Arielle woke to silence so complete it felt artificial.
For a brief moment, she didn't remember where she was. The ceiling above her was unfamiliar—too high, too perfect. Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains she didn't recognize, casting soft patterns across walls that looked more like a showroom than a place meant for living.
Then memory struck.
The contract.
The signature that wasn't hers.
Sebastian Cross.
Her breath caught sharply as she sat up.
The bed beneath her was massive, dressed in pristine white sheets that had never known disorder. The room smelled faintly of clean linen and something colder—steel, maybe, or money. Everything was expensive. Everything was wrong.
Arielle swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
She was barefoot.
She distinctly remembered wearing shoes when she signed the contract.
Panic crept up her spine as she stood, her heart pounding louder with every step she took across the plush carpet. She pushed open the bedroom door and froze.
The penthouse unfolded before her like a silent kingdom.
Glass walls revealed the city stretching endlessly below, a glittering sprawl of power and movement. The furniture was sleek and minimal, placed with calculated precision. There were no personal touches. No photographs. No warmth.
This wasn't a home.
It was a fortress.
And she was inside it.
Arielle's gaze landed on the massive digital display embedded in the far wall.
Her name stared back at her.
SEBASTIAN CROSS ANNOUNCES ENGAGEMENT TO ARIELLE HART
Her stomach dropped.
She crossed the room slowly, dread pooling in her chest as headlines scrolled across the screen.
Billionaire CEO Confirms Engagement
Who Is Arielle Hart?
Cross Corporation Stability Restored
Stability.
Her engagement wasn't about love, or partnership, or even appearance.
It was damage control.
Her phone buzzed violently in her hand. Notifications stacked one after another—messages, missed calls, unknown numbers.
She didn't open them.
She already knew.
The world had found her.
Good morning.
Sebastian's voice cut through the air behind her.
Arielle spun around.
He stood near the kitchen entrance, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, as composed as if this were just another ordinary day. There was no hesitation in his expression. No apology. No trace of concern.
You moved me here, she said.
Yes.
You announced the engagement without telling me.
Yes.
You let the media use my name.
Yes.
Each confirmation felt like a blow.
You drugged me? she demanded.
Sebastian's jaw tightened. No.
Then how did I get here?
You fainted, he replied calmly. Medical staff cleared you. I made the decision.
Her hands curled into fists. You made the decision.
I had to, he said evenly. Time was not on our side.
Arielle laughed bitterly. So you decided to start the marriage without me awake.
Sebastian met her gaze, unflinching. You were never in danger.
That's not the point.
It is to me, he replied. Your safety is now my responsibility.
I never agreed to that.
You signed the contract.
I signed something, she shot back. Apparently not the first version.
A flicker of something crossed his face—annoyance, perhaps. Or calculation.
That will be addressed, he said.
When? she demanded.
When it stops being a liability.
Her breath caught. I'm a liability now?
You're my wife, he said. Which makes you both protected and exposed.
Arielle stared at him, realization settling heavily in her chest.
I'm not a person to you, she said quietly. I'm leverage.
Sebastian didn't deny it.
An hour later, Arielle stood in front of a mirror while two stylists adjusted her appearance without asking permission.
No, she said, stepping back. I'm not wearing that.
One of them hesitated. The other glanced nervously toward Sebastian, who stood near the door, reviewing something on his tablet.
Sebastian, Arielle snapped. Tell them to stop.
He looked up. We don't have time for this.
This? she echoed. You mean parading me?
Yes, he said flatly. That's exactly what I mean.
She turned toward him. I am not a prop.
You are a symbol, he corrected. And symbols must be controlled.
Her chest tightened. You said there would be no emotional obligations.
There aren't, he said. This is operational.
The stylists resumed their work.
Arielle felt stripped—not of clothing, but of agency.
The car ride to the press venue was silent.
Outside, crowds gathered. Cameras flashed. Security moved with precision. The doors opened, and noise crashed into her like a wave.
Sebastian stepped out first.
Then, without warning, his hand closed around hers.
The contact was firm. Possessive.
The crowd erupted.
Arielle's heart raced as microphones were thrust toward them.
Mr. Cross! When did you meet?
Ms. Hart, what do you do for a living?
Is the wedding soon?
Sebastian smiled.
It was practiced. Perfect.
My fiancée prefers privacy, he said smoothly. But I assure you, she is extraordinary.
Arielle's stomach twisted.
He hadn't asked.
Hadn't warned her.
Hadn't given her a choice.
She smiled because she had to.
And somewhere in the crowd, she saw it—the sharp gaze of an older man watching her with interest far too calculating to be curiosity.
The board chairman.
Back inside the car, Arielle yanked her hand free.
You humiliated me, she said.
Sebastian exhaled slowly. You survived.
That's not the same thing.
It is in my world.
She stared at him. You enjoy this. Control. Silence. Compliance.
His jaw tightened. I endure it.
Then why drag me into it?
He didn't answer.
When they arrived back at the penthouse, a man was waiting.
Mr. Cross, the lawyer said, nodding curtly. We need to discuss Clause 14.
Arielle stiffened. Clause what?
Sebastian's gaze sharpened. Now?
Yes, the lawyer said. Privately.
No, Arielle said firmly. Nothing private.
The lawyer hesitated, then handed her a tablet.
Arielle read quickly.
Her blood ran cold.
Divorce cannot be initiated for a minimum of three years, she whispered.
Sebastian went still.
That clause wasn't approved, he said.
It was, the lawyer replied. By proxy.
Arielle looked up slowly. By who?
The lawyer hesitated.
The board chairman, he said.
Silence crashed down.
Arielle laughed—once, hollow and sharp.
So this was never two years, she said. It was a cage.
Sebastian turned to her. I didn't authorize this.
But you benefited from it, she shot back. And you didn't stop it.
His silence was answer enough.
That night, Arielle stood alone on the balcony, city lights flickering below like a warning.
She wasn't a wife.
She was a hostage.
And Sebastian Cross might not be her savior.