Unspoken Clauses

I woke to the soft hum of city light filtering through sheer curtains, still wrapped in one of Jason's oversized shirts. My throat felt parched, my head thick with thoughts—and with them, the headlines from last night's gala. I blinked twice, the glow of my phone waking me fully.

"Emma Carlisle: Blackwood's Newest Power Couple?""From Mystery Woman to Heiress?""Contract or Confidence? What Jason's Fiancée Really Thinks"

My stomach dropped. A flurry of notifications, tagged photos, speculation—with more venom than praise. Then one from Lena, my old boss, checking in: "Emma, the office misses you ever since you left. When are you coming back?"

And another from Harper, the freelance client I'd planned to design a boutique storefront for: "Hi Emma, pushing project start to June. Let me know when you're back?"

I stared at the message. "Postponed." My real self was slipping—slipping fast. I tossed the phone aside and sat up, chest burning with panic.

The bedroom door clicked open behind me. Jason stepped in, polished as ever, suit jacket slung over one shoulder. No trace of last night's warmth remained in his posture.

"Morning," he said flatly. He pulled a chair close to the bed, placing a printed schedule on the sheets. I blinked at the pages.

Everything was timed down to lunch. Breakfast at The Grove—preferably a table by the window. Then a visit to the Montreux Art Charity, followed by a silent meet-and-greet at the boardroom. Then afternoon coffee at a location pre-approved by his team. The dress code, tone of voice, and even suggested talking points were all laid out.

I pulled the sheets around me. "You said it would stay private."

He shrugged. "Until your face hit four million views and PR decided otherwise."

I stared at him, my stomach twisting. "That was supposed to be the quiet part of the deal."

He pushed the papers closer. "Your public persona is now part of our brand. The contract covers it all."

I stood suddenly, pacing in the oversized shirt. "Let me see it. The contract. The one I signed."

Jason's gaze followed me as I moved across the room, his eyes flicking briefly downward, lingering just long enough.

"That's my shirt," he said, almost absently—like it wasn't meant to be said aloud. But there was something in his tone. Not quite annoyance. Not quite approval either.

I crossed my arms. "Don't worry. I didn't steal it. Just figured if I'm already playing house, I might as well dress the part."

He didn't respond right away. Just watched me with that unreadable expression of his, something tightening in his jaw like he was choosing what not to say.

"You look like you belong in it," he said finally. Then he blinked, as if surprised the words had come out.

I didn't know what to make of that. And I didn't have time to figure it out.

"Contract," I snapped, holding out my hand.

He nodded toward the drawer near the desk. "Top left. Knock yourself out."

I rifled through them, heart pounding. Beneath the obvious clauses—one-year term, no physical relationship—were others, buried in fine print: unlimited image control, pre-approved social media posts, mandatory attendance at charity functions, and legal damages for "behavior detrimental to the Blackwood brand." I felt nauseous.

I dropped the pages at his feet. "This is insane."

He looked at me calmly. "You agreed to it, Emma. You just didn't ask the right questions."

"It's not what we said."

His mouth quirked. "Contracts rarely are."

By midday, I was a shell. I walked into Lily's hospital room, past the beige walls and incessant beeping machines, and saw her small frame lit by afternoon sun. She was reading a magazine with a head tilt and gave me the biggest smile I'd seen in weeks.

"Emma?" She sat up. "You look beautiful."

"I am." I forced a smile. "How are you feeling?"

"Better." She tapped her IV line. "They say, and I quote, 'you're on track to go home next week.'"

That should have made me laugh with joy. But instead, guilt knotted inside me. I settled beside her, smoothing the blanket around her shoulders.

"You saw the gala pictures?"

Her eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store. "Yes! You and Jason looked so… amazing. Everyone's talking about you."

I swallowed. "Do you have to start school next week?"

She shook her head. "No, just rest. I'll keep healing."

I touched her hand. "I love you."

She squeezed back. "You're doing this for me."

"Lily, I…" I couldn't say it. The endless smiling, the pity-laced headlines, the little Katie Holmes gown he picked for me… I didn't know who I was anymore.

"I'm proud of you," Lily whispered. "Your fairy tale."

I closed my eyes, nodding my head. And left before she could see me break.

In the hall, I let the tears fall—hard and fast.

I'd lied to her again. About everything.

Back at the penthouse, I found a sleek black gift box on the bed. My heart thudded when I lifted the lid. Inside was a soft, ivory sheath dress and an itinerary printed on Blackwood Foundation letterhead.

It read: Blackwood Foundation Charity Dinner, Friday 7 p.m. Dress: Cocktail, white or champagne. Name on seating chart: Emma Blackwood

Emma… Blackwood. My head spun like I'd drunk too much last night.

They never asked if I wanted to become a Blackwood. They just printed it. Like the decision was theirs all along.

I closed the lid, breathing damn slow.

I should call Jason. Tell him it's too much. It's too soon. That I'm losing me.

