Chapter 1: A Stranger's Proposition
The final echo of her sister's breathing machine still pulsed behind Elara's eyes when she reached her apartment door.
It was the kind of day that had forgotten how to be light. Rain stuck to her boots like it had something personal to prove, and the hallway smelled of mold and someone's leftover takeout. The bulb above her door flickered, threatening to die like everything else.
The envelope was impossible to miss.
Thick. Black. No name. Just tucked neatly under her door like a predator pretending to sleep.
Elara stared at it for a second. The building didn't do mail. Anything this formal came by legal courier—or threat.
She bent down slowly and picked it up, flipping it over in her palm. Heavy. She could feel something inside. Her fingers slid under the flap.
Inside, she found two things: a single sheet of paper, and a photograph.
The photo stopped her heart.
It was her sister—Celine. Standing beside a man Elara didn't recognize. Tall, suited, with a face turned just enough to be unreadable. The timestamp in the bottom corner made her blood run cold.
One week before the accident.
Elara dropped into the nearest chair. Her coat was still dripping, her bag on the floor, her keys somewhere near her feet. She didn't care.
The note was handwritten, in clean, sharp strokes:
"If you want the truth about your sister, meet me at The Crimson Lounge. Tomorrow. 8 p.m. Come alone."—CB
She read it three times.
CB.
Only one name flashed behind her eyes. One name she'd buried under a decade of bitterness, corporate headlines, and family silence.
Caelum Blackthorn.
Her lips curled around the name like it burned.
What the hell did he have to do with Celine?
What the hell did he want with her?
The envelope slipped from her fingers and landed on the hardwood, silent as a grave.
The photo stared up at her from the floor like an accusation.
Elara didn't pick it up. She just sat there, soaked, hunched, her spine curled like a question mark. The radiator in the corner clanked and hissed to life, a late attempt at warmth.
She didn't move.
What Caelum Blackthorn had to do with her sister was a question that buzzed like static in her skull—but the real fear came from something worse:
What if he had nothing to do with it? What if she'd built her entire private war on a lie?
She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. The apartment suddenly felt too loud, too cramped. Her thoughts ricocheted off the walls.
She had spent every free hour in that hospital room. Had memorized the sound of her sister's breathing, the beep of the heart monitor, the shuffle of nurses' shoes. It was the only place she could think. The only place that made any sense.
She didn't cry anymore when she looked at Celine.
She just waited.
Waited for a blink. A twitch. A miracle. Something that would undo the moment Celine's car wrapped itself around a column on the West Side Highway and everything after stopped making sense.
And now Caelum Blackthorn had slithered out of the dark.
Elara finally rose to her feet, peeled off her soaked coat, and tossed it onto the back of the chair like it had betrayed her.
She crossed the apartment, grabbed her phone, and Googled The Crimson Lounge.
High-end. Rooftop. Members-only. Red velvet curtains, black marble bar, skyline views. Of course it was his.
Of course it bled luxury.
Elara stared at the screen until her thumb hovered over the browser's close button. She didn't press it. Instead, she clicked through to see the address, the floor plan, the VIP policy.
She was already planning.
Her reflection caught in the window as night wrapped itself around the city. She looked tired. Tired and sharp in the wrong places.
"You're not going to go," she muttered to herself.
But she was already deciding what to wear.
The Crimson Lounge didn't do walk-ins, but Elara had never let locked doors stop her.
The elevator whispered open on the top floor, revealing a hallway dressed in shadows and velvet. Music pulsed low, all bass and breath. Everything smelled like money—perfume without names, ice in cut crystal.
The hostess didn't ask her name. She simply looked her up and down like scanning for weakness, then gestured silently toward a door with brass trim.
The private room opened on its own.
And there he was.
Caelum Blackthorn stood near the window, bathed in the glow of Manhattan's skyline like he owned every square foot of it.
The last time Elara had seen him was in a magazine. Billionaire bachelor, ruthless investor, destroyer of corporate empires. Always at arm's length from scandal. Always behind a tinted car window or a quote issued by his legal team.
Seeing him in person was like watching a god step down into a courtroom. Still untouchable. But colder.
He turned when she entered. Measured. Smooth.
"Miss Quinn," he said, his voice velvet-wrapped steel.
Her heart did something inconvenient. She ignored it.
"You have thirty seconds," she said, letting the door click shut behind her.
Caelum didn't smile. He didn't move closer. He just nodded to the small round table beside him, where two drinks waited.
"I'll need at least sixty."
"You'll get thirty-one if you're interesting."
She stayed standing.
He studied her with a kind of clinical detachment, like he was trying to determine whether she'd break on impact or cut if dropped.
Then he said, "You've seen the photo."
Elara's jaw tightened. "Is this blackmail? A joke? Because I have lawyers, and I'm not afraid to—"
"Neither," he interrupted calmly. "You came because you want answers."
"I came to make sure you never come near my sister again."
Caelum moved toward the table, picked up his glass. He swirled the contents once but didn't drink.
"You've spent the past six months blaming me for her accident," he said. "You're not entirely wrong. But you don't know the full story."
Elara took a step forward. "Then tell me. Right now."
Caelum looked at her like he was gauging the depth of a pool before diving in.
"I will," he said. "But there's a condition."
Of course there is.
"You marry me," he said. "For one year."
Elara blinked once.
Not from shock. From fury.
She crossed the room in three sharp strides and planted her hands on the table, the untouched drink quivering beneath her fingers.
"Marry you?" she said, too low. "You think that's funny?"
Caelum didn't move. "I'm never joking, Elara."
She hated how easily he said her name. Like he owned it. Like he'd practiced.
"This isn't a game," she said. "My sister is in a hospital bed because of people like you."
"She's in a hospital bed," Caelum said, voice like glass snapping beneath a boot, "because she trusted the wrong man. I'm offering you the chance to find out why."
"And in exchange, I become your what—trophy? Pet? Hostage?"
"My wife."
Elara laughed once, sharp and joyless. "Oh, you're deranged."
"Call it what you want," he said. "You'll live in my home. Play the role. Say nothing to the press. In return, I'll give you everything I have on Celine."
Her breath hitched. He heard it. Of course he did.
"I've done my research," Caelum continued. "You've drained your inheritance. Your business is collapsing. Your mother's house is mortgaged to the bone. You need answers—and I need something you can give."
She narrowed her eyes. "Which is?"
He didn't answer at first. He walked to the window instead, looked out at the night like it owed him something.
Then: "Revenge."
Elara felt it then—the real danger. The way his rage didn't burn. It froze.
"This is insane," she whispered.
"No," Caelum said, turning back. "This is inevitable."
Elara didn't speak.
She just stared at him, the weight of his offer pressing against her ribs like a second skeleton. Her fingers curled at her sides. Her mouth opened—then snapped shut.
He wanted revenge, and somehow she was part of it.
He knew about her money. Her sister. Her debts. Her desperation. He'd built this moment like a trap, and she'd walked into it with her eyes open.
"You're a psychopath," she said finally.
Caelum blinked, slow. "That's not a no."
She spun on her heel.
He didn't stop her. Didn't chase. Just watched.
When her hand hit the door handle, his voice followed her, cool and unhurried:
"You have three days. After that, the truth goes with me to the grave."
Elara didn't turn around. Didn't answer. She yanked open the door and stepped back into the hallway, heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.
Three days.
What the hell kind of man trades a marriage for the truth?
And what the hell kind of woman even thinks about saying yes?
The door shut behind her with a quiet click.
But his words wouldn't.
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