The ride to Damian's penthouse was silent.
Rain tapped against the tinted windows of the black car as city lights blurred by. Ava sat with perfect posture, arms crossed, eyes fixed on nothing. Damian, beside her, typed something on his phone with a surgeon's precision.
The only sound between them was distance.
When they reached the top floor of the Blackwood Tower, the elevator doors slid open into a space that looked more like a museum than a home—steel, glass, marble, and silence.
Ava stepped inside.
High ceilings. Minimalist furniture. A skyline view that could crush a heart.
It was beautiful.
And cold.
Just like him.
Damian loosened his tie, tossing it on a dark leather armchair.
"We need to discuss the terms," he said flatly.
"Terms?" Ava echoed, turning to face him. "You mean the contract where I sell my soul in exchange for a year of polite lies?"
A flicker of amusement touched his eyes. "Only if you break the rules."
She folded her arms. "Let's hear them."
He walked toward the bar, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and spoke as he moved.
"Rule one: We appear together at all public events. Galas, fundraisers, dinners. No exceptions."
"Fine."
"Rule two: No romantic entanglements outside the marriage during the contract. I won't tolerate scandals."
Ava raised an eyebrow. "You're asking for fidelity in a fake marriage?"
"I'm asking for control," he replied without blinking.
She laughed—just once. Low and bitter. "Of course you are."
Damian sipped his drink, then set it down with a quiet click.
"Rule three," he continued. "We keep separate bedrooms. No physical relationship. This is strictly business."
Something in his tone made her glance up.
Strictly business.
She should have felt relief. But there was a chill beneath those words that settled deep into her skin.
Ava nodded slowly. "Good. That works for me."
"Rule four," he added, now standing closer, "you represent the Blackwood name in public. You will dress accordingly. Speak accordingly. Any behavior that reflects poorly on me—on us—voids the contract."
"Void it," she snapped. "You think I want to be here? I'm not some gold-digging charity case you can mold into your perfect little wife."
Damian studied her, unmoving.
"No," he said finally. "You're something more dangerous."
"What's that?"
"A woman with nothing to lose."
Ava turned away before he could see how much that cut deeper than he realized.
She walked toward one of the hallway doors, opening it to reveal a guest bedroom. It was sleek. Cold. Empty.
Like everything else here.
She stepped inside, but turned back to him.
"I only have one rule," she said.
He raised an eyebrow.
"Don't ever lie to me," she said softly. "I've had enough of that."
Their eyes locked.
For the first time, Damian didn't look like the untouchable billionaire.
He looked like a man who had his own rules.
And maybe his own lies.