Saturday dawned gray and damp, the sky over Manhattan a bruised purple. Elara took the subway, the garment bag draped over her arm like a shroud. She emerged at 57th Street, the dress shoes already pinching her feet. Adrian's tower was fifty stories of steel and glass, guarded by men who looked like special forces operatives.
The elevator was mirrored on all sides. Elara watched herself multiply into infinity—an army of brides in ivory silk, all looking terrified. The pearls felt like a noose around her throat. When the doors opened, she stepped into the penthouse. It was brutal—polished concrete, panoramic views of a rain-slicked Central Park, and furniture that looked like art but felt like stone. Cold beauty.
Adrian stood at the window, his back to her. He wore a black tuxedo that fit him like a second skin. "You're early," he said without turning. "I expected you to be late. Most people are when they're facing something unpleasant."
He turned, and for a heart-stopping moment, Elara thought he might touch her. Instead, he reached out and adjusted a pearl on her neck. His fingers brushed her collarbone. His skin was warm, a sharp contrast to the ice in his eyes.
"Nervous?" he asked.
"Nervous," she admitted, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Don't be. It's just paperwork. We'll sign the marriage license, the ceremony will take ten minutes, then lunch. My grandmother is joining us. She insisted. Don't speak unless she asks you a question. And for God's sake, don't mention your father. He was a negligent businessman who got people killed. Defend him, and see how that goes with Dame Eleanor."
They entered his study—a room of dark wood and heavy books that smelled of ancient money. A judge stood smiling, and a photographer hovered in the corner, his lens cold and unblinking. Adrian didn't take her hand. They faced the judge shoulder to shoulder, a canyon of silence between them.
"Do you, Adrian Samuel Blackwood, take this woman...?"
"I do," he said, his voice flat, devoid of any vow of love.
"And do you, Elara Marie Vance...?"
Elara's mouth went dry. She could feel his gaze on her profile—heavy, expectant, and merciless. "I do," she whispered, the words tasting like ash.
Adrian produced two platinum bands. He slid one onto her finger—it was cold and slightly too large, a loose shackle. She pushed the other onto his warm hand.
"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Silence stretched, long and uncomfortable. Adrian didn't move. He didn't even look at her. The photographer snapped pictures of the hollow space between them—the perfect image of a broken union.
They signed the license. Adrian's signature was a sharp, aggressive slash across the page. Elara's was the same one from the contract—the signature that had sold her life for her mother's breath.
When it was done, the judge and photographer were ushered out. Adrian leaned in close, his breath ghosting against her ear, smelling of expensive whiskey and cold intent. "Welcome to hell, Mrs. Blackwood," he said, so softly only she could hear it.
He turned and walked out, leaving her standing in the wreckage of her freedom. From the other room, a woman's voice crackled with age and authority, cutting through the silence of the penthouse.
"Adrian, darling. Where is this wife of yours? Let me see what you've bought."
Elara smoothed her ivory silk dress, her knuckles white as she gripped her own hands. The man who hated her had just called her his wife, and now his formidable grandmother was waiting to inspect the "merchandise." The war hadn't just begun; she was already standing on a battlefield where she was the only one without a weapon.
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