CHAPTER TWO: THE MARRIAGE ANNOUNCEMENT
The headline broke before Dream finished her coffee.
The notification blazed across her phone screen, a silent, violent detonation in the quiet morning light of Luna's cluttered kitchen.
DISGRACED HEIRESS DREAM HALE TO MARRY BILLIONAIRE TOM BLACKTHORN: SAVIOR OR STRATEGIST?
Her hand, holding a plain ceramic mug, froze mid-air. The steam from the coffee rose, ghostlike, between her face and the damning words. She could hear Luna rummaging in the fridge, the distant wail of a city ambulance, the mundane sounds of a world that had just fundamentally shifted beneath her feet.
"What?" Luna's voice snapped from across the table, sharp with protective instinct. She'd caught the change in the air. "Dream—look at me. What's wrong?"
Without a word, her fingers numb, Dream slowly turned her phone around.
Luna's eyes, always so quick and bright, scanned the headline. Her face, usually animated with cynicism or plans, went utterly still. Then, she swore. Loudly, creatively, with a vehemence that rattled the salt shaker.
"They didn't even wait twenty-four goddamn hours," Luna hissed, snatching the phone for a closer look. Her knuckles were white. "God, they're calling you a—"
"A gold digger," Dream finished, her voice disturbingly quiet. It wasn't a question. The word sat in the air between them, ugly and familiar. "A social climber. A desperate woman trading on her last asset."
The article refreshed on Luna's furious scroll. Another headline appeared, this one from a sober financial outlet.
BLACKTHORN CONSOLIDATES POWER WITH STRATEGIC MARRIAGE: ANALYSTS SEE MOVE TO STABILIZE HALE TECH FALLOUT.
Dream's stomach twisted, a nausea that had nothing to do with the coffee. This was worse. This framed her as a pawn in a corporate play, stripping even the pretense of personal agency from the narrative. It made her father's tragedy look like a convenient merger opportunity.
And Tom hadn't warned her. Not a call, not a text. He had unleashed this storm and left her standing in the open, exposed.
Her phone, back in her trembling hand, buzzed again. A new message, from an unknown number. But she knew.
TOM: Be ready in one hour. A car will collect you. Press conference at Blackthorn Tower.
Her pulse spiked, a frantic bird against her ribs. Her thumbs flew over the screen.
DREAM: You promised discretion. This is a media circus.
Three dots appeared. Lingered. Then vanished, as if he'd thought better of a reply.
A final message came through, ten seconds later. Two words, cold and absolute.
TOM: You signed the contract.
The words were a lock clicking shut. The contract. Clause 5.2: Public conduct must reflect a harmonious and devoted partnership at all times. This was her first test.
---
Blackthorn Tower's main conference hall was a temple to power, and today it was holding a very public inquisition. It glittered with the hard light of a hundred camera flashes, reflected in crystal chandeliers and the polished mahogany of the podium. The air hummed with the low, hungry murmur of reporters and the sharp, sweet scent of cultivated orchids that did nothing to mask the underlying stench of calculated cruelty.
Dream stepped onto the stage beside Tom Blackthorn, her heel catching slightly on the seamless join of the flooring. His hand was immediately there, a firm, inescapable pressure on the small of her back. It wasn't supportive; it was possessive and impersonal, a brand meant for the cameras, a guide meant for her. Stay in line.
The room erupted.
Flashes became a continuous strobe, blinding her. Questions flew like poisoned darts, voices overlapping in a cacophony of gleeful malice.
"Miss Hale, is this marriage about saving your family's fortune or saving face?"
"Mr. Blackthorn, is she a permanent replacement for Celeste Moreau, or just a convenient placeholder?"
"Dream! Does this feel like a betrayal of your father during his trial?"
Tom didn't react to the shouting. He simply lifted a hand, a single, effortless gesture. A king quieting his court. The silence that fell was instantaneous, more intimidating than the noise.
"My fiancée," he said, his voice smooth as aged whiskey, carrying to the back of the hall without effort, "is not a distraction from unfortunate events. She is a deliberate decision moving forward."
Dream felt his fingers tighten minutely against her spine—a warning, a claim, she couldn't decipher which. A reminder of her lines.
"We will be married in seven days," Tom continued, his grey eyes sweeping the crowd, leaving no room for argument. "Any further speculation presented as fact will be treated as defamation by our legal team."
A sharp, collective murmur rippled through the room. Seven days. A whirlwind. A blitzkrieg. It meant no time for dissent, for second thoughts, for the scandal to cool.
Dream's breath hitched, a tiny, trapped sound she hoped the microphones didn't catch.
A veteran reporter from a tabloid known for its brutality shouted over the rustling, "Miss Hale! How does it feel to marry into this level of power and security so soon after your father was led away in handcuffs?"
Tom didn't move to answer. Instead, he turned his head slowly, his entire body pivoting to face her. All eyes, every lens, followed. The spotlight was hers alone, a burning, isolating circle of judgment.
Dream felt the humiliation crawl up her spine, hot and prickling. She wanted to scream. To snatch the microphone and tell them all about the contract, the coldness in Tom's eyes when he'd laid out the terms, the gilded cage. She wanted to run.
