Elara's POV
I'm getting married in a courthouse with a bullet graze on my shoulder and my best friend's mascara running down her face.
"You're insane," Sage whispers for the hundredth time, gripping my hand. "Completely, utterly insane."
"Probably," I whisper back.
Three days ago, Marcus's sniper shot through my café window. Cain got me out through the back, but not before a bullet caught my shoulder. Just a graze—seven stitches, bandaged under my simple white dress.
The police called it a "random shooting."
The media called it "another tragedy for troubled Elara Winters."
Marcus called it a warning.
But here I am, about to marry a man I barely know because it's either that or die.
"Elara Winters and Cain Ashford?" The courthouse clerk looks bored, like she marries people running from assassins every day.
"That's us," Cain says.
He looks different in his suit—less like a billionaire, more like a man about to make a terrible mistake. His jaw is tight, his gray eyes are stormy, and he hasn't let go of my hand since we entered the building.
Like he thinks I might run.
He's not entirely wrong.
"Do you have witnesses?" the clerk asks.
Sage raises her hand, tears still streaming. Nate—Cain's VP and apparently his only real friend—stands beside her, looking amused by this whole disaster.
"Dearly beloved," the officiant begins, and I almost laugh.
There's nothing beloved about this. It's a business transaction. A survival strategy. A declaration of war wrapped in wedding vows.
"Do you, Cain Ashford, take Elara Winters to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"I do." His voice is steady, certain.
"Do you, Elara Winters, take Cain Ashford to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
Cain's thumb brushes across my knuckles—gentle, reassuring—and I remember why I'm doing this.
For my mother. For justice. For survival.
"I do."
"The rings?"
Nate produces them from his pocket with a flourish. Two simple bands. Gold. Elegant. Temporary.
Except when Cain slides the ring onto my finger, it's not simple at all.
It's a sapphire. Deep blue, surrounded by tiny diamonds, vintage and absolutely stunning. It catches the fluorescent courthouse lighting and transforms it into something magical.
"This was my grandmother's," Cain says quietly, so only I can hear. "She'd want you to have it."
Something in my chest cracks. This was supposed to be fake. Clinical. Emotionless.
But the way he's looking at me right now—like I'm precious, like I matter—makes it feel dangerously real.
I slide his ring on with shaking hands. Plain gold band. No frills. Very Cain.
"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
We both freeze.
We didn't plan for this part.
Cain leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away. His hand cups my face, gentle despite the calluses on his fingers. His lips brush mine—soft, quick, chaste.
But even that brief contact sends electricity racing through my veins.
When he pulls back, something in his eyes has changed.
"One year," I whisper.
"One year," he agrees.
Neither of us believes it.
The penthouse is ridiculous.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Seattle. Marble floors. Modern furniture that probably costs more than most people's cars. A kitchen that looks like it's never been used.
"Your room is down the hall," Cain says, carrying my single suitcase like it weighs nothing. "Private bathroom. Lock on the door if you want it."
"You're not going to—"
"No." He sets the suitcase down. "This marriage is for protection and revenge. Nothing else. You're safe here, Elara. From everyone, including me."
Something about the way he says it—tired, resigned—makes me sad.
"Where's your room?"
He points to the opposite end of the penthouse. "Far enough that you won't hear my nightmares."
He walks away before I can respond.
Day one of married life: I discover Cain makes the worst coffee known to humanity.
"This tastes like burnt rubber," I say, spitting it back into the cup.
He looks offended. "It's French roast."
"It's a war crime."
"I've been drinking it for fifteen years."
"That explains so much about your personality."
He almost smiles. Almost.
Day two: I wake up at 3 AM to use the bathroom and hear something in the kitchen.
Cain is standing at the counter in pajama pants and a t-shirt, dark circles under his eyes, making... cookies?
"Can't sleep?" I ask.
He jumps, spinning around. For a second, he looks vulnerable. Young. Human.
"Bad dream," he says shortly.
"So you bake?"
"You have a better solution?"
I pull out a mixing bowl. "Move over. If we're stress-baking, we're doing it right."
We make chocolate chip cookies in silence—flour everywhere, him following my instructions with military precision, me trying not to notice how domestic this feels.
When the first batch comes out, I burn my finger on the pan.
