Semua Bab Married to the cold CEO: Bab 1 - Bab 10

Rain streaked down the wide windows of Harper & Co., the once-proud family-owned publishing house that now stood on the brink of ruin. The office smelled faintly of old ink and desperation, a reminder of days when Elena Harper’s father ran the company with pride. Now, her mother’s soft sobs carried through the hallway, muffled only by the thunder outside. Elena stood near her father’s chair, her hands gripping the armrest so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Twenty-five years old, bright and capable, she had never imagined her life reduced to bargaining with sharks to keep her family afloat. Yet here she was—cornered by debts, threatened by banks, betrayed by partners who had once toasted to her father’s health. “Mr. Cross has sent his car,” Adrian Cole, the CEO’s assistant, announced as he stepped inside. His tone was polite but firm, betraying no sympathy. “He expects you at his office within the hour.” Elena’s heart skipped. Damian Cross—the infamous billionaire whose empi

Rain lashed against the glass walls of Cross Industries’ penthouse office, a steady percussion that matched the storm unraveling inside Elena’s chest. She sat rigid in the leather chair across from Damian Cross, her hands pressed firmly against her skirt to keep them from trembling. The contract lay between them on polished oak, a document that felt heavier than any stone. Damian didn’t rush her. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, his eyes—cold, sharp, unyielding—fixed on her as if every flicker of hesitation amused him. “You’ve read it three times,” he said, his voice like chilled steel. “Do you need me to read it aloud, Harper? Or is the silence helping you bargain with your conscience?” Her jaw tightened. Bargain. What a cruel word. Her conscience had been screaming since she stepped into his office. It screamed when she watched her mother sell the last heirloom necklace for groceries. It screamed when she saw Harper, her younger brother, cough blood in

Rain pelted softly against the windows of the Cross penthouse, blurring the glittering skyline beyond. Elena Harper sat stiffly on the velvet sofa, hands folded tightly in her lap, as though keeping them together could keep her world from falling apart. She had signed her name, she had given her word, and tonight, she had entered the cage she had agreed to call a marriage. Damian Cross stood a few feet away, his back turned to her, pouring a glass of whiskey with the same precision he applied to business deals. Every movement carried authority. Every silence was weighted with meaning. Elena studied his reflection in the glass cabinet: sharp lines of his jaw, the tailored cut of his suit, the coldness that clung to him like a second skin. “Before you make yourself too comfortable,” Damian said finally, his voice smooth but edged with steel, “we need to establish rules.” Her stomach twisted. She had expected this—Damian Cross was not the kind of man to leave anything to chance—but st

Rain traced delicate streaks across the towering glass windows of Cross Tower, blurring the city skyline into a hazy mosaic of lights. Elena Harper sat stiffly at the long mahogany dining table in the penthouse, her untouched plate growing cold. The room was silent except for the faint hum of the storm and the occasional clink of Damian Cross’s fork against porcelain. She had thought by now she’d grown used to his silence. It had been a week since the marriage contract was signed, and every evening meal had followed the same script: Damian at the head of the table, immaculate in his tailored suit, eyes fixed on something far away, and her, seated halfway down the table as though the distance could make them strangers again. Yet tonight felt different. Something lingered in the air—less ice, more tension. He had spoken to her earlier in the car, a rarity in itself, asking curtly if she was settling into the penthouse. It was nothing more than small talk, but for Damian Cross, it was

I caught my reflection in the gilded mirror above the mantel, and for the first time since the contract marriage began, I didn’t recognize the woman staring back. Her hair was pinned perfectly, her dress flawless, yet the weariness in her eyes betrayed the battles fought in silence. Damian had left early for work, as he often did, offering nothing more than a clipped “Don’t wait up.” His coldness should have numbed me by now, but it carved deeper wounds with every passing day. Each time he pushed me away, a part of me wondered whether I could endure the terms of this arrangement until the end. Bella’s voice rang in my head—her insistence that I stand tall, that I not let Damian’s chill swallow me whole. But how do you fight someone who never lets you close enough to even strike? A knock startled me. I opened the door to find Adrian Cole, Damian’s ever-composed assistant, holding a file in one hand and wearing a polite, unreadable expression. “Mrs. Cross,” he greeted softly, as