The Billionaire's Forbidden Bride

Chapter 3:Public Property

Midnight came and went without sound.

Sophia sat on the edge of the bed in the dark, phone in her hand, watching the clock turn over. At 12:03 a.m. the first notification arrived. A bank alert. Then another. Then three more in rapid succession. The numbers were large enough to make her dizzy. Her mother’s medical debt: cleared. The second mortgage: paid in full. Maya’s tuition: covered for the next two years. The eviction notice would be gone by morning.

She had sold a year of her life, and the payment had already begun.

Sleep, when it finally came, was thin and restless. She woke to soft gray light and the low hum of the city far below. For a moment she forgot where she was. Then the massive bed, the wall of glass, and the faint scent of expensive linen brought everything back in a single sharp rush.

A folded note sat on the nightstand.

*Breakfast in the main kitchen at 8. Wear what’s in the closet. — D*

The closet was larger than her old bedroom. Inside hung a carefully chosen selection of clothes still tagged with designer names she had only seen in magazines. She chose the simplest option she could find: a structured cream blouse and tailored black trousers that fit as if someone had already taken her measurements. The thought was unsettling.

When she stepped into the main living area, Damian was already there.

He stood at the kitchen island, black coffee in one hand, scrolling through something on a tablet with the other. He had changed into a fresh charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled once again. The morning light cut across his face and made him look even more severe. He didn’t look up immediately, but she felt the exact moment he registered her presence.

“You slept,” he said. Not a question.

“Barely.”

He set the tablet down and finally met her eyes. “The transfers went through. Your family is secure. My lawyer will send the marriage license paperwork this afternoon. We sign it tomorrow. The public announcement goes out at noon today.”

Sophia’s stomach tightened. “So soon?”

“Delay creates questions.” He slid a second coffee across the island toward her. Black, no sugar. He had somehow known. “Drink. You’ll need it.”

She wrapped her hands around the cup but didn’t drink. “The text I received last night—”

Damian’s gaze sharpened. “What text?”

She hesitated, then pulled out her phone and showed him the message.

*He doesn’t tell the whole truth. Neither should you. — A friend*

Something cold and controlled moved through his expression. He took the phone, studied the number, then handed it back. “Unknown. Untraceable from a quick look. I’ll have it checked.” His voice stayed even, but the air around him had changed. “Did you answer?”

“No.”

“Don’t.” He held her gaze. “People will try to get to you now. Some will offer money. Some will offer secrets. Most of them will be lying. You speak to no one about the terms of our arrangement. Clear?”

“Crystal.”

For a moment neither of them moved. The kitchen felt too quiet. Damian’s eyes dropped briefly to her mouth, then to the pulse she could feel beating at the base of her throat. The look lasted less than a second, but it left heat in its wake.

He stepped back first.

“There’s a stylist arriving in twenty minutes,” he said. “She’ll handle hair, makeup, and the dress for the photographs. After the announcement, we have a charity dinner tonight. You’ll be on my arm. You’ll smile. You’ll let people believe whatever story they want to invent about how we met.”

Sophia set the coffee down. “And what story is that?”

Damian’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “That I saw you, wanted you, and decided to keep you. It’s simple. People understand simple.”

The words should have angered her. Instead they sent a low, traitorous pull through her stomach.

She lifted her chin. “And if I don’t feel like smiling?”

He walked around the island until he stood close enough that she had to tip her head back to meet his eyes. The scent of his skin reached her again—clean, warm, and something darker underneath. When he spoke, his voice was quiet enough that it felt private.

“Then you pretend. That’s the job, Sophia. You already signed the contract. Now you perform it.”

His gaze flicked to her mouth once more. This time he didn’t look away as quickly. The space between them felt charged, thin, dangerous. Sophia’s breath had gone shallow and she hated that he could probably see it.

Damian’s hand lifted, as if he might touch her jaw, then stopped a fraction of an inch from her skin. He held it there for one heartbeat. Two.

Then he dropped it and stepped back, expression once again unreadable.

“Stylist is here,” he said. “Don’t keep her waiting.”

He turned and walked toward the office wing without looking back.

Sophia stood alone in the quiet kitchen, pulse still racing, the ghost of his almost-touch lingering on her skin. Her phone buzzed again in her pocket.

Same unknown number.

*The announcement is the easy part. Wait until he tells you about the clause on page fourteen. — A friend*

Sophia’s blood ran cold.

She opened the contract PDF she had photographed the night before with shaking fingers and scrolled to page fourteen.

There it was. A single dense paragraph she had been too desperate to read carefully the first time.

If either party developed genuine romantic attachment, or if certain private information regarding Damian Blackwood’s family holdings became known to the other, the contract could be voided—and the financial consequences would fall entirely on Sophia.

She looked up toward the hallway Damian had disappeared down.

The door at the end was closed.

But she could have sworn she felt him listening.

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