The Blackwood estate was not a home.
It was a statement.
Arielle understood that the moment the gates sealed behind the car. Iron bars. Stone pillars. Silence engineered to intimidate. Wealth designed to remind visitors where they ranked.
Low.
She stepped out of the car and took in the house—clean lines, glass and steel, restrained excess. No warmth. No history on display. Everything curated, nothing lived in.
Lucien was already inside.
A woman in a tailored black dress met Arielle at the entrance. "I'm Celeste. Head of household operations. Your schedule, wardrobe, and public appearances will go through me."
Not welcome. Not congratulations.
Operations.
Arielle nodded once. "Understood."
She was led through halls that smelled faintly of polish and money. Every surface reflected her back at herself composed, observant, unafraid to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her react.
They stopped at a bedroom larger than her last apartment.
"This will be yours," Celeste said. "Mr. Blackwood occupies the west wing. There are boundaries."
Arielle set her bag down. "Defined where?"
Celeste's mouth tightened. "In writing."
Of course they were.
Lucien waited in the study.
He stood when she entered, jacket off now, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest informality without sacrificing control. A calculated adjustment.
"Sit," he said.
She did not.
"I've read the contract," she replied. "Again."
His gaze sharpened, approving despite himself. "Good. Then you understand the optics."
"I understand the performance," she said. "What I want clarified is the punishment."
Lucien's brow lifted a fraction. "Punishment?"
"For noncompliance," Arielle said. "Every contract has teeth. I'd like to know where they are before they're used."
Silence stretched. He studied her the way men like him studied markets looking for volatility, risk, weakness.
"You embarrass me publicly," he said at last, "and I withdraw protection. Financial. Legal. Personal."
Clean. Precise. Lethal.
"And if you cross lines?" she asked.
"I won't."
"That wasn't my question."
A corner of his mouth curved, humorless. "Then you renegotiate."
She held his gaze. "Fair."
He gestured to the chair again. This time she sat.
A tablet slid across the desk. Images filled the screen—press drafts, staged photos, headlines already written.
BLACKWOOD HEIR ANNOUNCES ENGAGEMENT
LOVE OR STRATEGY? INSIDE THE SURPRISE MATCH
"They'll ask how we met," Lucien said. "Why now. Whether you're pregnant."
"I'm not," Arielle replied flatly.
"I know," he said. "They won't care."
She skimmed the talking points. Every word was designed to make her palatable. Relatable. Non-threatening.
"You've minimized me," she said.
"I've protected you," he countered. "A brilliant woman alarms shareholders. A grounded one reassures them."
Arielle looked up slowly. "You're going to regret underestimating me."
"I'm counting on it," he said. "Conflict reads as passion."
She closed the tablet. "We announce tomorrow."
"Yes."
"And the ring?"
Lucien reached into the desk drawer and placed a velvet box between them.
The diamond was obscene. Cold. Perfect.
She did not reach for it.
"Put it on," he said.
"No," she replied. "Not yet."
He paused. "Explain."
"Tomorrow, when the cameras are on," Arielle said. "When it matters. I won't rehearse submission."
Something flickered across his face. Interest. Annoyance. Respect he would never admit to.
"Fine," he said. "But understand this, every move you make reflects on me."
Arielle stood. "Then you should choose your reflections more carefully."
She turned to leave.
"Miss Kingsley," Lucien said.
She stopped but did not face him.
"This arrangement ends in marriage," he said. "Do not forget that."
Arielle looked back over her shoulder, eyes steady.
"Neither do you," she said. "That's why you're already uncomfortable."
She left the room.
Lucien remained where he was, staring at the closed door, the ring still untouched on the desk.
For the first time since drafting the contract, he considered the possibility that control might not be a one-way transaction.