Thorns Beneath Roses

Elena stared at the mansion's looming gate. It reminded her of a gilded prison—a place where power dictated affection, and money masked cruelty. But she squared her shoulders and stepped forward. There was no turning back now.

Inside, the marble floors gleamed under the chandelier's light. Opulence dripped from every corner. A maid offered a tight-lipped smile, leading her into the main lounge. She recognized some of the faces—reporters, socialites, relatives she hadn't seen in years. But her eyes searched only for one man.

Leon.

And there he was.

Standing at the far end of the room, draped in a tailored black suit, Leon exuded cold perfection. Sharp jawline, calculating eyes, a presence that demanded silence. His gaze met hers, unreadable.

Whispers erupted.

"That's her? The late Chairman's daughter?"

"She must be after his fortune."

"Leon marrying her? A strategic move, surely."

Elena kept her head high. They could speculate all they wanted. None of them knew what it felt like to be forced into a deal sealed with death.

Leon walked toward her with measured steps. Every eye in the room followed him. When he stopped in front of her, Elena felt the cold seeping from his aura.

"Miss Sterling," he said, voice smooth but distant, "do you understand the terms of our agreement?"

Her fists clenched at her side, but her voice was steady. "I do. This marriage benefits us both. That's all it is."

A ghost of a smirk played on his lips. "As long as we're clear."

The officiant called them forward. Words are blurred. Vows meant nothing. Rings slid onto fingers that trembled slightly. No kisses. No smile. Only a signature on a legal document.

Elena Sterling was now Elena Blackwood.

The moment the ceremony ended, cameras flashed like lightning storms. Elena kept her expression neutral. She was a trained actress now—pretending to be the loving wife of a man who could destroy her world with a whisper.

Later that night, their limousine cruised through the city lights, silence thick between them.

"Why did you agree to this?" Elena finally asked, breaking the silence.

Leon didn't look at her. "My reasons are none of your concern."

"That's convenient."

"You needed saving. I needed leverage. It's a fair trade."

Elena turned to the window, watching skyscrapers blur by. "You know, it's ironic. My father wanted to keep me safe by arranging this. But I've never felt more vulnerable in my life."

Leon's jaw tightened. "Then you don't know what true vulnerability is."

Their new home—the Blackwood estate—was a fortress of ice and luxury. Elena's room was at the opposite end of the hall from Leon's. Separate lives under one roof.

As she unpacked, she noticed a letter tucked inside her suitcase. It was in her father's handwriting.

Elena,

I did what I could with the time I had. You might hate me for this arrangement, but Leon is the only one I trust to keep you alive. There are things you don't know—enemies who don't rest. You're in danger simply because you're my daughter. Trust no one.

—Dad

Elena reread it three times. Her hands trembled, her breath shallow. Danger? Enemies? What did he mean?

She heard a knock.

Leon stood in the doorway. "You'll be joining me for dinner tomorrow. Business associates will be present. Play the role."

"And what role is that?"

"My loyal, doting wife."

The next day, Elena sat at the head of a long table beside Leon. The guests were powerful men and women—CEOs, politicians, and media barons.

She smiled politely, answered questions when addressed, and played her part.

But during dessert, something strange happened.

One of the men—a bulky tycoon named Mr. Ross leaned closer. "You're prettier than the pictures," he said, his voice low.

Leon's gaze snapped at the man. "You're speaking to my wife."

Mr. Ross laughed nervously. "Just complimenting the lady, Leon."

"I don't tolerate disrespect."

The tension in the room spiked. Elena blinked. Did Leon just... defend her?

After the guests left, Elena confronted him. "Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Protect me. In front of them."

Leon looked her in the eye. "You wear my name now." No one disrespects what's mine."

Elena's stomach flipped. She wanted to be angry. To lash out. But part of her—just a small, foolish part—wondered if, beneath all the ruthlessness, there was something else. Something… human.

Later that night, she lay awake in bed, unable to sleep. Her father's words haunted her. Danger. Enemies.

Was this marriage truly protection—or just another prison?

She got up and wandered the halls of the mansion. It was past midnight. The silence was eerie.

As she turned a corner, she saw a door slightly ajar. Leon's studies.

Curiosity tugged at her. She stepped closer.

Inside, she found Leon sitting at his desk, staring at a photograph. He didn't notice her at first.

She leaned against the doorframe. "Couldn't sleep either?"

He looked up, startled for a moment. Then coldness returned. "You shouldn't be in here."

"Too late."

Silence stretched.

"What are you looking at?" she asked.

Leon hesitated. Then he slid the photograph into a drawer. "Ghosts."

She stepped in, emboldened by his vulnerability. "My father said I was in danger. Do you know anything about that?"

He didn't answer.

"Elena," he said instead, "you need to understand something." In this world, power is protection. I agreed to this marriage not for love or pity—but because keeping you alive benefits me."

Elena felt like she'd been slapped. She nodded slowly.

"Then I guess I'll be useful to you, Mr. Blackwood."