The phone buzzed.

A simple text: "Upstairs. Dinner @ 8. - J"

I stared at the screen. Under the perfect shirt and the perfect dress, I felt hollow. Hold my breath, I thought, because I didn't want to drown.

I slipped into the ivory sheath, its fabric smooth and elegant—but lifeless, like a costume. I stared at my reflection: composed, polished, aching. I'd forgotten how to wear Emma Carlisle.

At 7:50, I descended the marble staircase. The living area was transformed—soft lighting, a long table set for two, a single white rose at my place. Jason stood at the head, wine glass in hand, dressed impeccably in midnight-blue again.

He didn't smile. He just nodded.

"Good evening."

"Evening," I echoed, stepping forward. My voice felt foreign.

He raised his glass. "To… a productive night?"

I clinked gently. "To... scope and boundaries."

His eyes flicked to my lips, then to the rose. I flinched slightly.

"Your hands are cold."

"Just nerves." I sat. The chair scraped. My dress pulled at my skin.

He poured wine. "You read the itinerary?"

"Yes." I opened it. Names, times, causes. At least six stops, including a speech. "This is tomorrow night?"

He shook his head slowly. "The courthouse wedding is postponed to tomorrow at 4 p.m. The itinerary's for the evening gala after."

I frowned, tracing my name in the schedule—Emma Blackwood. No mention of Carlisle.

He set the glass down. "Announcement first, ceremony second. It's necessary."

I closed the itinerary. "This isn't my life."

He softened. "Don't let it feel that way."

I looked up. "How am I supposed to balance both? Lily, the foundation and this… charade?"

"There's a place for each," he said. "Make room."

I leaned back. My skirt hit the table. Too tight. "It's like they rewrote me without asking."

"They did," he said. "You agreed."

I recalled the contract. The fine print. I swallowed. "Did I?"

He stood and walked behind my chair, the fabric brushing mine. "We both made terms."

I closed my eyes. His scent—bourbon and cedar—made me stumble. "I signed because Lily needed help. Not because I dreamed of stepping into your shoes."

He touched my shoulder. "Then don't."

I raised a brow. "Don't what?"

"Don't become the version they want."

I peeled away from the table, standing too quickly. Chair scraped again. "I can't be just… a placeholder."

"You're not." His voice was low. Uncertain. "But this—this is your beginning. We'll see where it goes."

I looked at him. For a moment, I saw beyond the billionaire mask: a man who carried loss, expectation, legacy. I exhaled. "I need truth."

He hesitated. "Then Ask."

I crossed my arms. "Why did you choose me? Not a socialite, not a foundation manager—me?"

He paused, tugging at his cuffs. "Because you didn't ask for my world. You challenged me to prove it."

I frowned. "I challenged your taste in women."

He smiled—the first genuine one tonight. "Exactly."

I shook my head. "That's… half the answer."

He moved back to his seat. "And the rest?"

"You wanted someone who wouldn't fall in love."

I watched his jaw tighten. "That remained… your problem."

I swallowed. "Did it?"

He looked away. Silence.

My heart pounded. I dared another question: "Do you… care?"

He lifted his head. Eyes meeting mine. "On my terms."

"Terms."

He exhaled, eyes softening. "Terms I intend to honor… differently."

Before I could parse that, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, statue-still, then turned it face-down without answer.

"Took over your life in a minute," I whispered.

"It's not permanent," he said, reaching across. "Let's start with dinner."

I stared at his hand. Then mine. We didn't touch.

I exhaled. "Okay."

Dinner unfolded slowly. Courses came and went. We spoke little. Words were measured, clipped. We both stayed inside lines—unspoken clauses hanging between us.

After dessert, I pushed my plate aside. "I'm tired of half-truths."

He picked up a napkin. "Then let me give you one."

I waited.

He folded the napkin. "I don't want this to be pretend."

I flinched. "Really?"

He didn't add "if that's okay." He just said, "Yes."

"Then prove it."

He got to his feet. "Walk with me."

I followed him through the dimly lit condo to the floor-to-ceiling windows. From here, I saw the whole city—twinkling, endless, cold.

He stood beside me. "This view—it's mine."

"Everything feels that way now," I said.

He looked at me. "But right now… it's yours too."

I searched his eyes. Wanted to believe him. Wondered how much of it was real.

He handed me his phone. The screen showed a photo—Lily in her hospital bed, me holding her hand. Behind us, a painted mural Lily loved. Simple, real.

My breath caught.

"You chose this because of her," he said quietly. "Not because of my headlines."

I stared at the image—and at him. My heart hammered.

"I won't let you drown," he whispered, holding the phone between us.

I turned to the city lights and felt everything shift. The contract, the cameras, the plan—it was no longer all control. It was becoming something tenuous—something real.

But how real? And for how long?

He didn't ask if I believed him. He just held my gaze, silent promise hanging between us.

I still didn't know the answer. But I knew I couldn't walk away—if I wanted to find out.