Ivy's POV
The butler entered quietly, his steps measured.
"Dr. Ivy," he said, voice calm, "this way. I'll show you to your room."
I followed him down the endless corridor, my shoes barely making a sound on the gleaming marble floor. Every chandelier sparkled like a thousand watchful eyes, every portrait on the walls seemed to follow me with quiet judgment.
We stopped at a pair of ornate double doors.
"Your room, ma'am," he said, pushing them open. "Meals will be served here. Mr. Blackwood requests your punctuality tomorrow morning."
I stepped inside and forgot how to breathe for a second. The room was extravagant—too much, almost painfully so. A four-poster bed dressed in soft cream silk sheets dominated the center. The walls were trimmed with gold, and a marble fireplace glowed faintly in the corner. A crystal chandelier hung above, scattering fractured light across velvet drapes and the glossy surface of the floor.
There was even a walk-in closet. I opened it, expecting emptiness, but froze. The racks were filled—lined with designer labels I could never afford in a lifetime. Dresses, coats, shoes… all new, all my size.
I blinked, confused. "Excuse me," I said, turning to the butler. "Could I… go back to get my clothes? I didn't bring much."
He inclined his head politely. "Mr. Blackwood instructed us to collect only your important items, Dr. Ivy. Personal effects, medical tools, documents. As for clothing…" His gaze flicked briefly toward the closet. "He requested you leave everything else behind."
I stared at him. "Leave them behind?"
"Yes, ma'am. He said you wouldn't be needing them here."
Something about his tone made the air feel colder.
"Right," I said softly, though my chest tightened.
He gave a short bow and left, the doors closing with a soft click that echoed louder than it should have.
Meals arrived right on time—lunch, then dinner—both wheeled in and left without a word. Each tray was arranged with precision, like a ritual. I ate because I had to, not because I wanted to. Everything around me screamed luxury, but underneath it all was something suffocating.
---
The next morning, sunlight broke through the curtains like an unwanted guest. I was halfway into my new clothes—a silk blouse and black trousers from the closet—when a knock came.
"Dr. Ivy," the butler's voice carried through the door, calm as ever. "Mr. Blackwood requests your presence downstairs."
My stomach twisted.
I took one last look around the room, at the luxury that didn't feel like mine, then straightened my blouse and followed him out. Each step echoed against the silent hallways, leading me closer to the man who had brought me here—and to whatever he wanted from me.
The grand staircase curved like something out of a dream—polished mahogany, crystal lights dripping from the ceiling, and a silence so thick it pressed against my ears. The butler led the way, his steps soundless on the carpet.
We entered a wide dining hall, the kind that could fit an orchestra. At the far end, seated at the long obsidian table, was him.
Adrian Blackwood.
Even from a distance, he looked untouchable. A dark suit tailored to perfection, the kind of fabric that whispered money. A sleek black mask covered the lower half of his face, and a pair of thin gloves hid his hands. His posture was composed, regal even, as though the chair had been designed for him alone.
The butler stopped beside me. "Mr. Blackwood, Dr. Ivy has arrived."
Adrian lifted his gaze.
For a moment, everything in me froze. His eyes were sharp—gray with hints of silver—and when they landed on me, it felt like he could see everything I was trying to hide. His gaze trailed, slow and deliberate, from my face to the blouse and trousers I'd chosen from the closet, down to my shoes, before returning to my eyes.
Then, he gave a small nod. Approval.
It shouldn't have meant anything, but somehow, it did.
"Sit," his voice came through, low and smooth, the kind of tone that didn't need to be raised to command a room. He gestured to the seat opposite him.
I walked forward, my heartbeat drumming against my ribs. The air felt heavier the closer I got, like his presence alone warped the space around him.
The butler pulled out a chair for me, and I sat, trying to ignore how my palms were sweating.
Adrian leaned back slightly, gloved fingers resting on the table. "I trust your room was satisfactory."
"Yes," I managed, though my voice came out softer than I intended. "It was… more than enough."
A ghost of a smile curved beneath his mask. "Good."
He tapped a folder beside him with a gloved finger. "Then we can proceed."
My gaze flicked to it—a sleek black document holder stamped with the Blackwood crest.
"What is that?" I asked carefully.
He tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he already knew the solution to.
"Your contract," he said simply. "I believe you'll find the terms… unconventional."
Adrian's gaze lingered on me for a moment longer before he spoke, his tone cool and deliberate.
"Serve breakfast," he said.
At once, the butler nodded and signaled the waiting staff. Within seconds, silver-domed trays were carried in and placed across the table. The scent filled the air—freshly baked croissants, buttered toast, smoked salmon, soft scrambled eggs glistening with cream, and a carafe of steaming coffee rich enough to wake the dead.
The quiet clink of silverware was the only sound as the staff retreated, leaving the two of us alone again.
"Eat," Adrian said simply.
I hesitated, unsure if this was a command or courtesy. Still, I reached for my fork, stealing a glance at him as he removed his gloves with slow precision—first the left, then the right—folding them neatly beside his plate. The simple action made the air feel different, heavier.
Then, he reached up and removed his mask.
