Chapter Two: Paper Rings, Cold Hearts

The ceremony was over in fifteen minutes.

No white gown, no heartfelt vows, no kiss to seal it. Just a dull echo of signatures on crisp paper and the metallic snap of a pen cap. Lia Morgan walked down the marble steps of the city courthouse, not as a woman in love, but as a wife bound by ink and desperation.

Beside her, Damien Cross looked every bit the billionaire he was; tailored navy suit, sharp jawline, and eyes that could freeze hell over. He didn't glance at her, not once. His phone buzzed in his hand, and he answered with a curt, "Yes, move it to Tuesday. I'm not free today."

Lia exhaled slowly, reminding herself why she was doing this. For her mother. For the roof over their heads. For the debts suffocating their lives.

"You'll be moving in today," Damien said without looking at her, already walking toward the sleek black car parked at the curb.

"Right," she murmured, hurrying after him. "Because that's what good wives do."

He didn't respond.

The ride to his penthouse was silent, save for the muted jazz playing from the dashboard. Lia sat rigidly, hands clenched in her lap, fighting off the awkward tension crawling between them.

"Any rules I should know about?" she asked finally.

Damien's eyes flicked toward her briefly. "Don't interfere with my business. Don't bring guests without telling me. And don't expect affection, this is a contract, not a romance novel."

She scoffed. "Good thing I left my rose-tinted glasses at home, then."

A flicker of amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. But it was gone before it fully formed.

The penthouse was a cathedral of glass and chrome, perched above the city like a king's throne. Everything gleamed cold, perfect, untouched. It felt like walking into a showroom, not a home.

"I'll show you to your room," Damien said, leading her down a hall.

"Separate rooms?" she raised an eyebrow.

"It's not like we're trying to convince anyone we're in love," he replied flatly. "You're here to look the part in public. That's all."

He opened a door to a guest suite, modern, pristine, impersonal.

"Thanks," she muttered.

"Dinner is at seven. Gloria prepares the meals. Don't be late."

And with that, he walked off.

Dinner was silent. Gloria, the elderly housekeeper with a sharp gaze, served grilled salmon and asparagus as if preparing for royalty. Damien scrolled through emails on his tablet, barely acknowledging Lia's presence.

"You know," she said, breaking the quiet, "if this is how every dinner is going to be, I might start talking to the furniture."

Damien looked up. "You don't have to attend if you'd prefer not to."

"I didn't marry you for your charm, Damien. But I'd rather not feel like a ghost."

A beat passed. Then he said, "Fine. Talk. What do you want to discuss?"

Lia hesitated, caught off guard. "Why me?"

He set down the tablet, eyes locking onto hers. "Because you were desperate. And desperation makes people predictable."

Her stomach sank. "That's cold, even for you."

"You knew what this was, Lia. Don't pretend you expected anything else."

She stared at him for a moment, then pushed her plate away. "Appetite's gone. Goodnight.

Later that night, Lia stood on the balcony of her suite, gazing out at the city lights. Somewhere out there, her mother was resting easier tonight, medical bills paid, the house safe. That's what mattered.

Still, her chest ached.

She wasn't sure if it was the loneliness or the fact that her new husband made her feel invisible.

In his own room, Damien poured a glass of whiskey, the burn grounding him.

His phone lit up. A message from Ethan Hale.

Ethan: You sure about this, man? Marriage, even fake ones have a way of getting messy.

Damien stared at the screen before typing back.

Damien: It's just business. I'm in control.

He turned the phone over, but the doubt had already crept in.

The next morning, Lia woke to the smell of coffee and the distant sound of heels clicking against marble. Gloria.

She stepped into the kitchen, where Gloria was neatly arranging breakfast. Damien was nowhere in sight.

"He left for a meeting," Gloria said without prompting. "He's usually out early."

"Thanks," Lia murmured, pouring herself coffee.

Gloria hesitated. "He's…not used to people here. Don't take it personally."

Lia offered a weak smile. "I'm not here to be loved. Just needed."

Gloria gave her a look that said she knew more than she let on. Then she went back to her task.

Later that day, Damien returned briefly to change for another meeting. Lia was seated in the living room, laptop open, sketching designs; her escape.

He paused when he saw the drawings.

"You're a designer?"

"Yes," she replied, surprised he asked.

He nodded once. "There's a gala next weekend. You'll attend with me. I suggest wearing something…professional."

Her jaw clenched. "I know how to dress for a gala, Damien."

"Good."

He turned to leave, but paused. "Your sketches, don't stop working on them. Even if this… situation feels stifling."

And just like that, he was gone again.

But for the first time, his words left a trace of something unspoken.

Was that… encouragement?

Lia wasn't sure.

But it was something.

And in a contract built on nothing, "something" was a start.