The Cold Wedding

The wedding was over in thirteen minutes.

No vows.

No music.

No kiss.

Just a legal signature and two souls bound by strategy, not love.

The courthouse air was cold—sterile. Olivia stood at the side of the marble-floored chamber in an ivory sheath dress, her fingers numb even though it was sleeveless. Her hair was swept into a loose chignon. Not by choice. Damon had sent a stylist that morning. Along with the dress. And the car. And the armed driver who escorted her like a prisoner with a curfew.

Damon stood beside her in a charcoal suit, buttoned and emotionless, like this was just another business deal to check off his list.

To him, it was.

To her, it was a funeral.

The judge looked from one to the other. "Do you, Damon Alexander Cross, take Olivia Elise Blake to be your lawfully wedded wife for the duration of this civil contract?"

"I do." His voice was steady. Clipped.

"And do you, Olivia Elise Blake, take Damon Alexander Cross to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

A pause.

She met Damon's gaze, searching for something—anything human.

There was nothing.

"I do," she said quietly.

The judge signed the document. "You are now, by law, husband and wife."

Silence followed.

No applause. No family. Just the sound of a pen scraping paper.

Olivia swallowed the bile crawling up her throat. This wasn't a wedding. It was a war declaration.

Damon looked down at her, his expression unreadable.

"Congratulations, wife."

She forced a brittle smile. "Burn in hell, husband."

He offered his arm. "Shall we?"

She didn't take it.

They walked out side by side, but not together.

Outside, two black cars were waiting. One for him. One for her.

Or so she thought.

"Get in," Damon said, nodding toward the backseat of his car.

"I'll take my own."

"You won't. Not anymore."

Her spine stiffened. "Controlling already, Mr. Cross?"

He leaned in, his breath ghosting the shell of her ear. "You signed the contract, Mrs. Cross. Read the fine print. You go where I go. You sleep where I sleep."

Her breath hitched before she could mask it.

"Is that a threat or a promise?" she asked.

A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. "That depends on how obedient you are."

She got in the car without another word, every nerve in her body screaming.

This wasn't marriage.

This was captivity wrapped in diamonds and designer silk.

The Mansion

It wasn't a home.

It was a fortress.

Black iron gates, motion-triggered cameras, and a winding drive that led to a sprawling estate of glass and stone perched above the city like it looked down on the rest of the world.

The car rolled to a stop beneath a marble awning.

Olivia stepped out, heels clicking on the pavement as she tilted her chin and took in the architectural monstrosity. Cold. Expensive. Beautiful in that hollow, lifeless way—just like him.

Damon stood beside her. "Welcome to your new home."

"It's beautiful," she said dryly. "Do you keep the bodies in the wine cellar?"

He chuckled. "No. That's where we keep the vintage regrets."

They walked through the front doors—tall, black, and heavy—into a cathedral-like foyer. Cream marble stretched beneath her feet. A chandelier glittered above like it cost more than her father's entire net worth. The air was scented faintly with leather and something darker. Masculine.

Staff lined the corridor. Silent. Head bowed.

Damon barely glanced at them. "This is Olivia. Treat her as you treat me."

They nodded and dispersed without a word.

She turned to him. "Do they know I'm your prisoner or should we keep that between us?"

His smile didn't reach his eyes. "They know enough."

The Rules

He led her through the house with military precision.

"This is your room," he said, stopping in front of a door at the end of the east wing.

She blinked. "Not our room?"

He didn't look at her. "We keep up appearances outside this house. In here, we keep our distance."

"Fine by me."

"There are rules," he said, voice flat. "Don't leave the house without security. No interviews. No contact with the press. And stay out of my office."

Her eyes narrowed. "And if I don't?"

"Then I'll make sure every person you care about pays for your curiosity."

Her heart thudded. "You really are a monster."

He leaned in close, hand bracing the doorframe beside her. "You haven't seen the monster, Olivia. Not yet."

They stared at each other in silence. The air was thick—charged. And she hated that the part of her that should've been afraid was also… intrigued.

"I'm not your pawn," she whispered.

He smiled. "No, sweetheart. You're the queen. But don't forget—queens can be sacrificed, too."

Later That Night

Olivia stood at her window, staring down at the city lights glittering in the distance.

She should be asleep.

But sleep didn't come easy when your life had just been sold off like stock in a company.

She reached for her phone, fingers hovering. She wanted to call her best friend. Her brother's number was still in her favorites. Even though he was gone.

Even though Damon Cross had something to do with it.

She didn't have proof.

Not yet.

But she would.

And when she found it?

She'd burn his empire to the ground.

Even if she had to go down with it.