CHAPTER 3: Public Property
Damien's words echoed in Elara's ears long after the driver pulled up to her apartment.
"You have tonight. Settle what you need. From tomorrow, you live under my roof."He said with finality."A driver will pick you up at noon. Don't be late."
"And if I have other plans?"
He finally met her gaze, expression unreadable. "Cancel them."
He didn't ask. He ordered. Like she was already one of his possessions—filed neatly between a signed contract and a diamond ring.
That Eveninh at her apartment.Elara moved through her apartment like a ghost, stuffing clothes into a suitcase with mechanical focus. Nothing about this felt real.
The contract sat open on her kitchen counter.
Her finger hovered over the signature line—already signed, already sealed. Her soul, traded for a revenge she wasn't sure she could survive.
She stared at her father's old desk in the corner. The wood was scratched, worn. The only thing he left behind when Monroe Enterprises was gutted and absorbed by Blackwood Holdings.
And now... she belonged to the man who had signed the death certificate of everything her father built.
But revenge wasn't loud. It was quiet. Calculated.
She would play the part Damien cast her in—smile, obey, kiss when commanded—but behind her eyes, the war had already begun.
Elara stared at the screen until the tears blurred the words.
"You're going to wish you never made that offer," she whispered to the glowing screen.
"You want a fake wife? Fine. I'll give you one. I'll play the part—sweet, obedient, perfect.
But I'll burn your world down from the inside out."
When she arrived at the mansion, it felt like they've all been waiting for her arrival.
A butler took her bags. Vivienne greeted her with her usual cool poise. "Dinner has been prepared, Miss Monroe. Mr. Blackwood won't be joining."
Of course he wouldn't.
Elara sat alone at a grand mahogany table long enough to seat twenty. The steak was perfectly medium rare, the wine expensive, but she couldn't taste any of it.
The mansion was too quiet. Too elegant. Too cold.
Just like him.
The Next Morningcshe put on her game face.She woke early, dragging the silk sheets off her legs and forcing herself out of bed. Vivienne had already laid out a dress: off-shoulder black, fitted at the waist, flowing at the hips—flawless.
"Elara," Vivienne said from the doorway, "you'll be accompanying Mr. Blackwood today to the Maxwell Foundation Gala. The press will be there. First appearance as the future Mrs. Blackwood."
Future.
The word tasted like blood.
She pulled the dress on and stared at herself in the mirror.
Fake fiancée. Real enemy.
He just didn't know it yet.
The car ride to the Maxwell foundation Gala was silent .
It would be their first appearance as a couple, the perfect spot for an interview, he really saw this through.
Damien sat beside her, pristine in a charcoal suit, scrolling through his phone like she wasn't even there.
"You could at least brief me," she said, breaking the tension.
"You're pretty. That's all they need to see." He didn't look up.
She turned her head toward the window, jaw tightening. "What if I make a scene?"
His voice dropped like ice. "Then I'll ruin you, Elara. Publicly. Silently. Efficiently."
She shivered.
Not from fear. From something worse—an ache she didn't understand. She hated him. She wanted to hate him.
So why did his voice make her breath hitch?
When they arrived at the Gala the Flashbulbs popped the second they stepped out of the car.
Elara linked her arm through Damien's, smile fixed, chin high. She could feel the heat of his body beside hers. Controlled, powerful.
Inside, champagne flowed, laughter echoed, and eyes turned to them—whispers following every step they took.
Suddenly, Damien's hand slid around her waist. Not gentle. Possessive.
"Elara," he murmured in her ear, "you're not smiling enough."
"Maybe because your hand is practically on my ass."
He chuckled, dark and low. "Then smile wider. They're watching."
And she did.
Because she had to.
But every time a man glanced her way, Damien's grip tightened. His jaw flexed. His cold eyes followed every subtle glance she received.
Was he jealous?
Or was he just playing the game better than she was?
"Elara," a honeyed voice called from across the ballroom.
She turned—and froze.
Tall, willowy, and wrapped in silver silk like a goddess sculpted for spite, the woman approached with calculated grace.
Sabrina Vale.
Damien's ex-fiancée.
Elara knew her from headlines and socialite blogs. Heiress. Model. PR-perfect... and terrifying in heels.
"Oh," Sabrina cooed, eyes sweeping over Elara's dress. "You must be the new... project."
Elara smiled. "You must be the leftover."
Sabrina's eyes flashed. "Enjoy it while it lasts, darling. Damien gets bored quickly—especially with charity cases."
Damien stepped in, his hand now openly on Elara's hip. "Sabrina."
Sabrina turned, flashing him a fake smile. "Still trying to replace me, Damien?"
"I never replace," Damien said coolly. "I upgrade."
Elara was taken aback by his words she barely recovered from the shock when Damien suddenly turned to her—his hand sliding up her back, the other curling around her jaw.
Before she could speak—
His lips crashed into hers.
Hard. Deep. Tongue and all.
Gasps echoed. A camera flashed. The whole room blurred.
Elara's heart exploded in her chest, her hands gripping his lapels for balance—not by choice but because the floor nearly dropped out beneath her.
When he pulled back, he didn't look at her.
He looked at Sabrina.
"Smile," he said coldly. "You just met my future wife."
The room exploded in whispers.
Elara stood frozen. Her lips still tingled. Her heart thundered.
Not from romance.
From rage. And confusion. And something else she didn't want to name.
Damien turned from her as if the kiss meant nothing. As if she were nothing.
"Elara," he murmured casually, his voice sharp with command, "smile."
Smile?
He'd just used her like a prop. A pawn. And now he expected her to smile?
Her jaw clenched, but she obeyed—tilting her head, wrapping her arm back around his waist like she was proud to belong to him.
Inside, she was screaming.