The contract bled through the paper the moment Elara pressed her thumb down.
The red ink was not supposed to smear, but it did. Maybe her hand shook. Maybe the paper was cheap. Either way, the stain spread like a quiet accusation, and no one in the room bothered to look at her face.
"Sign," the lawyer said again, impatient now. "Midnight is approaching."
Elara lifted her eyes. The office lights were too bright, too white, as if meant to erase shadows. There were four people in the room, all seated, all comfortable. She was the only one standing.
Her aunt sat stiffly beside the lawyer, fingers clenched in her lap. She did not meet Elara's gaze. She had not met it all evening.
Across the table, the man from the Blackwood family leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, expression bored. He was not the groom. Just a representative. Even tonight, Adrian Blackwood had not come.
That alone should have warned her.
Elara swallowed. "If I sign this," she asked quietly, "the debt is cleared?"
The lawyer nodded. "Your aunt's liability is erased. Immediately."
"And if I don't?"
The man from the Blackwoods smiled thinly. "Then the house is seized by morning. And your aunt's medical bills will be… reconsidered."
The room felt smaller.
Elara looked at her aunt then. Really looked. The woman who raised her after her parents died. The woman who taught her how to cook, how to be quiet, how to endure. Now she sat there like a stranger, eyes fixed on the polished table.
"I'm sorry," her aunt whispered at last. "This is the only way."
Elara nodded. She had known the answer before she asked.
She signed.
The pen felt heavier than it should have. When she finished, the lawyer collected the papers with visible relief.
"Congratulations," he said. "You're Mrs. Blackwood now."
The words landed without warmth. Without meaning.
No rings were exchanged. No vows spoken. There was no kiss. Just a signature, a stamp, and the quiet sound of a door closing behind her old life.
The Blackwood mansion loomed against the night sky like a judgment passed long ago.
Elara stood at the gates, her small suitcase at her feet, her wedding dress hidden beneath a plain coat. She had chosen it that way. White felt dishonest. Celebration felt cruel.
The gates opened without a sound.
Inside, everything was too large. The driveway. The doors. Even the silence. A housekeeper waited at the entrance, her posture perfect, her face unreadable.
"This way," the woman said, already turning.
Elara followed, heels clicking softly against marble floors. Portraits lined the walls. Generations of Blackwoods stared down at her, stern and distant, as if they already knew she did not belong.
"Mr. Blackwood will not be joining you tonight," the housekeeper said, almost casually.
Elara's steps faltered. "He won't?"
"No."
That was it. No explanation. No apology.
They reached the master bedroom. The door opened to reveal a space that felt more like a hotel suite than a home. Cold. Immaculate. Untouched.
"This is your room," the housekeeper said. "Dinner has been cleared. If you need anything, inform the staff."
Elara hesitated. "May I ask… when will my husband return?"
The woman paused, then met her eyes for the first time. There was something like pity there.
"I wouldn't wait up," she said.
The door closed.
Elara stood alone in the center of the room, the weight of the day crashing down all at once. Her legs trembled. She sank onto the edge of the bed, fingers gripping the fabric of her coat.
This was it, then.
A marriage without a groom. A wife without a place.
She removed the coat slowly, folding it with care. Old habits. She had learned early that small order was the only control she ever had.
Her phone buzzed.
One message. Unknown number.
Do not forget your position.
No signature. No explanation.
Her chest tightened.
She typed back before she could stop herself.
I won't cause trouble. I'll do whatever is required.
The reply came almost instantly.
Good.
That single word burned more than any insult.
Elara placed the phone down and stared at the bed. It was too large. Too pristine. Like it was waiting for something that would never arrive.
She undressed slowly, hands shaking now. The mirror reflected a woman she barely recognized. Pale. Thin. Eyes too large for her face.
"This is temporary," she whispered to herself. "Just endure."
She lay down fully dressed beneath the covers, as far from the center as possible.
The clock ticked past midnight.
Her wedding night passed in silence.
Sleep came in fragments.
She woke to the sound of movement sometime before dawn. Not footsteps. Voices. Distant. Male. Controlled.
Her heart raced.
He was here.
Elara sat up, breath shallow, listening. The voices moved through the hallway, stopped briefly outside the room, then continued on.
The door never opened.
She exhaled, unsure whether relief or disappointment filled her chest.
Minutes later, her phone buzzed again.
Tomorrow, you will attend the family luncheon. Say little. Observe everything.
Her fingers tightened around the device.
Yes.
Another pause.
Then one more message appeared.
Remember why you're here.
Elara closed her eyes.
She remembered.
She remembered the hospital bills. The threats. The look in her aunt's eyes. She remembered choosing this because there had been no other choice left.
But as she lay there, in a bed meant for two, something else settled into her bones.
This was not a marriage.
It was a sentence.
And somewhere in this house was the man who owned it.
She had not seen Adrian Blackwood yet.
But she felt him already.
Cold. Distant. Absolute.
And somehow, she knew this was only the beginning of the punishment.