~Ciela
The city smeared past the car window in streaks of light and shadow. My palms were slick against my lap, my pulse hammering loud enough to drown out the hum of the engine. Every heartbeat dragged me closer to a choice that already felt like a death sentence.
I had been here before. The tower of glass. The suffocating air of money and dominance. But tonight was different. Tonight, I wasn't just stepping into a building. I was stepping into a cage.
The elevator climbed in silence, slow and merciless. My worn dress clung to me like shame, out of place among the sleek suits and shining heels of the others. They didn't look at me. To them, I didn't exist. But to him, I was everything—a pawn, a price paid in flesh.
The doors slid open with a hollow chime.
The office unfolded like a throne room: glass walls opening over the city, the skyline spread beneath us like prey. And at the center sat the man who would become my husband.
Laurent Wolfe.
Billionaire. CEO. Predator in a tailored suit.
His gray eyes fixed on me the moment I entered, pinning me in place. He didn't smile. He didn't need to. The weight of his presence filled the room, sharp and suffocating. A sleek fountain pen tapped rhythmically against the desk, each strike like a countdown.
"You're late," he said, voice smooth but heavy with authority.
"Traffic," I answered, though my throat was tight with the lie.
His brow lifted, cutting through me with the smallest flicker of disdain. "Or second thoughts?"
I forced my chin up. "My family needs the money. Let's get this over with."
The faintest trace of a smile touched his lips—something cold, unreadable. He slid the document across the desk.
Marriage Agreement
Between Laurent Wolfe and Ciela Hart
The words blurred for a moment as if the ink itself bled.
"You're hesitating," he observed, his voice quiet, almost mocking. "Do you finally understand what you're giving up? What you're getting into?"
I gripped the pen to still the trembling of my hand. "I know exactly what I'm doing."
"Good."
The tip touched paper. My name carved itself in black strokes across the contract, shaky but final. When it was done, the page seemed heavier, as though it had drunk something from me.
Laurent folded the contract with deliberate calm and rose to his full height. "Welcome to hell, Mrs. Wolfe."
Before I could retreat, he crossed the distance and took my chin in his hand. His touch was firm, claiming, his grip a warning.
"We have a wedding tomorrow," he murmured, his breath warm against my skin. "And a honeymoon after that."
A cold knot twisted in my stomach. "You can't mean—"
"I mean every word." His thumb dragged lightly along my jaw, a parody of tenderness. "From this moment on, you are mine."
The words fell over me like chains, heavy and permanent.
And with one signature, my life was no longer my own.