The moment it came off, I forgot how to breathe.
The man behind it didn't look real. His features were sharp yet elegant—defined cheekbones, a strong jawline, lips that held no softness, and eyes that could pin you in place without a single word. His skin was pale but flawless, like marble brought to life. He didn't need the mask to look untouchable; he was untouchable.
For someone known as the ghost heir, he was too vividly human—and dangerously beautiful.
I tried to look away, but he caught me staring. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, not quite a smile, but enough to make my pulse skip.
"You're staring, Dr. Ivy."
"I—no, I was just—" I stammered, heat crawling up my neck.
He reached for his coffee, calm as ever. "You'll get used to it."
He said it like it was inevitable. Like I had no choice but to.
We ate in silence after that—or rather, I tried to. I barely tasted anything, my appetite lost somewhere between the scent of his cologne and the realization that this man—this beautiful, unreadable man—had dragged me into his world for reasons I still didn't understand.
When he finally set his cup down, the sound of porcelain meeting glass echoed faintly.
"Now," Adrian said, his voice soft but cutting through the silence with ease. "We can discuss your real contract."
He reached for the folder beside him, sliding it across the table.
The folder sat between us like a loaded gun. I hesitated before opening it, half-expecting another list of medical conditions or emergency protocols. But what greeted me made my pulse falter.
At the top of the page, printed in crisp black ink, were the words:
"Confidential Agreement of Matrimony."
I blinked, thinking I'd misread it. I read it again. And again.
My throat went dry. "This… this isn't—"
"A medical contract?" Mr. Blackwood's tone was smooth, controlled. "No. That one was just a preface."
I stared at him, heart pounding. "You can't be serious."
He didn't even blink. "Do I look like someone who jokes, Dr. Ivy?"
No. He didn't. Not even close.
I flipped through the pages, my fingers trembling. There were clauses about discretion, confidentiality, cohabitation—everything that defined not a doctor-patient relationship, but a legal marriage. My name was already printed on the line beside his.
"Why?" I whispered. "You don't even know me."
His gaze darkened, cold and unreadable. "That's where you're wrong."
"I—what are you talking about?"
He leaned back in his chair, gloved fingers steepled. "Seven years ago. The Harlington Gala. You were there with your father."
My breath hitched. The name of the event scraped at something buried in my memory. Golden chandeliers. The smell of perfume and champagne. My father's stern whisper telling me to stand straight, smile politely, don't embarrass him.
"I stepped out of the ballroom that night," Mr. Blackwood continued quietly, "because the heat was… unbearable."
His words slowed, as though he was reliving it. "My body felt like it was burning from the inside out. No one could come near me without making it worse. And then—"
His eyes locked on mine, sharp and unblinking. "You appeared."
The memory struck like a spark catching flame.
A young man leaning against the stone wall, breathing raggedly, sweat beading his forehead beneath the night sky. The faint glow of lanterns casting light across his face. My own hesitant voice asking, Are you alright?
And his broken whisper: Don't touch me.
But I had.
Without thinking, I'd placed a trembling hand on his chest, felt the heat rolling off him like fire itself. And through my own fear, I'd said softly, "You'll live. I know you will."
And then I'd walked away before he could even speak.
My eyes widened as the memory came crashing back, sharp and vivid.
"That was… you."
He nodded once. "I'd been told no human touch could calm the condition. But yours did."
He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to a low hum that wrapped around the silence. "I searched for you for years. Every doctor, every researcher failed me. And just when I stopped looking…" His gaze softened—barely. "You appeared again."
I swallowed hard, my pulse racing. "You want to marry me because of that?"
"Because of that," he said simply, "and because I don't trust the world with my life."
He stood, tall and composed, the morning light glinting faintly off the edge of his glove. "You were the only one who ever touched me without pain. That makes you something rare, Dr. Ivy—something I don't intend to lose again."
I pushed the folder back, my voice trembling despite myself. "This isn't how you ask someone to save you."
He tilted his head slightly, a faint trace of amusement ghosting beneath his mask. "Who said I was asking?"
He turned to leave, adjusting his cuffs. "You have until tonight to decide. Sign it, and your life changes. Refuse…",
He paused just before the door, gloved hand resting on the frame.
"Just so you know ," he said, voice calm — too calm. "Your father's current residence is Rosehill Care Facility. Private Wing. Room 203."
I froze. Every breath in my chest stilled.
He turned slightly, eyes meeting mine with that same unreadable calm that somehow carried more threat than anger ever could.
"I own the facility, Dr. Ivy," he continued smoothly. "Which means his life… is in my hands."
The words landed like a blade sliding between my ribs.
He didn't wait for a response. He simply adjusted his cuff, that faint ember-grey gaze holding mine for one last, deliberate second before he said quietly,
"Think carefully before you decide."
And with that, he walked out — the soft echo of his steps fading down the corridor, leaving nothing but the silence and the echo of his words thrumming in my ears.
His life is in my hands.
My fingers trembled against the edge of the folder as the realization sank in.
This wasn't just a contract.
It was a cage — one I couldn't walk away from without losing everything.