Married to the cold billionaire

Chapter 2: The Wedding of Strangers

I woke the morning of my wedding with a strange mix of dread and disbelief. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my father’s old apartment, catching the dust motes in the air like tiny specks of gold. I lay in the unfamiliar sheets, staring at the ceiling, and tried to convince myself that none of this was real. That somehow, when I blinked, it would all vanish. That I would wake up in my own room, the contract torn to pieces, and Damian Ashford would be nothing more than a bad memory in a magazine.

But the reality pressed down on me like the weight of the city itself. I was to marry a stranger in a ceremony that would be more business deal than celebration. A marriage arranged to save a dying company. And worse, a man who seemed perfectly capable of breaking me without a second thought.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the cold floor biting at my bare feet. My dress for the ceremony lay across the chair: a simple, elegant gown in ivory, its silk flowing and soft, but it felt foreign, wrong, and suffocating all at once. My mother had insisted I wear it, though she understood little of what was really happening. None of them did.

As I brushed my hair and tried to convince myself I could do this, I kept seeing Damian’s storm-grey eyes. I had signed the contract because I had no choice. My father’s trembling hands, his desperate gaze, the look of someone clinging to a lifeline—it had forced my hand. But the thought of stepping into the same room as him, pretending to be someone willing, someone excited, made me want to run instead.

The ride to the venue was silent. My father kept glancing at me through the rearview mirror, lips pressed together, jaw tight. I stared out the window at the passing city, my stomach twisting. I tried to remember why this was supposed to be for the greater good. To save the company. To save him. To save me. I wasn’t sure if I was saving anyone anymore.

The venue was small, elegant, and clinical. Glass walls, soft golden light reflecting off marble floors, a quiet hum of city noise outside that somehow made the place feel both intimate and lonely. I stepped out of the car and felt a pair of hands squeeze my shoulders—my father’s, warm and trembling.

“You’ll be okay,” he murmured. But I could hear the uncertainty in his voice, the same uncertainty I felt in my chest.

I nodded, because saying anything else felt pointless.

The doors opened, and I stepped into the hall. Guests were present, though not too many. It wasn’t a grand wedding; it didn’t need to be. Every face seemed polite but distant, their attention a mixture of curiosity and boredom. They weren’t here for me. They were here for Damian Ashford, the man everyone whispered about, the one whose handshake could buy and sell fortunes.

And then I saw him.

Damian stood at the altar—or what passed for one in this minimalist, sterile space. He looked effortless. Perfect. Tall, broad-shouldered, the black suit molded to him like it had been made for his body alone. His tie was immaculate, his hair flawless, but it was his eyes that stopped me. Storm-grey, unreadable, cold. Watching. Assessing. Not the eyes of a man about to marry, but the eyes of a predator about to make his move.

I wanted to hate him. I wanted to scowl, to glare, to tell him that I would not be a pawn in his games. But instead, my chest constricted, my palms slicked with sweat, and I felt every nerve in my body alert and raw.

The officiant began speaking, and I tried to follow along, reciting the lines I was supposed to recite, the vows that meant nothing to me. Damian’s gaze never left me. It was unsettling. Piercing. Almost intimate in the way it seemed to strip me bare without touching me.

I reminded myself: This is a contract. Nothing more. One year. Nothing more.

When it came time to exchange rings, Adrian slid the cold band onto my finger with a precision that suggested he had rehearsed the gesture a hundred times. His hand lingered near mine, and for a moment, I imagined warmth, imagined softness, imagined what it might feel like if he were capable of being human. But then the thought vanished. Storm-grey eyes met mine, and the warmth evaporated, leaving only ice and control.

The ceremony ended. We were married. Mr. and Mrs. Ashford.

The cameras clicked as we posed for pictures. Every smile I forced was a mask. Every tilt of my head felt rehearsed. Damian’s face betrayed nothing. Nothing. Not a flicker, not a hint. And yet, when his arm brushed mine, I felt the smallest spark, a dangerous whisper in the pit of my stomach that I could not, would not, allow myself to acknowledge.

Later, when everyone had left, the venue emptied, the echoes of our footsteps the only sound in the hall, Damian finally spoke.

“Remember what we agreed.”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. “One year. No emotions, no expectations.”

“Good.” His voice was calm, but the weight behind it made me flinch. “You will find I am a precise man. I do not tolerate mistakes.”

I wanted to tell him I was not a mistake. That I was not just a name on a contract. But the words caught in my throat.

We returned to the penthouse, a silent ride punctuated only by the occasional click of his watch against the leather steering wheel. He did not offer to hold my hand. He did not attempt to make conversation. I suppose in his mind, that would have been unnecessary. Civility was sufficient. Distance was preferable.

When the elevator doors opened, I felt the chill of our shared apartment. It was modern, luxurious, but empty. Too empty. Too sterile. I realized that this was not just a house—it was a fortress, a cage, and I was trapped inside with a man who had made me his property for the next twelve months.

“Your room,” Damian said, gesturing. “I expect you to be ready for the day.”

The room was magnificent, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. The sun had not yet set, but the golden light slanted through the glass and lit up every corner. It was beautiful. Coldly beautiful. But still, it was not my home. It was not my life. And it never would be, not truly, as long as I was bound to him by contract, by duty, by circumstance.

I sat on the edge of the bed, hands pressed together, and tried to make sense of what I was feeling. Relief that it was over, exhaustion from the tension, fear of the unknown, and… something else. Something I could not name. It scared me.

Damian watched me from the doorway, his posture relaxed, yet every bit as commanding as it had been in the boardroom. “Do you understand the rules?” he asked.

I nodded, though I could barely meet his eyes. “Yes.”

“Good.” He turned, leaving the room. The sound of his footsteps echoed down the hallway, leaving me alone with my thoughts, the dress I would never wear again, and the knowledge that I had just married a man I barely knew.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to do everything and nothing all at once. But I forced myself to breathe. One year. That was all. I could survive one year.

And yet, as I lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling once more, I could not shake the feeling that Damian Ashford had already found a way to claim more than just my signature on a contract. He had claimed my attention, my unease, and perhaps, without either of us noticing, a small, dangerous piece of my heart.

The city outside glittered like a promise I was not ready to accept. But for tonight, at least, it was mine to stare at. Alone.

Until tomorrow.