"Careful," Cain says, grabbing my hand. He runs it under cold water, his fingers gentle on my wrist.
We stand there too long, water running, neither of us moving.
"Thank you," I finally say. "For all of this."
"Don't thank me yet." His voice is rough. "This is just the beginning."
Day three: I discover he has nightmares every single night.
I hear him through the walls—not loud, just small sounds of distress that make my heart hurt. In the morning, he's always awake before me, showered and suited like nothing happened.
But I see the exhaustion in his eyes.
"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask over breakfast.
"No."
"Does it help? The nightmares? Talking about them?"
"Nothing helps." He sips his terrible coffee. "I've had them since my parents died. Therapy, medication, meditation—nothing stops them."
"What are they about?"
He's quiet so long I think he won't answer.
Then: "The crash. Finding the wreckage. My mother dying in my arms while my father was already gone. Being nineteen and suddenly responsible for everything and everyone while the world fell apart."
My throat tightens. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It made me who I am." He stands, grabbing his briefcase. "I have meetings all day. Security will be outside if you need anything. Don't leave the penthouse without telling me first."
"I'm not a prisoner."
"No. You're a target." His gray eyes pin me in place. "The moment Marcus realizes we actually got married, he'll escalate. Stay safe. Please."
The "please" almost undoes me.
After he leaves, I explore the penthouse. His home office is immaculate—organized files, multiple monitors, a wall of law books. But on his desk, half-hidden under papers, is a photograph.
A younger Cain, maybe nineteen, standing between two people who must be his parents. His mother has kind eyes. His father looks proud. And Cain is smiling—genuinely smiling—in a way I've never seen.
The weight of what he lost crashes over me.
That night, his nightmare is worse.
I hear him cry out—actual words this time. "No. Please. Mom, no—"
I'm in his doorway before I can think.
His room is dark except for the city lights. He's tangled in sheets, shaking, trapped in whatever hell his mind created.
"Cain." I approach slowly. "Wake up."
He doesn't respond.
I touch his shoulder. "Cain, it's okay. You're—"
He moves lightning-fast, grabbing my wrist, pulling me down. Suddenly I'm on the bed and he's over me, eyes wild and unseeing.
"Cain!" I say sharply. "It's Elara. You're home. You're safe."
Reality crashes back into his eyes.
He scrambles away from me like I'm on fire. "God. I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"
"No." My heart is pounding. "You were having a nightmare."
"You shouldn't be in here." He's breathing hard, sweat dampening his hair.
"I heard you. I couldn't just—"
"Get out." His voice is harsh. "Please."
But I see his hands shaking. See the terror still lingering in his eyes.
"I get them too," I say quietly. "The nightmares. About finding my mother's things after she died. About Marcus's betrayal. About the sniper at my café." I sit on the edge of his bed. "You don't have to be alone with them."
"Elara—"
"Just let me stay. Until you fall back asleep. Then I'll go."
He looks at me like I'm something impossible. Something he can't quite believe is real.
Finally, he nods.
I sit against the headboard. He lies back down, keeping careful distance between us.
But in the dark, his hand finds mine.
We fall asleep like that—two broken people holding onto each other in the wreckage.
I wake up to my phone exploding with notifications.
Sage sent a link with fifty exclamation points: "OH MY GOD ELARA LOOK AT THIS NOW"
I click it, still half-asleep, Cain's hand still wrapped around mine.
It's a news article.
"WINTERS HEIRESS MARRIES ICE KING: Elara Winters-Ashford's Shocking Power Move"
But that's not the terrifying part.
The terrifying part is the photo beneath it.
Me and Cain. Walking into the courthouse three days ago.
And in the background, barely visible in the crowd—
Marcus. With a gun.
He was there. At our wedding. Close enough to kill us both.
Why didn't he shoot?
My phone buzzes again. Unknown number.
A text: "Congratulations on your wedding, sister. Enjoy it while you can. You have 48 hours before the world learns what your precious husband has been hiding. Then everyone will know the truth about Cain Ashford—and you'll wish I'd killed you when I had the chance. - V"
Vivienne.
What does Cain have to hide?
I look at the man sleeping beside me, hand still holding mine, face peaceful for the first time.
What secret is dangerous enough to destroy us both?