The elevator ride felt like a countdown to execution.
Elena stood alone inside the glass-walled lift, watching the numbers climb higher and higher—each one stealing a piece of her courage. By the time it dinged at the top floor, she had rehearsed ten versions of how to greet him.
She used none.
The penthouse doors slid open into silence. Cold, breathtaking silence.
Marble floors. Glass walls. A view of the city that could take anyone's breath away—except hers. She wasn't here for beauty. She was here because she was owned.
And he was waiting.
Damian Blackwood stood by the window, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of something dark and expensive. He didn't turn when she entered.
"You're late," he said, echoing his own voice from earlier.
"I had to say goodbye to my family," Elena replied, forcing her tone to stay calm. "And my life."
That made him glance at her.
Just a flick of his eyes, sharp as razors.
"You'll get used to it. Or you won't. I don't care."
She stepped in further, the sound of her heels swallowed by the silence.
"So… this is it?" she asked. "No dinner? No fake smile? Not even a fake kiss to seal the fake wedding?"
He raised an eyebrow.
"If you wanted romance, you should've married someone else."
Her breath caught for a second—hurt, anger, something she didn't dare name—but she smiled bitterly.
"Too bad I didn't have a choice."
Damian walked past her, brushing her shoulder slightly. The contact lasted less than a second, but it burned like fire.
"Your room is down the hall, third door on the right," he said, already turning his back. "Don't enter mine. Ever."
"What if I get lost?" she said dryly.
"Then stay lost."
And just like that, he vanished into another wing of the penthouse, leaving Elena standing alone in her new golden prison.
She clenched her fists.
She had agreed to this. She had signed the deal.
But she hadn't realized…
The price of her signature wasn't just her name.
It was her soul.