HIS CONTRACT WIFE,HIS OBSESSION

Claimed

Red.

Lace.

Nothing else.

I stared at the dress in the box.

My face burned.

It barely covered anything.

20 minutes.

That’s what he said.

My hands shook as I pulled it on.

The lace scratched my skin.

The neckline dipped too low.

The back was open.

The hem hit mid-thigh.

I looked like I was for sale.

Perfect.

I swiped moisturizer on my face again.

Tried to make myself look less terrified.

Failed.

My lips were dry. My eyes were too bright. Like I’d been crying and was trying to pretend I hadn’t.

I was Mrs. Voss now. Damian’s wife on paper. And this was what wives wore to dinner, apparently.

The room was too quiet. No clock. No music. Just the sound of my breathing and the rustle of lace.

I told myself it was just fabric. Just one dinner. Just 3 hours.

Then I could go back upstairs and lock the door.

A knock.

Sharp.

Three times.

"Dinner."

Damian’s voice.

Through the door. Low. No emotion.

I opened it.

He was waiting.

Black suit. Black shirt. No tie. Top button undone.

His hair was still damp from a shower. He smelled like cedar and something cold.

His eyes dragged down me.

Slow.

From my hair to my heels.

He stopped at my chest.

Jaw ticked.

"Turn around."

I did.

Felt his gaze on my bare back. On the strip of skin the dress didn’t cover. I could feel him cataloging every inch.

"Good," he said.

Low.

"That’s what I paid for."

Shame burned my cheeks. Hot and fast.

I followed him downstairs.

The car ride was silent.

Now we were here.

The ballroom doors opened and gold light hit my face like a slap.

Chandeliers dripped from the ceiling.

Marble floors so polished I saw my reflection in them.

Hundreds of people.

Black tie. Ballgowns. Diamonds. Champagne towers.

A string quartet playing to no one.

Damian’s hand was on my lower back the second we stepped in.

Not gentle.

Claiming.

Whispers started immediately.

"Who is she?"

"Is that Voss?"

"Wait... is that Carter’s daughter?"

Business owners turned. Glasses paused halfway to mouths.

Murmurs spread like fire.

"Is this not the daughter of the man who bankrupted us?"

"What is she doing on his arm?"

Damian ignored them.

He guided me through the crowd like I was his.

Because I was. On paper.

He stopped in front of a group of men in tuxedos.

"Gentlemen," Damian said. Voice smooth, deadly.

"This is my wife, Lina Voss."

The men blinked.

One of them choked on his champagne.

"Mrs. Voss," he stammered.

"Congratulations... sir."

Damian’s hand tightened on my waist.

"Thank you."

We moved on.

More introductions.

More stares.

More whispers behind champagne flutes.

And then she was there.

Older.

Pearls.

Ice in her eyes.

Hair pulled back so tight it had to hurt. Red lips. Diamond ring the size of a coin.

Damian’s mother.

She looked me up and down.

Lingered on the red lace at my chest. On my bare shoulders.

Smiled.

But not nice.

"Damian," she said.

Then to me.

"And you must be the girl who bankrupted us."

I froze. My champagne glass felt like it weighed 10kg.

Damian stepped closer. His shoulder brushed mine.

"Mother. This is Lina. My wife."

"Wife," his mother repeated.

Her eyes dragged over me again.

"How old are you, dear?"

"Twenty-four," I whispered.

"Twenty-four," she echoed.

"And when exactly are you two getting married? Since you’ve already decided to play house and destroy three generations of business in the process?"

The circle around us went quiet.

People were pretending to talk to other people.

But everyone was listening.

Damian’s thumb brushed the lace at my waist.

Right there. In public.

"She’s my wife now," he said. Flat. Final.

"That’s all that matters."

"For now," his mother said. And sipped her champagne.

More people came.

More questions.

"So Lina, what does your father do?"

"In the hospital."

"And you met Damian how?"

Damian answered for me.

"She married me because I told her to."

Silence.

His mother’s smile didn’t waver.

Then Damian turned me to face him.

Right there. In the middle of the ballroom. 300 people watching.

His hand slid to the back of my neck.

Pulled me up to him.

And he kissed me.

Not soft.

Not sweet.

Possessive.

Marking.

I tasted champagne and fury and cedar.

He pulled back.

Lips swollen.

Eyes dark.

He didn’t look at me.

He looked at the room.

Voice low. But the whole ballroom heard it.

"Gentlemen."

A pause.

"Let me make something clear."

His hand came to my waist. Pulled me flush against him.

"Mrs. Voss is not available."

His thumb brushed my hip once.

"She’s not to be approached.

She’s not to be spoken to.

She’s not to be looked at."

Another pause. His eyes swept the crowd.

"Do I make myself clear?"

Silence.

The string quartet missed a note.

One of the business partners nodded quickly.

"M-Most clear, Mr. Voss."

His mother’s glass paused halfway to my mouth.

Damian stepped back. Hands in pockets. Face blank.

Like nothing happened.

"Well," his mother said, staring at my swollen lips.

"Welcome to the family, dear."

But her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

The night dragged.

More champagne. More stares. More "Mrs. Voss".

By the time we left, my feet hurt and my face hurt from pretending.

And behind her,

standing in the shadows near the staircase,

was a man.

Tall.

Suited.

Gray hair.

Watching me.

Damian stiffened next to me. I felt it. The air changed.

"Who is that?" I whispered.

Damian’s voice was ice.

"Your father’s lawyer."

My blood went cold.