The heavy oak doors of Silas's private study shut with a thud that sounded like a prison cell closing.
The room smelled of old books and expensive leather. Silas didn't sit behind his desk; instead, he stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the glittering skyline of New York like he owned every light in the city.
"Sit," he commanded.
Elara sat. Her knees felt like water. "Mr. Vane, I know how this looks. But I have a reputation in the restoration world. If I can just get the shards back to my studio—"
"Forget the vase, Elara."
He turned around. The harsh light of the desk lamp caught the sharp angle of his jaw. He tossed a thick folder onto the table in front of her. "I have more pressing problems than a piece of broken clay. My grandfather, the founder of Vane International, left a 'morality clause' in his will. Unless I am married by my thirty-second birthday, I lose my seat as CEO."
Elara blinked, her brain struggling to catch up. "I... fail to see what that has to do with me."
"My birthday is in three weeks," Silas said, stepping into the light. "The woman I was supposed to marry—a Senator's daughter—just eloped with a ski instructor in Gstaad. The board of directors is circling like sharks. They want me out. They think I'm too cold, too detached. They want a 'family man' at the helm."
He leaned over the desk, his face inches from hers. "You destroyed my property. You owe me eight million dollars. You don't have it. But you do have a face that the public will find 'charming' and 'innocent.' You have a background that screams 'hard-working underdog.'"
Elara's heart skipped a beat. "You want me to... be your fake fiancée?"
"I want you to be my wife," Silas corrected, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "One year. A legal marriage. A public performance. In exchange, I wipe your debt. I fund your studio for life. And when the year is up, we divorce quietly, and you walk away a very wealthy woman."
Elara stared at the contract. The text was a blur of legalese—Co-habitation, Public Appearances, No Infidelity.
"And if I say no?" she whispered.
Silas straightened his silk tie. "Then my lawyers will file a suit for the destruction of the Azure Dragon by dawn. You'll be blacklisted from every museum in the country. You'll be homeless by the end of the month."
He wasn't shouting. He was stating a fact. He was the Vulture, after all. He didn't negotiate; he consumed.
"One year," Elara said, her voice trembling. "No... no physical expectations?"
A flash of something—was it amusement? Or hunger?—crossed Silas's face. "The contract specifies a 'convincing' marriage. We will live together. We will share a bed when necessary for appearances. But I don't mix business with pleasure, Miss Vance."
He slid a fountain pen across the desk. It was heavy, gold, and felt like a weapon.
Elara thought of her father's medical bills. She thought of the studio she had spent her life building. She thought of the cold, beautiful man standing in front of her.
She picked up the pen and signed her name in jagged script.
Silas picked up the paper, his eyes lingering on her signature. "Welcome to the Vane family, Elara. Try not to break anything else. Especially not my reputation."
He reached out, his thumb brushing against her lower lip. It was a brief, electric touch that made her skin hum.
"Now," he said, his voice turning cold again. "Go home. Pack a bag. My driver will be at your door at 5:00 AM. Your life as Elara Vance is over. Tomorrow, you are the future Mrs. Vane."