer trusted. Julian Blackthorne, with his disarming smirk and eyes that saw too much, leaned casually against the kitchen counter, swirling bourbon in a crystal glass like he hadn’t just shattered her entire sense of reality.

“I’m not doing this,” she said, voice calm but brittle.

He didn’t move. “Doing what?”

“This. Whatever this is. This… fairy-tale trap you’ve spun with rings and rooftop proposals and ghost-white promises. I’m not your puppet, Julian.”

He stepped forward slowly, placing the glass down on the marble island. “It wasn’t a trap. It was a proposal. A real one this time.”

“Real?” Camille scoffed. “You don’t even know what real is. You’re a master illusionist. You use affection like currency and control like oxygen.”

Julian didn’t flinch. He approached her with careful steps, his tailored suit whispering with every movement. “I love you, Camille.”

Her jaw tightened. “And I pity you.”

The words sliced through the silence like a blade.

Julian stopped a few feet from her, his face a mask of stone. “You’re scared.”

“No.” Her eyes locked with his. “I’m done.”

She reached into her handbag and pulled out the small velvet box he had used the night before on the rooftop. It had been extravagant—hundreds of candles, a private orchestra, a custom Cartier ring. The entire city as witness.

And yet, it had felt like prison bars disguised as stardust.

She tossed the box to the counter.

“I won’t marry you,” she said firmly.

A shadow flickered across his face. Not rage. Not pain. Something colder.

“That’s unfortunate,” Julian said softly, “because you already have.”

Camille’s brow furrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Julian opened the drawer beside him and pulled out a sleek black folder. He flipped it open and laid it flat on the counter.

Inside was a marriage license.

With their names on it.

Camille Hart and Julian Blackthorne. Dated two months ago. Stamped. Signed.

By her.

“What is this?” she whispered.

“Exactly what it looks like,” he said.

“I never signed this—”

“You did.” He tapped the bottom corner. “In Antigua. Remember that weekend getaway after the gala? We had dinner, wine. You signed what you thought was some release for the private yacht rental.”

Camille staggered back, her heart thudding in her ears. “That’s—No—That’s insane. That’s illegal.”

“I never said it was legal,” Julian replied coolly. “I said it was real.”

Camille’s voice trembled. “You forged my consent.”

“I didn’t forge it. I… redirected it. You signed it, Camille. Your signature is right there. And the paperwork is real enough that if someone were to dig, it would check out.”

Her mind raced, trying to wrap itself around what he was saying. Her hands itched to tear the paper apart, to scream, to run.

Julian stepped forward. “You belong to me. You’ve always known that. This just makes it… official.”

“No,” she breathed. “You don’t get to own me.”

“You think marriage is ownership?” he asked softly, his tone shifting to something more dangerous. “That’s the problem with you, Camille. You keep calling love a cage when it’s the only thing that’s ever tried to keep you. Protect you. Worship you.”

“Worship?” she spat. “You mean monitor. Isolate. Manipulate.”

He reached for her wrist, but she snatched it away.

“Don’t touch me.”

“You’re my wife,” he said simply.

“No, I’m not. That paper isn’t valid.”

“But it could be,” Julian replied, his voice eerily calm. “With a few calls. A few signatures. If I pushed it… you’d be mine in the eyes of the law, Camille.”

“Why would you do this?” she asked, tears burning at the corners of her eyes. “Why would you trap me?”

“Because letting you go would be like trying to un-breathe. I’ve tasted life without you. It’s meaningless.”

“That’s not love, Julian,” she whispered. “That’s obsession.”

“Call it what you want.” He leaned in. “But even your fear tastes like love when it’s about me.”

She backed away, reaching blindly for the folder, but he caught it before she could grab it.

“I wouldn’t recommend trying to nullify it,” he said. “Tampering with a federal document could raise red flags for both of us.”

Camille’s fists clenched. “This is coercion. I can go to the police.”

“Do it,” Julian said, stepping back. “Tell them you accidentally married the billionaire who pays your rent, funds your gallery, and gave you everything you asked for. Let’s see how far that gets you.”

“Bastard,” she hissed.

“Possibly. But I’m your bastard.”

She turned and stormed toward the door.

“Where are you going?” he called after her.

“To find out if any of this is real,” she snapped. “And if it is—I’ll burn the whole damn thing down.”

He didn’t chase her. That was the worst part.

Julian just stood there, watching her leave like he wanted her to run. Like he had already set the board, and she was simply playing into his hand.

Camille spent the next forty-eight hours in a blur of frantic calls, consultations with attorneys, and a crash course in marriage fraud. Her contact at the courthouse—Marissa, a friend of her cousin—had helped her discreetly run the documents Julian had shown her.

She expected them to be fake. Cheaply doctored. Nothing more than a psychological weapon in Julian’s endless war for her soul.

But they weren’t.

The document was filed.

Her signature, her passport number, even the witness—Eliot, Julian’s assistant—were all verified.

The system recognized her as married.

Her stomach twisted.

She sat in the back of a yellow cab, knees pressed to her chest, fingers trembling as she held her phone to her ear.

“It’s real,” Marissa said gently on the other end. “Camille… the system logged it two months ago. You are, on paper… Mrs. Blackthorne.”

“No.” Camille pressed a hand to her mouth. “No, no, no.”

“You need a lawyer,” Marissa whispered. “The kind that deals with very rich and very complicated men.”

Camille ended the call and stared at the passing city lights. Rain blurred the window, and somewhere in the distance, a saxophone played a lonely tune through a cracked-open club door.

She thought about Julian’s eyes. That slow, patient smile.

He hadn’t forged love. He had legislated it.

Not through seduction, but through strategy.

Her phone buzzed again.

A message.

From Julian.

Just three words.

“Now do you understand?”

She was shaking.

And then—another message came in.

From an unknown number.

“He’s done this before. You’re not the first.”

Camille froze.

She stared at the screen, her blood turning to ice.

And below the message… was a photo.

A woman.

Sobbing. In a wedding dress.

In Julian’s penthouse.

Her wrists were bruised.

Her eyes were herself—only broken.

Attached was a timestamp from three years ago.

And a caption that read:

“The last Mrs. Blackthorne.”

Camille realizes she may be Julian’s legal wife—and possibly not the first one he’s trapped this way.