She turned and walked out, but the image of him staring at that photograph lingered.

There was more to Leon than he let on. And if she was going to survive this marriage, she had to uncover his secrets—before they destroyed her.

The restaurant grew quieter as the hours wore on, the once vibrant clinking of silverware and polite laughter now replaced by a soothing silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of a napkin or clink of a glass. Eliana sat stiffly across from Sebastian, who appeared unfazed by her discomfort, sipping his wine like it was just another regular evening.

Eliana's eyes flicked toward the watch on her wrist—every second felt stretched, as though time itself was mocking her. She wanted to escape, to breathe, to scream. But she was trapped, locked in the whirlwind of a contract she didn't agree to, a marriage she hadn't chosen.

"Why me?" she finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Sebastian glanced at her over the rim of his glass, placing it gently back on the table before responding. "Because you're the perfect candidate."

She narrowed her eyes. "That's not an answer."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his gaze piercing. "You need money. I need a wife. It's transactional, nothing more."

Eliana felt her stomach twist. "So you're using me?"

"I prefer the term 'business arrangement,'" he smirked. You're free to walk away. But considering your father's condition and the medical bills piling up, I think we both know you won't."

The weight of his words settled heavily between them. Her fists clenched beneath the tablecloth. Of course, he knew. He had done his research, probably had people tail her, dig into her life. Nothing about this meeting had been spontaneous.

"I'm not some object you can buy, Sebastian," she said, her voice trembling.

"No," he agreed, his tone suddenly softer. "You're not." But we're both adults. We both have something the other needs. I'm offering a solution. A clean, simple deal."

Simple? There was nothing simple about this. Marrying the man who had tormented her throughout high school—her ex's older brother, no less—was beyond insane.

Still, desperation clung to her like a second skin. The hospital bills weren't going to pay for themselves. Her father's life was hanging in the balance, and she had exhausted every legal option. 

Sebastian's offer was her last lifeline.

"What's the catch?" she asked, glaring at him.

He folded his arms. "One year. Pretend to be my loving wife. Attend events, smile for cameras, play the part. No scandals. No stepping out of line."

"And after a year?"

"We divorced. You get a lump sum payout, enough to cover your father's treatment and set you up comfortably."

She stared at him, every fiber of her being screaming that this was wrong. And yet…what choice did she have?

"What do I get in writing?" she asked, suddenly very businesslike. I want it in a contract. Every detail."

Sebastian smiled faintly. "Of course. My lawyer will draw it up by tomorrow."

Eliana looked away, her chest tight. A year. Just one year. She could do this. She had to do this.

---

The next morning came too fast.

Eliana sat at the kitchen table of her tiny apartment, staring at the neatly typed contract in front of her. Her hands trembled as she picked up the pen. Everything was outlined: duration, behavior, public appearances, payment, even a non-disclosure agreement.

Her gaze shifted to her father's room, where he lay asleep. His frail form barely moved beneath the blankets. 

This was for him.

She signed.

The wedding was scheduled for two weeks later. Fast, discreet, but elegant enough for the press. Sebastian had arranged everything, including the venue, dress, and even a brief honeymoon trip to Paris—for appearances.

Eliana stood in front of the mirror in a private bridal suite, dressed in a stunning white gown, her curls pinned into a sleek bun. Her eyes held no sparkle, no joy. Only silent determination.

There was a knock.

Sebastian entered without waiting for permission. He looked dashing in a black tuxedo, every inch the powerful CEO. For a moment, he paused, clearly caught off guard by how breathtaking she looked.

"You clean up well," he murmured.

She arched her brow. "Don't pretend to care."

"I don't," he replied smoothly, though his eyes said otherwise. But the cameras are waiting. Let's give them a good show."

---

The wedding ceremony was short but extravagant. Paparazzi clicked away, capturing the image of a perfect couple in love. Eliana smiled on cue, held Sebastian's hand, even kissed him under the arch of flowers like a bride in a fairytale.

But behind every smile was pain. And behind every kiss, a thousand lies.

As they drove away from the venue, Eliana let out a long breath.

"It's done," she whispered.

"Welcome to our happily ever after," Sebastian said, eyes locked on the road.

She didn't respond. Because she knew—this was only the beginning.

---

Later that night, in their luxury penthouse, Eliana walked into the guest room, dragging her suitcase.

Sebastian leaned against the doorway. "You're sleeping in there?"

"Obviously."

He didn't argue. Instead, he nodded. "Fine. Just remember, to the world, we're madly in love."

She gave him a cold look. "Don't worry. I've been faking smiles for years. One more won't kill me."

He said nothing as she closed the door in his face.

Behind that door, Eliana exhaled shakily and slid down to the floor, burying her face in her hands. Her wedding night was nothing like she imagined as a little girl.

But dreams were for the naive.

And she had no room for dreams anymore.

