Bound By Vows

The first thing Isabella Bennett noticed wasn't the orchestra. It wasn't the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling of St. Andrew's Cathedral, or the hundreds of guests dressed in designer suits and glittering gowns. It was the man waiting at the altar. Damien Ashford stood perfectly still, his tailored black tuxedo fitting him like it had been made for royalty. His expression never changed, not even as the heavy cathedral doors opened and every guest turned to watch the bride. He didn't smile. He didn't look nervous. He looked like a man attending a board meeting. Isabella tightened her grip on the bouquet. One year, she reminded herself. One year of pretending. One year of sharing a last name with a stranger. One year before she could walk away. The music swelled. Every step down the aisle felt heavier than the last. She could feel the whispers following her. "That's the Ashford heir." "She's beautiful." "They're the perfect couple." If only they knew. Three weeks earlier, she had been designing a boutique hotel in Boston, fighting with contractors over floor plans and dreaming about opening her own architectural firm. Then her father had called. His voice had sounded older than she remembered. "The company is collapsing." The Bennett Group had been drowning in debt for years, hidden beneath polished annual reports and carefully rehearsed smiles. There had been only one offer powerful enough to save it. Ashford Holdings. The price? A marriage contract. She had laughed at first. People didn't marry for business anymore. Except... Apparently, some of New York's wealthiest families still did. The priest cleared his throat. "We are gathered here today..." His voice faded into the background. Isabella looked at Damien. For the first time, their eyes met. Blue. Cold. Impossible to read. There was no excitement in them. No affection. Only calculation. As though he were evaluating a merger instead of a marriage. When it was time to exchange vows, Damien spoke first. "I do." Two simple words. Steady. Confident. Emotionless. When Isabella answered, her voice surprised even herself. "I do." The room erupted in applause. Camera flashes exploded from every direction. To the guests, it looked like the wedding of the decade. To Isabella... It felt like signing away her freedom. ... The reception took place on the top floor of the Ashford Grand Hotel, where floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Manhattan skyline. Champagne flowed. A string quartet played softly. Politicians, celebrities, and CEOs congratulated the newlyweds. Isabella smiled until her cheeks hurt. The moment she finally escaped onto a quiet balcony, she inhaled deeply. Fresh air. Silence. For exactly ten seconds. "I was wondering when you'd disappear." Damien's deep voice came from behind her. She turned slowly. He stood with one hand in his pocket, his tie loosened just enough to suggest the day had finally exhausted even him. "You've mastered the art of sneaking up on people," she said. "I wasn't trying to." Neither of them spoke. The city lights shimmered below. Finally, Damien reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and handed her a thin black envelope. "What's this?" "Our agreement." She opened it. Twenty pages. A legal contract. No children. Separate bedrooms. Public appearances together when necessary. No interference in each other's careers. One-year marriage. At the bottom of the final page waited two blank signature lines. Isabella looked up. "You brought a contract to our wedding reception?" "I prefer clarity." She let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "You really are impossible." "And yet," he replied evenly, "you still married me." His words stung because they were true. She closed the folder and stepped closer until only a few inches separated them. "You think this contract gives you control." "It gives us boundaries." She tilted her head. "Here's one boundary you forgot to write." He raised an eyebrow. "I don't belong to you, Mr. Ashford." For the first time all day... The corner of Damien's mouth lifted. Not quite a smile. Just enough to suggest she'd surprised him. "I wouldn't expect anything less from my wife." The word wife lingered between them. Neither of them noticed the figure standing behind the ballroom curtains. Watching. Waiting. Smiling. Victoria Sinclair had just returned to New York. And she had no intention of letting Damien Ashford stay married for long.