Beneath His Vows

Chapter Three — Ivy

I didn’t cry until I got into the car.

Even then, the tears weren’t loud. They just slipped out — hot and silent — as I stared out the tinted window, watching the city blur past like a life I used to have.

I had just agreed to marry a stranger.

A cruel, cold man who looked at me like a weapon he didn’t want to use.

But it wasn’t the shock that broke me. It wasn’t the signature or the silence or the weight of that pen in my hand.

It was the look in his eyes.

He didn’t want me. He hated me. And he didn’t even try to hide it.

I pressed my fingers against my lips, trying to stop the shaking.

I thought I could survive this. I thought I could be strong for my father. That maybe this marriage — this contract — would just be a transaction I could sleepwalk through.

But now?

I wasn’t so sure.

The driver didn’t speak as he pulled up to a townhouse in Mayfair. Expensive. Private. The kind of place where people like Cassian Wolfe kept things they didn’t want seen.

The front door opened before I could knock.

A middle-aged woman with sleek dark hair and sharp eyes stood there, arms folded.

“Miss Monroe?” she asked crisply.

I nodded.

“I’m Helena. Mr. Wolfe’s housekeeper. You’ll be staying here until the wedding.”

Wedding.

The word hit me like ice.

I followed her inside. Everything was clean, minimal, cold. No photos. No color. Just white walls and grey floors and silence.

She led me to a guest bedroom on the third floor.

“Wardrobe’s been arranged. Meals are delivered on a schedule. Mr. Wolfe’s instructions are to keep you out of sight until the ceremony.”

“Because I’m a scandal waiting to happen,” I said, too tired to filter.

Helena blinked once, then gave the barest flicker of a smile.

“Because you’re about to become very expensive.”

I didn’t sleep that night.

Not because the bed was too soft or the room too quiet though it was both but because I couldn’t stop hearing his voice.

You’re not marrying me for love. You’re marrying me because I told you to.

And the worst part was… he was right.

The next morning, I found a plain cream envelope slipped under my door.

It had the Wolfe crest stamped on the flap — cold, silver, sharp.

Inside was a revised copy of the contract.

Clause 17: Subject may complete remaining academic credits at discretion of Mr. Wolfe. No press involvement. No deviation from agreed obligations.

I stared at the signature line beneath it.

Cassian E. Wolfe.

Even his handwriting looked like it hated me.