HIS CONTRACT WIFE,HIS OBSESSION

Lie

"Your father’s lawyer."

My blood went cold.

He looked like he had a lot to say to me.

In the hallway.

The man in the shadows stepped forward.

Tall.

Gray suit.

Folder in his hands.

Mr. Bennett.

Dad’s lawyer for 20 years.

My chest tightened.

"What are you doing here?"

He looked at me.

Then at Damian.

Disgust flickered.

"Lina," he said.

"Can we talk.

Alone."

"No," Damian said.

Before I could answer.

"Whatever you have to say.

You say it to both of us."

Bennett’s jaw ticked.

He opened the folder.

Pulled out papers.

"Your father asked me to deliver this."

He held them out to me.

"They’re divorce papers."

The word hit me like a slap.

Divorce?

"From who?" My voice was small.

"From him."

Bennett jerked his chin at Damian.

The house went silent.

Damian didn’t move.

But I felt it.

The air around him went sharp.

Dangerous.

"My father wants a divorce?"

I laughed.

It sounded broken.

"He’s in ICU.

He can’t even hold a pen."

"He can sign," Bennett said.

"He did.

This morning."

Liar.

That’s what I wanted to say.

Dad could barely breathe this morning.

Damian stepped in front of me.

Blocking me.

His back was broad.

A wall.

"Give me that."

"No."

Bennett held it tighter.

"This is between Lina and her father."

"She’s my wife."

Damian’s voice dropped.

Low.

Deadly.

"That makes it my business."

He snatched the papers.

Didn’t even look at them.

Ripped them.

Once.

Twice.

Let them fall like snow.

"Tell Harold," Damian said.

"That his daughter isn’t going anywhere."

Bennett’s face turned red.

"You can’t do this.

She’s being forced—"

"Am I being forced, Lina?"

Damian turned.

Eyes on me.

Waiting.

Everyone was watching.

His mother.

The staff.

Bennett.

My throat closed.

What was the truth?

Yes, the contract forced me.

But right now?

With him standing in front of me like that?

"No," I whispered.

"I’m not."

Bennett stared at me.

Then at Damian.

He shook his head.

"This isn’t over."

And walked out.

The door slammed.

The mansion was quiet. Too quiet.

Silence.

Damian’s shoulders dropped.

Just a little.

Like he’d been holding his breath.

"Come with me," he said. And took my hand.

His hand was warm.

Big.

Calloused.

I followed.

We didn’t go to the living room.

We went up.

To his study.

Dark.

Books.

Leather chair.

And a window overlooking the city.

He let go of my hand.

Walked to the bar.

Poured whiskey.

Didn’t drink it.

"Why did you do that?" I asked.

"Say I wasn’t forced."

He turned.

Leaned against the desk.

Arms crossed.

"Because you’re mine."

Simple.

Like it explained everything.

"That’s not an answer."

"That’s the only answer you get."

I stepped closer.

I don’t know why.

My feet moved on their own.

The scar.

On his chest.

I could see it through his open shirt.

"Where did you get that?"

I asked.

Before I could stop myself.

His eyes flickered.

For a second.

Just a second.

Something cracked.

"Your father," he said.

My knees went weak.

"What?"

"Ten years ago."

He touched the scar.

Long.

Jagged.

"Business deal gone wrong.

He pulled a knife."

My hand flew to my mouth.

"Dad?

No.

He wouldn’t—"

"He did."

Damian laughed.

No humor.

"I was young. 26. We were co-founders of Carter Corporation.

Until he decided money mattered more than loyalty."

The room tilted.

I remembered.

Dad talking about a young partner.

A betrayal.

He never said the name.

It was Damian.

"So this?"

I gestured between us.

"The contract.

The marriage.

It’s revenge?"

Damian pushed off the desk.

Came to me.

Stood too close.

"Partly."

"And the other part?"

He reached up.

Brushed hair from my face.

His fingers lingered on my cheek.

"The other part," he whispered.

"Is that I’ve wanted you

since the first time I saw you

at your father’s office.

20 years old.

Scared.

And defiant."

My heart stopped.

"Don’t," I said.

"Don’t say things like that."

"Why not?"

His thumb traced my jaw.

"Is it because you feel it too?"

I wanted to step back.

I didn’t.

The phone on his desk rang.

Loud.

Sharp.

He answered without looking away from me.

"Voss."

A pause.

His face changed.

Went blank.

"What?"

Another pause.

Longer.

He hung up.

"Who was it?" I asked.

"The hospital."

His voice was flat.

"They said your father’s bill

is due by midnight.

Or they stop treatment."

The floor fell out from under me.

"But—

But I signed the contract.

You said you’d pay—"

"Don’t worry about it," he said. Too fast.

Then he turned away.

Poured the whiskey.

This time he drank it.

And I saw it.

The lie.

Because if he already paid...

Why were they calling?