The first thing I learned about Alexander Black was that he never wasted time on pleasantries.
The second was that he never smiled.
I sat across from him at a long glass table that reflected the ceiling lights like cold stars. The room was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made you painfully aware of your own breathing. My palms were damp, my back stiff, my heart beating too loudly in my chest.
Alexander didn't look at me.
He looked at the contract.
"Sign," he said, his voice smooth and detached, as if he were asking me to approve a shipment or confirm a wire transfer.
I stared at the papers in front of me. Thick. Heavy. Final.
Marriage.
Not love. Not hope. Not even tolerance.
Marriage as a solution.
I swallowed. "You could at least pretend this matters."
That earned me his attention.
His eyes lifted slowly, deliberately, as though he were deciding whether I was worth the effort. They were dark not just in color, but in depth. The kind of eyes that didn't reveal anything, no matter how long you stared back.
"It matters," he said calmly. "Just not in the way you want it to."
I felt something tighten in my chest.
The man sitting before me was infamous in business circles. Alexander Black. Billionaire investor. Corporate executioner. A man who acquired failing companies, stripped them bare, and sold what remained without remorse.
And now he was about to acquire me.
"I don't want this," I said quietly.
He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms, studying me with a clinical interest that made my skin prickle. "That has already been established."
I clenched my fingers in my lap. "Then why me?"
A pause.
"Because you're necessary."
Not desirable. Not chosen.
Necessary.
I let out a short, bitter laugh. "That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"No," he replied. "It's supposed to make you understand."
I looked away, blinking rapidly. My reflection stared back at me from the glass table a woman dressed carefully, nervously, as though looking composed might somehow save her. I thought of my father's shaking hands. Of the late-night phone calls. Of the debt that had wrapped itself around my family like a tightening rope.
I had run out of options.
"What happens after I sign?" I asked.
Alexander leaned forward, placing both hands on the table. The movement was subtle, but it changed everything. The air felt heavier. Closer.
"You move into my house," he said. "You will attend events when required. You will present yourself as my wife in public. In private, you will not interfere in my affairs."
"And if I break one of your rules?"
His gaze sharpened. "You won't."
I hesitated. "This isn't a real marriage."
"No," he agreed. "It's more honest than that."
I should have stood up. I should have walked away. But desperation has a way of shrinking your pride until survival is all that's left.
I picked up the pen.
Alexander watched, his expression unreadable, as I scanned the final page. The terms were clear. Brutally so. There was no room for misunderstanding, no space for emotional interpretation.
I signed.
The sound of pen against paper echoed louder than it should have.
When I finished, I slid the contract back toward him. My hand trembled despite my effort to keep it steady.
He didn't reach for it immediately.
Instead, he looked at me really looked at me as if seeing me for the first time now that I belonged to him.
"From this moment forward," he said, "your life changes."
"I'm aware."
"You shouldn't be," he replied coolly. "Awareness implies control. You have none."
Something hot and defiant stirred in my chest. "You don't own me."
A faint pause.
Then, almost imperceptibly, his lips curved not into a smile, but into something far more dangerous.
"Read the contract again," he said softly. "You sold your choices, not your body. If I wanted ownership of anything else, the terms would be different."
My face flushed, anger and embarrassment tangling together.
He finally stood, straightening his jacket with effortless precision. He looked impossibly tall now, his presence filling the room, his authority unquestionable.
"Congratulations," Alexander said. "We're married."
The word landed like a sentence.
I rose slowly, my legs unsteady. "When do I move in?"
"Tonight."
My breath caught. "Tonight?"
"You agreed to the terms." His gaze flicked briefly to my phone. "Your driver will take you home to pack. My staff has already prepared a room."
A room.
Not ours.
I nodded, because nodding was easier than admitting fear.
As I turned to leave, his voice stopped me.
"One more thing."
I faced him again.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough to make the moment feel intimate despite everything.
"You're here because I need you," he said. "Don't mistake that for weakness."
Our eyes locked.
"People who mistake my intentions," he added quietly, "usually regret it."
I walked out without replying, my heart pounding, my future unraveling with every step.
I had married my enemy.
And I had no idea which of us would survive it.