The day of the engagement dinner dawned grey and blustery, the ocean a churning slate sheet visible from Amelia's suite. A sense of dread had coiled in her stomach all day, tightening with each passing hour. Mrs. Higgins had appeared precisely at noon with a team of stylists—a silent, efficient trio who transformed her into the version of Amelia Swift that Alexander Blackwood required.
Her hair was smoothed into a sophisticated, low chignon, not a single strand out of place. Her makeup was artfully applied, emphasizing her eyes and cheekbones, making her look both fragile and ethereal. And then there was the dress. The ivory column dress she had been instructed to wear. It was even more breathtaking on, the heavy silk crepe draping her body like a second skin, making her feel both powerful and exposed.
As she stood before the full-length mirror that evening, she barely recognized the woman staring back. She was a living piece of art, a mannequin dressed for her role. The only thing that betrayed her inner turmoil was the faint tremor in her hands, which she clenched into fists at her sides.
You can do this, she told her reflection. It's a performance. You are an actress. He is your scene partner, nothing more.
A soft chime from the tablet on her bedside table signaled it was time. 7:00 PM. The guests would be arriving.
She descended the stairs slowly, one hand lightly skimming the cold metal banister. The sound of muted chatter and clinking glasses drifted from the main living area. She paused at the entrance, taking a deep, silent breath, summoning every ounce of courage she possessed.
And then she saw him.
Alexander was standing near the fireplace, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, holding court before a small, rapt circle of guests. He was wearing a tailored black tuxedo that fit him like a glove, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and his lean, powerful build. For a moment, the sheer, intimidating perfection of him stole her breath. He was the undisputed king of this cold, beautiful castle.
As if sensing her presence, his head turned. His stormy eyes found hers across the room, and for a heartbeat, something unreadable flickered in their depths—a flash of surprise, perhaps even approval. It was gone in an instant, replaced by the cool, assessing look she knew. He excused himself from his group and started towards her.
This was it. The curtain was rising.
He reached her, his gaze sweeping over her from head to toe. "The dress is… adequate," he murmured, his voice low enough for only her to hear. The understatement was a calculated insult, a reminder that even her beauty was just another item on his checklist.
He offered her his arm. "Remember. Adoration. Devotion. Your life depends on it."
The words were a blade, but she merely smiled, a soft, practiced curve of her lips that didn't reach her eyes. She placed her hand lightly on his forearm, feeling the hard, unyielding muscle beneath the fine wool. A jolt, like a static shock, passed through her at the contact. She ignored it.
"Don't worry, Alexander," she said, her voice a sweet, hushed tone meant for lovers. "I know my lines."
He led her into the room, and the performance began.
"Darling, you remember Jonathan Pierce from the Times," Alexander said, his voice warm and indulgent, a complete facade.
"Of course," Amelia said, turning the full force of her practiced, glowing smile on the journalist. "Jonathan, it's so lovely to see you again. Alexander speaks so highly of your insights." The lie slipped from her tongue with surprising ease.
She played her part flawlessly. She laughed softly at Alexander's dry witticisms, her head tilted attentively towards him. She let her hand rest on his arm, her fingers occasionally giving a gentle, affectionate squeeze. She fielded questions about their "whirlwind romance" with a convincing blend of shyness and excitement.
"How did you keep it a secret?" gushed a socialite blogger.
Amelia looked up at Alexander, allowing what she hoped was a convincing look of wonder into her eyes. "It was our little secret," she said, her voice soft. "Something so precious, we wanted to keep it just for ourselves for a while." She saw Alexander's jaw tighten almost imperceptibly, a sign she was hitting the right note.
Throughout the evening, she was acutely aware of him. Of the heat radiating from his body. Of the low, possessive timbre of his voice when he called her "my dear" for the benefit of others. Of the way his hand occasionally settled at the small of her back, a gesture that looked intimate but felt like a brand of ownership. Each touch sent a confusing shiver through her—a mixture of revulsion and a treacherous, unwelcome thrill.
