CONTRACT MARRIAGE

CHAPTER 8— THE VIRAL VERDICT

The morning sun over Manhattan was blinding, reflecting off the glass towers like a thousand accusing eyes. I woke up to a sound that was becoming the soundtrack to my new life: the relentless buzzing of my phone.

I reached for it, my eyes still heavy with sleep, and froze.

The screen was a graveyard of notifications. Twitter, i********:, Page Six. All of them carried the same grainy, high-contrast image from the balcony the night before.

Julian’s silhouette was unmistakable, his large hands framing my face as he leaned into me. The headline above it was typed in a screaming bold font: "BLACKWOOD’S ICE MELTS: IS THIS THE REAL DEAL OR THE DEAL OF THE CENTURY?"

"It’s already everywhere," a gravelly voice said from the foot of the bed.

I bolted upright, clutching the silk duvet to my chest. Julian was standing there, already fully dressed in a crisp white shirt and slate-grey trousers. He looked like he hadn't slept a second, but his face was a mask of cold professionalism. He was holding a tablet, his thumb swiping through a feed that looked like a digital war zone.

"The kiss?" I asked, my voice cracking. "Julian, the cameras were supposed to be inside. How did—"

"Genevieve," he said, the name sounding like a curse. "She didn't just crash the auction; she brought a long-lens photographer to wait on the opposite balcony. She wanted to catch us in a lie, but she accidentally gave us exactly what we needed: proof of passion."

"Proof?" I snapped, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. "Julian, that wasn't 'proof.' That was... you said it yourself. A performance."

Julian walked toward me, his shadow falling over the bed. He stopped just inches away, and for a heartbeat, the air in the room felt as charged as it had on that balcony. "The Board of Directors just called. They saw the photo. My grandfather’s stock jumped three points this morning. As far as the world is concerned, we are the 'It' couple of New York."

"And what about us?" I whispered. "What happens when the 'performance' starts feeling too real?"

Julian’s eyes darkened, a flicker of something—regret, or perhaps hunger—passing through them. "We stick to the contract, Elena. Don't let a well-timed photograph confuse you. We have three hundred and fifty days left."

He turned to leave, but the front door chimes echoed through the penthouse. It wasn't the polite ring of a guest; it was the frantic, rhythmic pounding of someone who wasn't taking 'no' for an answer.

Julian strode to the foyer and pulled the door open.

Genevieve didn't wait to be invited. She marched in, a tabloid clutched in her hand like a weapon. Behind her stood two men in dark suits—lawyers.

"Bravo, Julian," she spat, tossing the paper onto the marble island. "A masterful performance. Truly. I almost believed it myself for a second. But I think Arthur might be interested in the little 'discovery' my team made this morning in the Vance family's public records."

She turned her predatory gaze to me, a slow, toxic smile spreading across her lips.

"Tell me, Elena," Genevieve purred. "Does Julian know that your father didn't just have 'medical bills'? Or did you forget to mention that the Vance estate was used as collateral for a high-interest loan from a Blackwood rival three months ago?"

The blood drained from my face. I looked at Julian. His eyes were fixed on me, turning from Atlantic blue to a stormy, icy grey.

"Elena?" he asked, his voice dangerously low. "What is she talking about?"

"She’s talking about the fact that your 'fiancée' might be playing a double game, Jules," Genevieve laughed. "She isn't just marrying you for your money. She’s already in bed with the people trying to take you down."

The penthouse, which had felt like a golden cage just moments ago, suddenly felt like a trap. And the only person who could save me was the man who currently looked like he wanted to destroy me.