CONTRACT MARRIAGE

CHAPTER SEVEN — THE HIGHEST BIDDER

The Metropolitan Museum was draped in shadows and silk for the annual Blackwood Charity Gala. This wasn't just a party; it was a battlefield. Every billionaire in the tri-state area was here, and every eye was a camera lens, waiting for us to slip up.

The weight of the ten-carat diamond on my finger felt like a lead anchor.

"Chin up," Julian murmured, his hand firm on the small of my back. He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear in a way that looked intimate to the crowd but felt like a command to me. "You’re Elena Vance, the woman who tamed the beast. Act like you own the room, not like you're looking for the exit."

"It's hard to own the room when I feel like I'm being appraised like one of the artifacts," I whispered back, forced to smile as a photographer's flash blinded me.

"That's because you are," Julian said, his voice dropping to a gravelly low. "In this world, everything has a price tag. Even us."

The auction began in the Great Hall. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and ego. Julian sat beside me, his long legs crossed, looking every bit the prince of New York. But I could see the way his pulse jumped in his neck when the auctioneer announced the final lot: a rare, vintage emerald necklace once owned by a Russian czarina.

"The Blackwood Emerald," someone whispered behind us. "Julian's grandmother’s piece. The family lost it in the divorce thirty years ago."

I looked at Julian. His face was a mask of stone, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the armrest.

"Five million," a voice rang out from the front row.

Genevieve.

She turned in her seat, tossing a wink toward Julian. She wasn't just bidding on jewelry; she was bidding on his history. She was twisting the knife.

"Six million," Julian said, his voice calm and lethal.

"Seven," Genevieve countered immediately.

The room went silent. This wasn't an auction anymore; it was a dogfight. The numbers climbed—eight, nine, ten million. My breath hitched. That was the exact amount of my contract. He was spending my entire future on a string of green stones just to spite an ex.

"Fifteen million," Genevieve said, her voice dripping with triumph. She looked at me, her eyes gleaming. "Poor Elena. I suppose some things are just too expensive for a... budget bride."

Julian didn't blink. He didn't even look at her. He looked at me. For a second, the coldness flickered, replaced by something raw and protective.

"Twenty million," Julian announced.

The gavel fell. The room erupted in hushed whispers. Julian had just spent a fortune to reclaim a piece of his past, but the look he gave Genevieve wasn't one of victory. It was a warning.

As the gala began to wind down, Julian led me toward the balcony for some air. The night was crisp, the city lights reflecting in his dark eyes.

"Why did you do it?" I asked, the wind whipping my hair across my face. "Twenty million dollars for a necklace? You could have bought ten more of me for that."

Julian stepped closer, trapping me between his body and the stone railing. The scent of his cologne—rain and expensive tobacco—swirled around me.

"I didn't buy it for the history, Elena," he said, his voice a low vibration in the dark. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the velvet box. He didn't put it on my neck. He pressed it into my hand. "I bought it because she tried to take something that belongs to a Blackwood. And right now, that includes you."

His hand moved from the railing to my jaw, his thumb tracing the line of my lower lip. The "invisible line" from the bedroom was gone. The contract felt like a distant memory.

"Don't get confused," he whispered, his eyes dropping to my mouth. "This is still business."

"Then why are you looking at me like that?" I breathed, my heart racing so fast I thought it might burst.

Julian didn't answer with words. He leaned in, his lips hovering a breath away from mine. "Because sometimes," he murmured, "the best way to sell a lie is to start believing it yourself."

Before I could pull away, his mouth crashed onto mine. It wasn't the polite, staged kiss of a fiancé. It was hungry, desperate, and terrifyingly real.

And the worst part? I didn't want him to stop