Bound To My Enemy

Chapter 2 - The Contract

The elevator ride to my apartment building felt longer than it ever had, each floor number blinking by like a countdown. My pulse was still erratic from that conversation with Damian Cross.

Be my fiancée.

The words wouldn’t leave my head, no matter how hard I tried to shake them off.

When the doors opened, I stepped into the dim hallway, the flickering bulb above making the faded wallpaper look even more tired. My heels clicked against the scuffed linoleum, each sound ricocheting in the narrow space. The smell of old paint and the faint tang of cigarette smoke from the neighbor down the hall reminded me exactly where I belonged — a place so far from Damian’s world it might as well have been another planet.

---

I unlocked my door, pushed it open, and stepped inside the small apartment. The familiar creak of the hinge greeted me. I didn’t bother turning on the lights right away. The glow from the streetlamp outside streamed through the blinds, painting pale stripes across the floor.

My place was modest — too modest, by most people’s standards. A small couch with a frayed armrest, a coffee table bearing the weight of three weeks’ worth of unopened bills, and a kitchen barely big enough to turn around in. But it was mine. Or at least, the rent was mine to pay — whenever I could.

I tossed my bag onto the table, careful not to knock over the hospital file that had been my constant companion for the past month.

---

I tried to steady my breathing, to focus on something other than the dark promise in Damian’s eyes. But even now, I could still feel the weight of his presence, like his shadow had followed me home.

My mind flashed to my mother lying in her hospital bed. Her skin was pale, her body frail, yet she still smiled every time she saw me. The doctors had said surgery couldn’t be postponed much longer. I had days — maybe a week at most — before her situation became critical.

And Damian knew it. That was why his offer felt like a lifeline… and a noose.

---

The sudden knock on my door made me jump. My stomach clenched, my mind already knowing who it would be.

I opened it, and there he was — Damian Cross, in the hallway of my rundown apartment building, looking completely out of place in his tailored charcoal coat and polished shoes. The golden hallway light glinted off his dark hair, still damp from the rain, and his steel-gray eyes swept over me in one slow, assessing glance.

“You followed me?” I said, my voice tight.

“I gave you time to think,” he replied, unbothered. “And now I’m here for your answer.”

“I didn’t say I had one.”

He arched a brow. “You don’t need more time, Arielle. You already know what you’re going to do.”

---

Before I could argue, he stepped past me into my apartment as though he owned the place. His scent — clean, sharp, expensive — cut through the faint mustiness of my space. He looked around without comment, but I noticed the way his gaze lingered on the peeling paint near the window and the threadbare rug underfoot.

“Cozy,” he said, though his tone made the word sound like an insult.

I crossed my arms. “Say what you came to say, Damian, and get out.”

---

He walked over to my coffee table, moved aside a stack of unpaid bills with the precision of someone rearranging a chessboard, and placed a slim leather folder on the surface. The soft thud it made against the wood might as well have been a gunshot.

“This,” he said, tapping the folder, “is our contract.”

I stared at it but didn’t move.

“I don’t sign things without reading them,” I said.

“Then read,” he replied smoothly, lowering himself into my worn-out armchair like it was a throne.

---

I sat down opposite him, the folder cool and heavy in my hands. I opened it, my eyes scanning the neat black letters on the thick white paper. The first line made my heart stutter:

Engagement Agreement between Damian Cross and Arielle Hale

It looked too official, too real. The kind of document that changed lives — and not always for the better.

“You had this drafted already?” I asked, my voice catching.

“I don’t make empty offers,” he said. “You’ll move into my penthouse within seven days. You’ll accompany me to all public events. You’ll smile for the cameras, play the part of the perfect fiancée, and you’ll do it without hesitation.”

“And in private?”

His gaze sharpened. “In private, you’ll respect my rules. No press leaks. No scandal. And you don’t… wander.”

---

My cheeks heated. “I’m not the one who—”

He cut me off with a small, humorless smile. “This isn’t about trust, Arielle. It’s about control. I’m buying yours for one year.”

I swallowed hard. “And what do I get?”

“Your mother gets the surgery she needs — immediately. Paid in full. The best care money can buy. And when the year is over, you’ll receive a sum that will set you up for life, provided you keep your end of the bargain.”

He named a figure, and I felt my breath catch in my throat.

---

“That’s… more than I’ve ever—”

“Exactly,” he said, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “You’ll never have to worry about rent again. Never have to choose between paying for heat or buying food.”

It sounded tempting. It was tempting. But it came with him — with strings I couldn’t yet see the ends of.

“Why me?” I asked finally.

“Because you hate me,” he said simply. “It makes this cleaner. I don’t need love complicating things. You’re also convincing — I’ve seen you smile when you’re falling apart inside. That’s a useful skill in my world.”

---

I set the folder down and stood, pacing toward the window. The rain had started again, streaking the glass with silver lines. My reflection looked pale, uncertain.

“This is insane,” I whispered.

“No,” Damian said, his voice deep and steady, “this is business. And you understand business when it matters.”

I turned back to him. “You’re asking me to lie to everyone I know. To pretend to be in love with you.”

“I’m asking you to save your mother’s life,” he countered. “The pretending is just… the method.”

---

The silence between us was heavy. I thought about my mother’s smile, the way her hand felt in mine. I thought about the bills piling up on the table, the calls from the hospital I’d been too afraid to answer.

Finally, I walked back to the table and picked up the pen lying beside the folder. My hand hovered over the line where my name should go.

“Once I sign this, there’s no turning back,” I said.

“Correct,” Damian said, his gaze never leaving mine.

I signed. The pen scratched against the paper, each stroke sealing my fate.

---

Damian closed the folder and stood, his expression unreadable. “You move in Monday morning. My driver will be here at eight sharp.”

He headed for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “You made the right choice, Arielle. You just don’t know it yet.”

When the door clicked shut behind him, I sank onto the couch, my body trembling. The apartment felt quieter than it ever had before.

I had just agreed to be Damian Cross’s fiancée. For one year, I would belong to him — in name, in public, and in whatever way he decided behind closed doors.

I told myself I did it for my mother.

But deep down, I knew the truth — I had just stepped into a game I didn’t understand, and Damian was the one holding all the pieces.

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