Chapter 2: Terms and Tension
The pen hovered above the paper like it might explode.
Ella sat across from Xavier in his glass-walled office overlooking Manhattan, her fingers trembling as she read the final paragraph of the contract.
"This marriage will be valid for 18 months, after which a formal dissolution may be arranged. Both parties will retain discretion, privacy, and distance in personal affairs unless public appearances require otherwise."
It wasn't just a contract.
It was a cage.
"Is this what you call marriage?" she finally said, looking up.
Xavier sat still, his hands folded neatly on the desk, unreadable as ever in a navy three-piece suit. "It's what works. Emotions complicate things."
Ella arched an eyebrow. "Is that how you've stayed so rich? Avoiding anything messy?"
His mouth quirked — not quite a smile. "Among other things."
She stared him down. "So, what's the real reason you're doing this?"
He paused for a beat.
"Legacy," he said. "My grandfather's will requires I marry to maintain control of the foundation. My board's getting anxious."
"And I'm what? A placeholder wife?"
"You're a convenient solution."
The way he said it — clinical, calculated — made her want to throw the gold pen in his face.
Instead, she leaned forward, placing her elbows on the desk.
"I'm not some pawn you plucked off the street, Xavier."
"No. You're a woman with debt, a sick parent, and no brother or sister depending on you."
Her cheeks flushed.
Low blow. But not wrong.
Still, she lifted her chin. "That doesn't mean I'll be your puppet."
"Good," he said, standing. "I don't like puppets. I prefer fire."
He walked around the desk and offered the pen again, standing close enough that she could smell his cologne — cedar, salt, and something sharper beneath. Power. Control.
Her fingers brushed his as she took the pen.
The air shifted.
Neither of them moved.
Ella signed.
And in that moment, she wasn't sure if she'd just sold her freedom — or stepped into a storm she'd never escape from.
---
The ceremony was the definition of sterile elegance.
No guests. No flowers. No kisses.
Just signatures, legal witnesses, and a flash of cold metal as Xavier slid a diamond ring onto her finger.
"Congratulations," the officiant said. "You may now… shake hands, I suppose."
Ella didn't laugh.
Neither did Xavier.
He turned to her with a polite nod. "Welcome to the family."
"Charming," she muttered under her breath.
---
The penthouse wasn't what she expected.
It wasn't warm or romantic — just minimalist luxury. Gray walls. Glass everywhere. The view was breathtaking, but the silence was deafening.
A butler showed her to a guest suite. "You'll be staying here, ma'am."
Not Mrs. King.
Not the bride.
Just ma'am.
She unpacked slowly, each item of clothing feeling like a reminder that she didn't belong.
Not really.
Not yet.
---
Later that night, she found Xavier in the study, sleeves rolled up, jacket gone, sipping whiskey and scanning documents.
He didn't look up.
She cleared her throat. "So… are there rules to this arrangement? Or do I just wing it?"
He glanced at her, eyes narrowing slightly. "Don't embarrass me in public. Don't lie to me in private."
"Anything else?"
"No sleeping in my bed."
Her stomach clenched — though she hadn't been planning to. Still, the bluntness stung.
"And if I break a rule?" she asked.
His eyes locked with hers.
"Then you'll find I don't forgive easily."
For a moment, they stared at each other — two strangers bound by signatures, money, and secrets.
"I'll keep that in mind," she said, turning to leave.
Just before she stepped out, he spoke again.
"You were right earlier."
She stopped.
"I've avoided anything messy for a long time. Until now."
Her breath caught, but she didn't respond.
Instead, she walked away.
And for the first time that day… Xavier watched her go.