CONTRACT MARRIAGE

CHAPTER THREE—THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST

The dinner was a masterclass in psychological warfare. Courses arrived and vanished—truffle-infused risotto, wagyu beef that melted like butter—but I could hardly taste a thing. Every clink of silver against china felt like a countdown.

To my left, Julian played the part of the devoted fiancé with terrifying precision. He draped his arm over the back of my chair, his fingers occasionally brushing my shoulder in a way that seemed casual to the table, but felt like a brand on my skin.

"You’re doing well," he murmured under the cover of the table’s cross-talk. "Keep eating. You look like you’re about to faint."

"I’m not fainting," I snapped quietly. "I’m calculating how many more hours I have to endure this suit of armor you call a dress."

He let out a low, dark chuckle. "Only four more. Then you can—"

The heavy oak doors of the private dining room swung open, cutting him off. The chatter died instantly.

A woman stood in the threshold. She was a vision in blood-red silk, her blonde hair falling in perfect Hollywood waves. She didn't look like she belonged at a family anniversary; she looked like she belonged on a runway. Or a crime scene.

"Am I late?" she asked, her voice a sultry purr that carried across the silent room. "I told the pilot to hurry, but the weather in Paris was simply dreadful."

I felt Julian’s body go rigid beside me. The warmth of his hand on my shoulder turned to ice.

"Genevieve," Arthur Blackwood said, his voice unreadable. "I didn't realize you were back in the States."

"I couldn't miss your diamond anniversary, Arthur," she said, gliding toward the table with the grace of a swan. Her eyes, sharp and predatory, landed on me. "And I certainly couldn't miss the chance to meet the woman who finally caught the 'Uncatchable Julian Blackwood.'"

She stopped at the head of the table, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to Julian’s cheek. He didn't pull away, but his jaw was set so tight I thought it might shatter.

"Genevieve, this is Elena Vance," Julian said, his voice flat. "My fiancée. Elena, this is Genevieve Dupont. An... old family friend."

Old family friend. The lie tasted like copper in my mouth. The way she looked at him—and the way the rest of the table looked at her—told a much different story. This was the woman who had broken him, or perhaps the only woman he had ever truly wanted.

"Fiancée," Genevieve tasted the word, her gaze dropping to my ring. She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "It’s a lovely stone, darling. A bit traditional for Julian, isn't it? He always preferred things with a bit more... fire."

She pulled out a chair directly across from us, making herself at home without an invitation.

"So, Elena," she leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "Tell us. How exactly did a girl like you manage to get a contract—I mean, a commitment—out of a man who swore he’d never marry?"

The slip of the tongue was intentional. My blood ran cold. Does she know?

Julian’s grip on my waist tightened, his thumb pressing firmly into my side. A warning. Or a plea.

I took a slow sip of my wine, channeled the coldness I had seen in Julian's eyes, and looked her dead in the face.

"It was quite simple, Genevieve," I said, my voice steady. "I didn't try to change him. I just gave him a reason to stay. Something I hear some people find... difficult."

A few of the aunts at the end of the table gasped. Arthur Blackwood’s eyes flared with sudden interest.

Genevieve’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, her perfectly manicured nails digging into the white tablecloth. "How charming. I suppose we’ll see how long that 'reason' lasts once the honeymoon phase wears off."

The rest of the dinner was a blur of barbed comments and suffocating tension. When the coffee was finally served, Julian stood abruptly, pulling me with him.

"If you'll excuse us, Grandfather," he said, his voice tight. "Elena has a headache. It’s been a long day."

We didn't wait for an answer. He practically marched me out of the ballroom and into the quiet of the hallway. The moment the doors closed, he let go of me as if I were made of hot coals.

He paced the small space, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"She’s going to be a problem," he muttered, more to himself than to me.

"Who is she, Julian?" I demanded, crossing my arms over my chest. "And don't give me that 'family friend' line. She looks like she knows exactly what we’re doing."

Julian stopped pacing. He turned to me, his shadow looming large against the gold-leafed walls.

"She’s the daughter of my grandfather’s biggest rival," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "And she’s the only person who can prove this marriage is a sham. If she finds out about the contract, Elena... ten million dollars will be the least of your worries."