During a quiet moment near the terrace doors, while Alexander was briefly pulled away, Amelia allowed her smile to slip for just a second, looking out at the dark, turbulent ocean. A man sidled up next to her. He was handsome in a polished, slightly predatory way, with slicked-back hair and a sharp suit.
"Amelia Swift," he said, his voice a silken purr. "Or should I say, the future Mrs. Blackwood. Quite the Cinderella story."
She turned, her social smile instantly back in place. "I'm sorry, you are?"
"Damian Vance," he said, offering a hand. "An… old friend of Alex's. I have to say, I'm surprised. He usually goes for a… different type. Less spirit, more polish."
There was an underlying malice in his words. He was testing her, probing for cracks.
"People can surprise you," Amelia replied smoothly, refusing to take the bait. "When you find the right person, the rules change."
Damian's smile widened, but it didn't reach his cold eyes. "Do they? Well, I wish you the best of luck. You'll need it in that gilded cage." He glanced meaningfully around the cold, perfect room before melting back into the crowd, leaving a chill in his wake.
The final, most crucial part of the evening arrived—the official photograph. Alexander guided her to a spot before the massive fireplace, his arm slipping around her waist. It was the most substantial contact they'd had all night, his hand a firm, warm pressure through the thin silk of her dress.
"Look at me," he commanded softly, his voice a low murmur near her ear.
She turned her face up to his. The photographers' cameras flashed, but the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them. She could see the flecks of silver in his blue-grey eyes, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. She poured every ounce of her acting skill into her gaze, trying to project the adoration he demanded.
But then his grip on her waist tightened almost imperceptibly. His eyes dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second. And for a heart-stopping moment, the mask of the cold, controlled CEO slipped. She saw something else there—a raw, stark hunger that was entirely real and utterly terrifying.
It was over in an instant. He released her, turning to thank the journalists, his composure once again glacial. But the moment had shaken her to her core.
Later, after the last guest had departed, the silence of the house felt heavier than before. They stood in the vast entrance hall, the remnants of their performance hanging between them.
"You performed… adequately," Alexander stated, loosening his bow tie. "The comment to Vance was clever. Defensive, but not confrontational."
Adequate. The word grated. After the emotional wringer she'd been through, 'adequate' felt like another slap.
"Glad I met the standard," she bit out, the sweetness gone from her voice, replaced by exhaustion and simmering anger.
He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. "What's wrong? Did you expect a standing ovation? You did what you were paid to do."
"Paid for?" she shot back, the carefully constructed dam of her composure finally breaking. "I just sold a piece of my soul in there, and you call it 'adequate'? I smiled and lied while people who knew my father looked at me with pity and suspicion! I let you touch me and I pretended to like it!"
The words hung in the air, raw and honest.
His expression darkened. He closed the final distance between them, his body caging her against the cold marble wall. "You agreed to the terms," he growled, his face inches from hers. "Every touch. Every lie. It's in the contract. If you can't handle the reality of the deal, perhaps you should have chosen bankruptcy."
His proximity was overwhelming. The scent of him, the sheer masculine power, it stole the air from her lungs. The memory of that hungry look in his eyes during the photograph flashed in her mind.
"I can handle it," she whispered, her voice trembling despite her defiance. "I hate you."
A strange, dangerous smile touched his lips. "Good," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that feathered against her skin. "Hate me. It makes the performance more convincing. And it keeps the lines between us perfectly clear."
He pushed away from the wall, turning his back on her as if she were nothing. "We have a charity gala at the Met next week. The stakes will be higher. I suggest you rest up, Amelia. The performance has only just begun."
He walked away, leaving her standing alone in the cavernous hall, her body still humming with the residual energy of their confrontation and the ghost of his touch. The ink on the contract was dry, but the ice in her veins was beginning to burn with a fire she didn't understand and couldn't control. The lines, she feared, were already starting to blur.