Ivy woke to the faint hum of the city far below. For a fleeting moment, she imagined she was still in her old bed at home, with peeling paint on the ceiling and the smell of coffee drifting from her mother's kitchen.
Then the memories came crashing back.
The sterile elegance of the penthouse. The signature on the contract. The man who had claimed her as his wife not out of love, but as part of a ruthless deal.
Lucian Cross.
Her chest tightened with the weight of reality.
The sharp click of heels echoed outside her room, pulling her from her thoughts. A knock followed, brisk and authoritative. Before Ivy could respond, the door opened and a tall woman entered. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and her suit was cut to perfection.
"Good morning, Mrs. Cross."
The title sent a chill down Ivy's spine.
"I'm Clara, Mr. Cross's chief assistant," the woman continued, her tone clipped and businesslike. "From today forward, I will oversee your schedule, public appearances, and image. Tonight, you'll accompany Mr. Cross to the annual St. James Charity Gala."
Ivy blinked. "Me? Already?"
Clara's gaze swept over her, taking in Ivy's wrinkled blouse and bare face. Disapproval flickered in her eyes. "Yes. Consider it your debut."
Debut. Like she was being launched into society like a product, not a person.
Without further explanation, Clara gestured, and two maids wheeled in racks of gowns that shimmered under the light—silks, satins, sequins, all dripping elegance. She plucked out a black evening gown with delicate beadwork that caught the light with every movement.
"Mr. Cross prefers minimal elegance. Try this."
Ivy wanted to protest, to say she wasn't some doll to be dressed and displayed. But the words lodged in her throat. She had no choice—not when survival depended on this charade.
---
Hours later, the black car glided to a stop outside a towering ballroom aglow with chandeliers. The instant the driver opened the door, flashes of light blinded Ivy. Reporters shouted Lucian's name, cameras snapping like ravenous beasts.
Ivy froze, panic rooting her to the seat.
Then a hand reached for hers. Firm. Commanding.
He pulled her to her feet with unshakable ease, guiding her toward the storm of cameras. His grip was iron around her hand, a silent warning.
"Smile," he murmured, his voice low enough for only her to hear. "You're Mrs. Cross now. Act like it."
Her heart hammered, but she forced her lips into a trembling smile.
"Lucian! Over here!"
"Mr. Cross, who's your wife? When did this happen?"
"She's not one of the socialites. Where did she come from?"
The questions stabbed like needles, each one digging at her insecurities.
Lucian ignored them all, his expression carved from stone, his posture radiating dominance. To the world, he looked every inch the powerful billionaire, and Ivy… his flawless accessory.
Inside, the ballroom glittered with wealth. Waiters in crisp uniforms moved gracefully between tables, carrying champagne flutes that sparkled under golden chandeliers. Women in dazzling gowns cast her looks—some curious, most dismissive.
A tall, stunning woman with hair like poured gold approached, her smile sharp as glass.
"Lucian," she purred. "And this must be… your wife?"
The pause before the last word dripped with disdain.
"Yes," Lucian replied smoothly, his arm tightening around Ivy's waist. "My wife, Ivy Cross. Get used to the name."
The woman's eyes narrowed before she masked her shock with a brittle smile. "How… unexpected. Well, congratulations." She pivoted and drifted away, but whispers bloomed like wildfire in her wake.
"Not the heiress I thought…"
"She doesn't look like she belongs."
"She's nothing compared to the women who chased him."
Ivy's nails dug into her palm. Each word was a dagger.
"Breathe," Lucian's voice cut through her haze, cool and commanding. "You're doing fine."
She glanced at him, startled. Was that encouragement? But when her eyes met his, all she saw was ice.
---
When the host announced the opening dance, Lucian extended his hand, his gaze unreadable.
"Dance with me."
"I-I don't know how—"
"Then follow my lead."
The crowd parted as he led her to the center. Music swelled, rich and intoxicating. His hand settled at her waist, firm and unyielding, while his other gripped her trembling fingers.
He moved with flawless precision, every step sharp, controlled. She stumbled, but his hold tightened, steadying her as though he'd anticipated her falter.
"Eyes on me," he commanded softly.
She obeyed, breath caught in her throat. Their gazes locked, and for a moment, the ballroom faded into silence. It was just them—the icy CEO and the girl trapped in his world.
Whispers swirled around the edges of the room.
"They look… striking together."
"She's not what I expected, but…"
"Maybe Cross finally found his match."
Her cheeks flushed, her body betraying her. Every brush of his hand sent sparks through her veins.
The song ended, and applause rippled. Lucian didn't release her immediately. His hand lingered at her waist, his eyes holding hers.
Heat coiled in her stomach, confusing and unwanted.
Then, just as quickly, he released her. "You didn't embarrass me," he said coldly. "That's a start."
Her throat tightened with a thousand unspoken words.
---
Later, needing air, Ivy slipped near the bar. That's when she overheard two men chuckling.
"…Cross's wife? She's a nobody."
"Probably just a gold-digger. Or maybe he's using her. You know how ruthless he is."
Her fists clenched.
One of the men turned, smirking as he blocked her path. "So, you're the mysterious Mrs. Cross. Tell me, how much is he paying you to wear the ring?"
Ivy stiffened, pride burning hot. "Excuse me."
But before he could press further, the air shifted.
Lucian appeared. A shadow of authority. His presence alone silenced the room.
His hand snaked around Ivy's waist, pulling her flush against him. His voice was steel.
"She doesn't answer to you. Remember that."
The man paled and muttered an apology before retreating.
Lucian's grip didn't loosen. His lips hovered near her ear, his breath warm.
"You don't need to fight your own battles," he murmured. "That's what you have me for."
Her chest tightened. She hated him—hated his control, his arrogance. And yet, she trembled, her pulse betraying her.
--
Back at the penthouse, Ivy stormed to her room, her emotions tangled.
He was supposed to be nothing but a contract. A means to an end.
But the way Lucian looked at her tonight—possessive, dangerous, almost hungry—told her something terri
fying.
This wasn't just about appearances.
Lucian Cross didn't just want a wife on paper.
He wanted ownership.
And Ivy wasn't sure she could survive it.