Instead, she remembered her mother's pale face against the hospital pillow. Her father's lost eyes. She lifted her chin, meeting the sea of expectant faces, and found a cold, clear place within herself.
"It feels," she said, her voice remarkably steady, piercing the quiet, "like survival."
The room exploded anew. The answer was too raw, too honest, too human for the glossy narrative they'd been crafting. It was a splash of real color on their monochrome storyboard.
Tom glanced at her, a swift, sidelong cut of his eyes. Something unreadable flickered in their storm-grey depths—surprise, assessment, a spark of something that might have been respect. It was gone before she could name it.
Then, a familiar, silvery laugh cut through the noise, as clean and sharp as a scalpel.
"Oh, darling. Still playing the tragic heroine? How… predictable."
Celeste Moreau stepped forward from the edge of the press pack, a vision in blinding, editorial white. She was perfect, from the sleek helmet of her champagne-blonde hair to the razor-sharp points of her stilettos. Her smile was a masterpiece of venomous delight.
"Congratulations," Celeste purred, her eyes sliding past Dream to linger on Tom with intimate familiarity. "I must admit, I didn't realize sheer desperation was so… attractive to you." She turned the full force of her gaze back to Dream, tilting her head. "But then, you always did have a talent for landing in the right lap, didn't you?"
Dream stiffened, every muscle locking. Tom's hand on her back became an iron bar.
Celeste's smile widened. "I wasn't speaking to you, of course," she added sweetly, as if clarifying a minor point.
Tom leaned down, his mouth brushing the shell of Dream's ear, his breath a warm, threatening whisper meant for her alone. "Smile," he murmured, the command velvet over steel. "For the cameras. Or I end this conference in a way you will regret."
Dream turned her face toward the flashes. And she smiled.
It wasn't the sweet, grateful smile of a rescued maiden. It wasn't the demure, lovestruck smile of a blushing fiancée. It was a small, cool, dangerous smile that didn't touch her eyes. A smile that promised the photographer, the crowd, and the woman in white that the game was far from over.
---
That night, the penthouse was a tomb of silent luxury. The vast, open space seemed to swallow sound, leaving only the hum of hidden technology and the oppressive weight of what had transpired.
"This," Tom said, his voice echoing slightly in the emptiness, gesturing toward the breathtaking, terrifying vista of the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows, "is where you'll stay."
Dream set her single, small bag down on the immaculate marble floor. The sound was absurdly loud.
"You humiliated me today," she said, not looking at him, her voice flat. "You threw me to them without a shield."
He turned, his profile etched against the city lights. "You survived. You even scored a point. 'Survival.' It was the perfect soundbite."
She whirled on him then, the controlled calm shattering. "You enjoy this. Watching me squirm. Controlling the narrative."
Tom took a single step closer, invading her space. The scent of him—sandalwood and cold certainty—wrapped around her. "I enjoy control," he corrected, his voice low. "Precision. The outcome matching the plan. Your 'squirming' is irrelevant. Your performance, however, is not."
Her laugh was a short, sharp thing. "Then don't confuse control with ownership. You may have bought my compliance. You don't own my thoughts."
Something dark and turbulent stirred in the depths of his eyes, a glimpse of the dangerous waters beneath the ice. "You are my wife now," he stated, as if decreeing a law of physics. "In seven days, legally. In the eyes of the world, as of today. They will treat you accordingly. With envy, or fear, or contempt. Their reaction is a tool. Learn to use it."
"And you?" Dream challenged, holding her ground though every instinct screamed to retreat. "How will you treat me?"
Tom didn't answer. He simply reached past her, his arm brushing her shoulder, and opened a door she hadn't noticed, seamlessly integrated into the wall. A soft light glowed from within.
"This," he said, his tone reverting to that impassive calm, "is your room. Your private space. The terms, as outlined. Ms. Vance will bring your schedule in the morning."
The door closed behind her with a soft, definitive click.
Dream stood alone in the center of the cold, breathtakingly luxurious suite. It was a designer's fantasy—a bedroom larger than her old apartment, a bathroom of veined marble and gleaming fixtures, a sitting area with art that probably cost more than her mother's life-saving surgery. It was perfect. It was utterly empty.
She walked to the window, her reflection ghosting over the glittering cityscape. A pale, finely-dressed stranger stared back at her, surrounded by impossible opulence, utterly alone.
Her eyes, in the reflection, hardened. The fear and humiliation of the day crystallized into something cold, sharp, and purposeful.
Alright, Tom Blackthorn, she thought, the vow silent and fierce in the sterile air. You wanted a war? You got one. You may have written the first chapter. But I will write the last.
I'll destroy you, she promised the ghost in the glass. Not with screams or scenes. Slowly. From the inside out. And you won't see it coming.
Outside her door, Tom didn't move for a long time. He stood in the darkened living room, staring at the seamless door, his hands clenched at his sides. The echo of her words—don't confuse control with ownership—hung in the silent air. For the first time since concocting this plan, a sliver of doubt, cold and unwelcome, insinuated itself into his certainty. He had brought a wounded fox into his den, thinking it tame.
He had not seen the gleam of its teeth until it had already smiled for the cameras.