Sophia's eyes remained glued to the marriage contract, her fingers trembling as they held the pen. Her heart raced in her chest like it wanted to escape. This was real. This was happening. No matter how surreal it felt, no matter how cold Alexander's stare remained—this wasn't a dream she could wake up from.

A moment passed.

Then another.

"You're wasting my time, Sophia," Alexander said, his voice sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade.

Her head jerked up. Their eyes locked. She could feel her pride crawling inside her, clawing for an escape. But it had no power here. Not with him. Not anymore.

She signed it.

The ink barely had time to dry before Alexander took the paper, flipping it over, scanning her signature. His lips curled—not into a smile, but something colder. Satisfaction, maybe. Control.

"It's done," he said, standing. "You'll move into the penthouse tomorrow."

Sophia blinked. "Tomorrow? But I—"

"No room for delays. We're married now, remember?"

Her stomach twisted.

"Don't pack too much," he added, walking toward the door. "You won't need most of your old life."

Sophia stood frozen as the door closed behind him. Not just a man who had walked out—but her past, her freedom, her choices.

---

Later that night, Sophia lay in her small, worn bed, staring at the ceiling. The silence was deafening. Her mother's breathing was faint in the next room, and in that soft rhythm, Sophia found the only comfort she had left.

She thought of Alexander—of his perfectly pressed suit, the way his voice carried like a man used to authority. The coldness in his eyes when he looked at her. Not once had he asked her what she wanted. Not once had he even pretended to care.

But she knew something he didn't.

He wasn't the only one who could pretend.

"I'll play your game, Alexander," she whispered in the dark, "but don't expect to win."

---

The next morning came with the bitter sting of reality. A black car waited outside her run-down building. A driver stood by, straight-backed and silent. The neighbors watched from behind curtains and slightly opened windows, whispering like she was some celebrity or scandal waiting to happen.

Her mother held her hand tightly. "You don't have to do this, baby," she whispered, eyes wet.

Sophia shook her head. "I do."

She hugged her mother one last time, inhaling the scent of warmth, of love, of safety. Then she turned, climbed into the car, and didn't look back.

Alexander's penthouse was everything she had expected and worse.

Glass walls. Marble floors. Views that overlooked the entire city like he owned it. Because he did. At least, that's how he lived.

Sophia stepped inside the living room, clutching her small suitcase, suddenly very aware of how out of place she looked in her thrifted jeans and faded blouse.

Alexander sat on the edge of the sofa, flipping through his phone. When he saw her, he didn't smile. Just stood and nodded toward the hallway.

"Your room is down there. Third door on the left."

Her room. Not their room.

Of course.

As she walked down the hall, her fingers brushed the smooth walls. Cold. Everything here was cold. No warmth. No heart.

Her room, though smaller, was elegant. A queen-sized bed with crisp white sheets. A walk-in closet. A private bathroom. She placed her suitcase on the bed and sighed.

A knock at the door.

"Dinner," came Alexander's voice, flat.

They ate in silence, at a dining table large enough for twelve. The clink of cutlery against china echoed in the spacious room. Sophia glanced up.

"You don't talk much," she said.

He looked at her, expression unreadable. "I don't see the point."

She frowned. "Even to your wife?"

His fork paused. "You're not my wife." You're a contract."

The words stung.

"I see," she said softly, pushing her food away.

---

The days that followed were cold and formal. They lived under the same roof but barely spoke. Sometimes, they attend events together—arm in public, strangers at home.

The tabloids loved it. Photos of them together began to flood the media. "CEO Alexander Li's Mysterious Wife" was the headline of the week.

And Sophia played her role well. Always smiling. Always poised. A doll in his showcase.

But behind her smile, she watched him.

The way he stiffened when she laughed.

The way his jaw clenched when reporters asked personal questions.

The way he avoided eye contact when she looked at him too long.

There was something broken inside him. She could feel it. And maybe, just maybe, that was where her power would begin.

---

One evening, she found herself alone in the library—a massive room filled wall to wall with books. Her fingers skimmed the titles, pausing on one. A worn copy of *The Count of Monte Cristo*.

"You read Dumas?"

She turned.

Alexander leaned against the doorframe, watching her.

"Didn't peg you for a classics guy," she said.

He shrugged. "I appreciate stories about revenge."

Sophia raised an eyebrow. "Is that why you married me?"

He didn't respond.

She placed the book down and stepped toward him.

"Do you hate me that much, Alexander?"

He looked at her, and for a split second, something flickered in his gaze—pain?

Then it was gone.

"This isn't about hate," he said. "It's about business."

She stared at him. "Then what happens when the contract ends?"

His jaw tightened. "It won't."

And with that, he turned and walked away.

But his words echoed in her mind long after he left.

It won't.

What did that mean?

Sophia knew one thing for sure: she had walked into this marriage with nothing left to lose. But Alexander—he had secrets, demons, and a heart locked behind steel walls.

If she was going to survive this marriage, she had to understand him.

And maybe, just maybe… break him.

But she hadn't counted on one thing.

Her own heart betrayed her.