The day I signed my life away felt nothing like I imagined.
No flowers, no vows, no promises of love. Just a contract. A pen. And a man who didn't even glance at me the entire time.
Adrian Blackwood. CEO, billionaire, cold enough to freeze the sun. And tonight, he would become my husband. On paper. In reality… I wasn't sure if I'd survive the next thirty days under the same roof with him.
I still remember the way the room smelled sterile, faintly metallic, like a boardroom after a hostile takeover. The wedding had been simple, almost clinical. No music, no cheer. Just witnesses, signatures, and a document that bound me to a life I didn't choose.
He didn't speak during the ceremony. His black eyes were unreadable behind the tailored frame of his suit. I wanted to hate him already. I wanted to scream at him, to tell him this was insane, that we were strangers forced into a marriage for reasons neither of us could control. But I didn't. I had no leverage. Not here. Not now.
After the signatures were done, he handed me a small folder.
"Rules," he said. His voice was low, commanding, and the tone carried no warmth. Not even a hint. "Read them. Obey them."
I blinked at him, dumbfounded. "Rules? Like… house rules?"
He didn't answer. He simply turned on his heel, leaving me standing in the empty room. I heard the click of his expensive shoes against the marble floor echo like a death sentence.
I opened the folder with trembling fingers. The first line read:
"You are not to enter my office unannounced."
"You will sleep in your own room unless invited otherwise."
"No emotional interference during work hours."
"All decisions regarding personal matters are at my discretion."
I dropped the folder. My heart thumped against my ribs like a warning drum.
This was a contract marriage? Or a cage?
The first night was the hardest. The apartment he had chosen for us was more like a luxury suite than a home. Minimalist, modern, cold. Nothing personal. Nothing warm. And somewhere in that vast emptiness, I felt utterly alone.
He was always there. Watching. Silently judging. I caught glimpses of him in the kitchen, staring out at the city lights, his profile sharp and unyielding. I tried to make small talk, to break the wall between us.
"Coffee?" I asked cautiously, holding the mug like it was a fragile weapon.
"Black. And no sugar," he replied, without looking at me.
I nodded. I wanted to protest, to say I didn't want this arrangement, that this was insane, that marrying a man who didn't even glance at me was… torture. But I didn't.
Instead, I served the coffee. We drank in silence.
Then came the first touch.
I had reached for a dish he was clearing from the table. My fingers brushed his hand. Just a fleeting touch, accidental… but it was enough.
He froze. For a second, just a second, his eyes darkened. And then he said, "Do not touch me without permission."
My stomach sank. A mix of fear, anger, and something else something I didn't want to admit twisted inside me.
This wasn't love. This wasn't even civility. This was survival.
But I noticed it anyway. The way his jaw clenched when I spoke. The way his gaze lingered longer than necessary. The way his body seemed to betray a restraint he didn't bother hiding.
I hated him for it. I hated myself for noticing.
The days blurred into tension. He left early for work, came back late. I had my own space, my own routines but his presence hovered like a storm cloud. Every time he entered the room, I felt my heartbeat spike. Every command, every glance, reminded me I was not free.
And yet… there was something in the way he didn't entirely ignore me. Something in the way he occasionally adjusted his suit, as if preparing for a battle only he knew was coming. I could feel the undercurrent of power, of control, and… of desire.
I tried to push it down. I tried to remind myself: this man was a monster in a tailored suit. He didn't care for anyone but himself. He didn't love. He couldn't.
Then came the first night he actually spoke to me.
"You'll follow the rules," he said, his voice low, almost a growl. "Or you'll regret it."
"And if I refuse?" I asked, my throat dry.
He stepped closer. Too close. I could feel the heat radiating off him, the raw power in his presence. I wanted to step back, to flee but my body didn't obey.
"You won't," he said, almost gently.
And just like that, the line between fear and something darker blurred.
This is not what I signed up for. And yet… I am already addicted to it.