Contracted Hearts

Chapter two

Sophia Collins moved into Ethan Blackwood’s world the following evening.

The car ride to his penthouse was quiet—too quiet. The city lights flashed past the tinted windows, but inside, the air felt heavy, as though the unspoken rules had already taken up space between them.

“You’ll be staying here,” Ethan said, his voice even, as the elevator climbed in near silence.

Sophia nodded, her fingers curled around the strap of her bag. She had prepared herself for luxury. What she hadn’t prepared for was how impersonal it would feel. Cold marble floors. Glass walls. A space designed for control, not comfort.

The doors opened.

“This is temporary,” she reminded herself silently.

Ethan stepped aside to let her in. “You’ll have access to everything you need,” he said. “Staff will be discreet. Your privacy will be respected.”

“And yours?” she asked before she could stop herself.

He glanced at her, something unreadable passing through his eyes. “That depends on how well we follow the agreement.”

She followed him deeper into the apartment. The view alone was breathtaking—city stretching endlessly beneath the night sky. It was beautiful in a way that felt distant, like a world she was allowed to see but not touch.

“The rules remain the same,” he continued. “Public affection is permitted when necessary. In private, we maintain boundaries.”

Sophia turned to face him. “And if the press asks questions?”

“I answer first,” he said. “If I touch you, you respond naturally. If you speak, make it believable.”

She raised a brow. “You make it sound rehearsed.”

“It is,” he replied calmly.

There was a pause.

“And the sleeping arrangements?” she asked.

His gaze held hers a moment longer than necessary. “One room. One bed.”

Her breath caught. “That wasn’t mentioned.”

“It was implied,” he said. “And it’s non-negotiable.”

Sophia exhaled slowly. “Nothing will happen.”

“Correct.”

His tone was firm, but something in the air shifted anyway. Proximity had a way of changing things. Of making rules feel fragile.

Later that night, Sophia lay on her side of the bed, facing away from him, fully aware of his presence beside her. Every movement he made registered in her body like a quiet warning. She stared at the ceiling, counting breaths, reminding herself why she was here.

This was an agreement. Not a fantasy.

Then his phone rang.

Ethan answered in a low voice, one that sharpened as the conversation continued. “No,” he said quietly. “She doesn’t know.”

Sophia closed her eyes.

When the call ended, the silence returned—thicker now.

“You’ll meet my grandmother tomorrow,” he said. “She expects perfection.”

Sophia turned slightly, just enough to look at him. “Is that why you’re doing this?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

“It’s complicated,” he said finally.

His hand shifted on the bed, closer than before—but not touching. The space between them felt charged, restrained, deliberate.

“This arrangement ends in a year,” he added. “No matter what.”

Sophia nodded, though something tightened in her chest.

Because even now—on the first night—she could feel it.

The tension.

The restraint.

The danger of caring.

And the unsettling thought that the hardest rule to follow wouldn’t be the ones written in ink.

It would be the ones neither of them dared to say out loud.