The next morning, Emilia woke up in silk sheets that didn't smell like home.
Not that she remembered what home smelled like anymore.
She sat up slowly, blinking against the sunlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, the city roared—taxis, jackhammers, ambition. But in here, it was all marble, muted air conditioning, and silence so thick it nearly echoed.
She had become a wife overnight.
Not a lover.
Not a partner.
A signature. A symbol. A problem, prettily dressed and swept under expensive rugs.
There was a folder waiting on her breakfast tray.
No note. Just the Damien Cross way of communicating: clean, precise, and paper-bound.
She opened it with slow fingers. The top page read:
"Post-Marital Conduct Agreement – Addendum."
Her stomach turned.
Clause 1: She would attend all corporate, family, and social functions when requested.
Clause 2: She would refrain from interviews, statements, or unsanctioned communication with media.
Clause 3: Any affair, public scandal, or breach of discretion would void the financial agreements set forth in the marriage contract.
Clause 4: She was not to enter the west wing of the penthouse.
Clause 5: She would remain his wife for no less than 365 days.
Below that, her initials had already been typed, waiting to be signed in black ink.
She stared at the paper for a long time. Her pulse beat in her ears. One year.
She remembered her mother's voice on the phone last night, weak but grateful. The surgery had been booked. The best team, the best hospital. No waiting list. All paid for.
Damien Cross had bought her silence. Her image. Her body.
And she had sold it.
Because what other choice did she have?
She picked up the pen.
And signed.
---
She found Damien in the west terrace lounge that afternoon, reading something dense and unreadable in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
The sun hit his profile perfectly, like it had made a deal with him too.
"I signed it," she said simply.
He didn't look up. "I expected you would."
"No thank you?"
"You're not doing me a favor, Emilia. You're doing what you agreed to."
She exhaled slowly. "You're right. But I'm also not your dog. Next time you want to issue a legal order, maybe try a conversation."
He glanced at her then. Just once.
"That wouldn't be very Cross of me."
No apology. No guilt. Just the calm indifference of a man used to obedience.
She crossed the room and dropped the folder on the coffee table.
"Are you always like this?" she asked. "This cold?"
Damien closed his book and met her eyes with unsettling calm. "Cold keeps people alive. Fire burns them down."
She didn't blink. "Maybe some people want to burn."
He said nothing.
But his jaw tightened.
---
Later that night, she wandered into the private library she wasn't sure she was allowed in. The walls were lined with dark wood and first editions. There were no photos. No warmth. Just titles and silence.
A single photograph sat on the lowest shelf. Turned face down.
Emilia reached for it—then stopped.
A voice behind her said, "Don't."
She turned sharply.
Damien stood in the doorway, shadowed and unreadable.
"It's not part of your contract," he added quietly.
"Neither was marrying a stranger," she replied. "And yet."
He stepped inside. For once, his suit jacket was off. The sleeves of his black dress shirt were rolled high, veins visible on his forearms. A man built like discipline.
"That photo," he said, walking past her, "is the only thing I haven't thrown away."
She didn't ask. Not yet.
He reached out and flipped the frame face up himself.
A little boy.
Dark hair. Pale eyes.
Standing between two smiling parents.
It took her a moment. The eyes were unmistakable.
"You," she breathed.
"My father died the next year," Damien said flatly. "Car crash. My mother followed five years later. Suicide."
Emilia's throat dried. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It happened. People die. The world moves on."
His voice didn't crack. Not once.
But the way he stared at that photo—like he was still a boy on the curb, watching the wreckage—told her more than any contract ever could.
---
She couldn't sleep again that night.
Not because of fear.
Because of curiosity.
Damien Cross wasn't just cold. He was carved that way.
But something had crack
ed today.
Just a little.
And Emilia Blackwood wasn't a stranger to broken things.
She knew how to live among them.
Hell, she was one of them.