No way out.

Ladies blushed, and men took a second look as he walked into the gallery—two men in black suits and dark shades flanking him. In his hand was a bouquet of roses. Whispers rippled through the gallery.

Neoma had already heard the commotion from her office. She hadn't bothered to look up from her laptop until her secretary confirmed what the receptionist said: Sebastian Vaelrath was here.

At the reception, one of his guards made inquiries while he sat with his legs crossed, the flowers resting in his lap, his expression unreadable. He looked like someone playing a role he didn't particularly enjoy.

They were directed to the second floor—to the office on the right. The door read Director's Office. When they walked in, radiating an intense aura, his guards waited outside.

Neoma wasn't surprised. She didn't bother looking up right away. It had been days since the nightmare in her studio, and she could barely remember it—only that every time she tried, it triggered a splitting headache. Still, some images came in sharp flashes. Enough to know it hadn't been a nightmare. It had been a warning.

She had already signed the contract—there was no turning back now. Not when she was this close to saving the gallery.

She finally glanced up. He looked perfectly composed, as if this bizarre flower-delivery visit was routine.

"What brings you here, Mr. Vaelrath?" she asked, breaking the heavy silence.

"Nothing other than business," he said plainly. He paused, then added, "I brought you flowers." He set the bouquet on the table without fanfare.

"Business? I never knew flower delivery was part of your business portfolio." She folded her arms, unimpressed.

He chuckled, amused by her sarcasm. His expression remained unreadable, but Neoma sensed a quiet satisfaction behind his smirk. He didn't seem bothered by her tone—in fact, he looked entertained.

"The flowers include an invitation—to a ball, tonight."

"What's all this charade about? When are we getting married and getting it over with? I have things to do." Her tone sharpened, her patience fraying.

"You seem so eager to marry me," he said, smirking again. She rolled her eyes in response.

"As my wife, you're expected to accompany me to functions, as stated in the contract. Tonight will serve as preparation for more to come." He stood and wandered over to the wall, studying her paintings.

"The contract doesn't effect until we're married. And I don't have a ball gown, so i won't be accompanying you." Her tone was final.

He didn't reply immediately. Instead, he walked to the window and pushed it open.

"I don't think you have a choice," he said, gesturing outside.

Neoma stood and walked over. Her eyes widened as she saw the massive crowd of reporters waiting below.

"Son of a b***h," she muttered. She turned to him, furious. "You did this."

"Relax, little doll," he said with a low laugh at her expression. "It's for the best. The media needs to see us together. You don't want anyone finding out this is a contract marriage... and if they do, it's your loss, not mine."

Her heart thudded. She knew exactly what he meant. If the truth got out, both her father's company and hers would suffer. The damage would be irreversible.

"Now, let's go get you a dress," he said, offering his hand.

She grabbed her bag, stormed past him, and exited the office. She jabbed the elevator button like it had personally offended her. Living with him was going to be hell.

He caught up quickly. They stepped into the elevator together. His guards would follow downstairs.

He extended his arm. She didn't want to take it—but she did. Not out of desire. Out of necessity.

The lobby staff stared in stunned silence. None of them had ever seen her with a man.

Outside, the chaos erupted. Cameras flashed. Reporters shouted questions. His men formed a barrier, shielding them. He ignored the noise. Neoma held onto him tightly, her fake smile strained. Her stomach churned. She hated cameras. Hated the noise. Hated the reminder of that day John died.

Her breath came in shallow pulls. Panic clawed at her chest. She tightened her grip on his arm, head high, smile frozen, until they slid into the safety of his car.

She shut her eyes, willing herself to stay calm.

"Elysian Emporium," he instructed the chauffeur without sparing her a glance.

Neoma picked up the iPad in the car and tapped the name. Her eyes widened at the results. Even the "affordable" dresses had four-digit price tags.

She glanced at him. He looked completely unfazed. Typical.

The mall was grand, like a modern-day palace. Soft music filled the air. The warmth made her loosen her coat, but she didn't take it off.

Staff greeted him like royalty. She blinked. What kind of man commanded that kind of reverence?

Then a man approached.

"Mr. Vaelrath, we weren't informed you'd be coming for inspection today. A client has already booked the entire store," he said.

Inspection? Did he own the place?

"I booked the store. I want to get a dress for my fiancée," he replied smoothly, holding her hand.

Her eyes widened. Did he just say fiancée? Did he book the whole store?

The man processed his words, then straightened quickly. "Oh! Yes… the dressing room. Congratulations, sir… and ma'am."

"Good to see you, ma'am," he added with a bow.

"Thank you, Mr…?" she asked.

"Grable," he answered.

"Oh. Mr. Grable," she said, trying the name out.

They were led to a dressing room. Two female staff rolled in several gowns. She tried them on while he sat, assessing each silently.

By the last one, she had had enough.

"At this point, you'll have to start wearing the dresses yourself!" she snapped.

Mr. Grable returned with a new gown—a dark ball dress with a deep front slit. The fabric shimmered with scattered stones that sparkled like stars.

Sebastian sat forward slightly, his gaze fixed. That one, apparently.

Later, in the spa, her hair and makeup were styled. She was dressed.

Neoma stood in front of the mirror and gasped. She barely recognized herself.

She sensed him behind her and turned. He wore a deep blue blazer that contrasted with her dark dress yet complemented it perfectly. His black loafers matched the suit flawlessly. As always, his hair was styled to fall over his left eye, leaving her to wonder if he was hiding something beneath. The silver wristwatch on his wrist shimmered, catching the light just like the diamonds on her gown.

His eyes lingered—his usual arrogance replaced by something softer. His gaze dipped briefly to her lips, then lower.

Her breath caught.

He stepped forward. So close, she could feel the warmth radiating from him.

Their lips touched—tentative, slow.

And just like that, the world slipped away.