The atmosphere inside the black Mercedes was thick with silence, broken only by the low hum of the engine and the distant wail of the night. Azrael sat in the back seat, his shirt half unbuttoned, revealing the chiseled marble lines of his torso beneath. His fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh, a storm simmering behind his eyes.
"I need a bride as soon as possible," he said suddenly, voice sharp like glass. "I'm tired of handling these bitches who always come back begging me to love them."
Xaren, seated in the front, kept his eyes on the road but glanced briefly into the rearview mirror. Azrael's face was carved in irritation, but there was a hollow behind his words—something more than annoyance. Xaren had seen it countless times before. Azrael used women like weapons, distractions, tools for release. But they always returned, craving the part of him he refused to give—his heart. It was never theirs to take, and when they tried, it only ignited his wrath.
But since Isabella Saint, Xaren had noticed something shift. Azrael was no longer his cold, predictable self. Around her, he was quieter, less volatile. He watched her with a different kind of silence. Not hunger. Not conquest. Something deeper. Something restrained.
"Why don't you sign a contract marriage with Isabella?" Xaren asked, keeping his voice neutral.
Azrael stilled. The name pulled him back. His lips twitched into something unreadable—almost a smirk, almost a sigh. His eyes darkened as the memory of her face washed through him.
"Why Isabella?" he asked, feigning indifference, though his voice had lost its earlier venom.
"Because you're different when you're with her," Xaren replied.
"Nah. I don't think so," Azrael muttered, looking out the window.
"I've known you for twenty-five years," Xaren continued. "So anything I say should at least be considered. Now, you're in a hurry to have a wife like your father demanded. It's just a contract—not like you're marrying her for a lifetime."
Azrael exhaled, the sound barely audible. He leaned back, closing his eyes. The thought of her filled his mind again—Isabella Saint, with her stubborn mouth and haunted eyes. She was unlike anyone he'd met. She didn't chase him. She didn't fear him. She treated him like a man, not a monster. And that terrified him more than anything.
He had tried to keep her at a distance, buried in silence. He had tried to forget the way her voice softened when she spoke to patients, the way her eyes lit up when she laughed. But she had already crawled under his skin.
Still, he hesitated.
"I don't want to drag her into this," he said at last, voice low and laced with tension. "My world is dark, Xaren. It's not made for people like her. There's no light in it. It's like hell, and I'm the devil they chained to its throne."
"I know," Xaren said. "But you need someone who can look at you without flinching. She already does."
Azrael was silent again.
By morning, the decision was made.
A letter was prepared on pristine ivory paper, its words printed with precise, elegant strokes. A black velvet box accompanied it, holding a floor-length gown of deep emerald green, the fabric delicate and shimmering, stitched with silver thread that caught the light like stars. A pair of silver-heeled shoes and a matching clutch sat nestled inside.
The package was sent to Emily's apartment.
"Isabella!" Emily's voice rang out from the living room. "Come here quick!"
Isabella emerged from the bathroom, towel in hand, her damp hair sticking to her neck. "What is it?"
Emily stood near the table, staring at the luxurious box and the sealed envelope beside it. "This just came for you."
Isabella's brows furrowed as she approached. Emily opened the lid slowly, revealing the rich fabric, the elegant accessories. Both women stared, unsure of what they were looking at.
Emily picked up the envelope and carefully unfolded the letter.
Miss Isabella Saint,
You are cordially invited to a private dinner with Mr. Azrael Delacroix. Kindly wear the attire provided and be ready by 8:00 p.m. A car will be sent to your address.
Come alone.
No signature. No explanation.
"Azrael Delacroix?" Isabella repeated, stunned. "Why would he send me this?"
Emily looked equally confused. "I don't know. It's like something out of a movie."
They sat down, discussing it for hours. What did he want? Was it related to the hospital? Did she offend him? Why the formality? Every possibility led them nowhere. Emily tried to joke about it to ease the tension, but Isabella couldn't laugh. Her heart was unsteady.
By 7:30 p.m., Isabella stood in front of the mirror. The gown fit like it was made for her, hugging her figure perfectly, the color enhancing her deep eyes and warm skin. Her hair was curled in soft waves, her makeup light but flawless. Emily stood beside her, unable to hide her amazement.
"You look like royalty," she whispered.
At 8 p.m., the black car arrived. A suited man stood beside it, silent. Isabella took one last look at Emily, then stepped inside. The car drove off, its windows tinted black.
Emily didn't hesitate. She threw on a jacket and snuck out, flagging down a taxi.
"Follow that car," she ordered the driver. "Please."
Inside the Mercedes, Isabella sat still, hands on her lap. She tried to calm her breath, but her heart betrayed her. The car pulled up to an exclusive restaurant with golden doors and soft lights glowing above the entrance. The driver opened her door, and she stepped out, heels clicking on the marble floor.
From the street, Emily's taxi stopped. She got out and hurried forward, only to be stopped by two guards.
"I need to get in. My sister's inside."
"No entry without invitation," one said.
Emily stepped aside, frustrated and worried.
Inside, Isabella was guided through a corridor into the VIP section. Classical music played faintly, and the scent of lavender floated in the air. She expected to see Azrael waiting—but instead, when the door opened, it was Xaren sitting there, calm and composed.
She froze.
Xaren stood, nodding politely. "Miss Saint. Please, have a seat."
Isabella stepped in cautiously. "Where's Azrael?"
"He'll join later," Xaren said. "Please sit."
She did, though tension filled every inch of her body.
"Why am I here?" she asked, voice sharp.
Xaren opened a sleek black folder and slid it toward her.
"What's this?"
"A contract."
She stared at him. "A contract for what?"
"A marriage contract."
Her breath caught. "You're joking."
"No."
She looked at the folder but didn't touch it. "This is insane."
"It's a temporary arrangement," Xaren said. "Legal. Simple. No emotions involved. No obligations beyond what's written."
"Why me?" she asked softly.
"Because Azrael chose you. You're the only one he could choose."
She looked away, her lips trembling slightly. "I don't know if I should accept this."
"You don't have to decide now," Xaren said. "Take the documents. If you choose to accept, sign them and contact the number inside."
She nodded slowly, her fingers brushing the edge of the folder.
Outside, Emily paced, heart racing. She couldn't see her friend. Couldn't know what was happening. But something in her chest twisted painfully.
Inside, Isabella picked up the folder. The name at the top was printed in bold letters.
"Contractual Marriage Agreement Between Azrael Delacroix and Isabella Saint"
And as she read, her heart thundered against her ribs. Not out of fear. But something far more dangerous. Something she couldn't yet name.