Chapter 3: The contracted Bride
1510 Words
Ariella stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. She barely recognized the woman standing there.
Gone were the puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks. In their place was someone far more polished, her hair brushed into a sleek bun, her face touched with soft makeup that accentuated her cheekbones and hid the ache beneath her eyes. The gown she wore was not a wedding dress, but it might as well have been. Ivory silk, modest but elegant, hugged her curves and fell just past her knees. Simple. Beautiful. Almost regal.
And fake.
Because today wasn’t about love. It wasn’t even about starting over.
It was a transaction.
Elian De Luca’s wife for one year.
She turned away from the mirror and looked down at the contract resting on the mahogany desk in the corner of the penthouse suite. Her name was already signed at the bottom. In bold, black ink. It felt unreal, even though her trembling hand had done it just an hour ago.
Forty-eight hours had passed in a blur. She’d cried. She screamed into pillows. She’d gone through every memory with Darian until the bitterness choked her. Then she'd read the contract again. And again. Until the numbers stopped looking like guilt and started looking like survival.
The terms still rang in her mind:
One year of marriage.
Monthly allowance of $150,000.
Appearance at all public events Elian deemed necessary.
No emotional involvement.
No public scandal.
And an airtight non-disclosure agreement that would silence her for life.
She had tried to walk away from it.
But the truth was she had nowhere to go.
This was the only door that hadn’t slammed in her face.
And now, it was official.
A soft knock at the door startled her. Her heart jolted.
Elian didn’t wait for permission; he never did. He walked in, a vision in classic black. Black shirt. Black tie. Black slacks. Understated but stunning. His jacket hung from his shoulder, unbothered by formality. His gaze met hers in the mirror, calm and unreadable.
“You’re ready,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
Ariella turned, smoothing the skirt of her dress. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
He nodded once, then walked toward her and held out a small velvet box.
She stared at it. “What’s that?”
“Your wedding ring.”
Her fingers froze at her side. “Isn’t that a little theatrical?”
“You signed a marriage contract,” he said. “Theatrics are part of the performance.”
She hesitated, then took the box and opened it. Inside was a diamond ring, nothing flashy, but elegant. A single stone on a platinum band. Clean. Refined. It glinted under the chandelier’s light, as if winking at her that the game had already begun.
Elian reached for her hand and slid the ring onto her finger without another word. The cold metal shocked her skin, the weight foreign. It was heavier than she expected, like it understood the burden it now carried.
He looked at her hand, then into her eyes. “You look the part.”
“And you sound like a director,” she muttered.
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Let’s hope you can act.”
They left the suite without ceremony. No music. No crowd. No vows.
Just a short drive in a sleek black Bentley to a downtown courthouse, where a waiting official filed their paperwork with practiced ease and stamped their documents without question. The entire process took less than ten minutes.
By the time they stepped out into the bright July sunlight, Ariella De Luca was legally born.
No confetti. No champagne. No celebration.
Just a gold-embossed envelope tucked under Elian’s arm.
She glanced at him as they walked back to the car. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” he said, pulling open the car door for her. “Now the real work begins.”
Hours Later—The De Luca Estate
Ariella stared in disbelief at the estate that now belonged to her by name.
Calling it a house felt wrong. This was a palace.
The gates alone were taller than the average building. Behind them stood a white-bricked mansion surrounded by manicured gardens and trimmed hedges. A long driveway stretched toward a wide circular entrance, with a fountain in the center pouring water like liquid crystal.
The house rose three stories high, windows glimmering like polished eyes. Balconies extended from every wing, and vines curled delicately over white columns like something out of a classic film.
Elian helped her out of the car and handed her a leather folder.
“What’s this?” she asked, blinking at the weight of it.
“Your schedule,” he replied. “House layout. Emergency contacts. Event calendar. I’ve marked the dates you’ll need to appear with me.”
“Appear with you?”
“As my wife,” he reminded her. “Starting tonight. We have our first formal dinner at the De Luca board gala. You’ll need to be in designer wear. My stylist will meet you shortly.”
She stared at him. “You really don’t waste time.”
“This isn’t a honeymoon, Ariella.”
She scowled. “Trust me, I noticed.”
He didn’t bite. He simply turned and began walking up the steps, a butler opening the door just as he reached the top.
Ariella followed, trying to process how her life had changed so quickly.
She was homeless two days ago. Now she was entering a mansion with twenty-seven rooms, two elevators, and a staff that operated like a machine.
Everything felt surreal.
But nothing was more surreal than the room she was led to.
A private wing.
A grand canopy bed. A fireplace. A walk-in closet with rows of clothes still tagged. A vanity filled with luxury brands she’d only seen in magazines. Even the scent in the air, vanilla and cedar, was calculated.
She walked to the balcony and pushed open the glass doors. The view took her breath away. Hills. Trees. A glimpse of the city skyline in the far distance.
From here, her pain felt small. Like the world had finally put her above it all.
But it was a lie.
Because it wasn’t her world.
It was his.
And she was only borrowing it.
That Evening—The De Luca Foundation Gala
The ballroom shimmered with gold and crystal.
Men in tuxedos, women in couture gowns, and the flash of camera lenses filled the vast space. Waiters in black carried trays of champagne while a string quartet played in the background.
Elian walked beside Ariella, his arm linked with hers.
She wore a deep emerald gown with an open back and subtle rhinestone detail along the sleeves. Her hair was swept up into a soft bun, and diamond earrings glinted with every turn of her head. She had never felt more exposed. Or more examined.
Dozens of eyes followed her. Some are curious. Some are jealous. Some are suspicious.
“Elian De Luca,” a man greeted them, shaking his hand. “And your... bride.”
Ariella smiled stiffly. “Ariella.”
“Pleasure,” the man said. “We didn’t expect this surprise. Married so quietly, weren’t you?”
Elian gave a neutral smile. “We value our privacy.”
“Smart man,” the guest chuckled, moving on.
As soon as he was gone, Ariella turned toward Elian with a whisper. “They’re all looking at me.”
“Of course they are. They’re calculating.”
“Calculating what?”
“How long you’ll last.”
Her throat tightened.
“Elian”
“Smile,” he said suddenly, interrupting. “There’s a photographer.”
He pulled her close, resting a hand on her lower back. She pasted on a smile while the camera clicked. His hand was warm. Her body stiffened instinctively.
“Relax,” he murmured against her ear. “This is the easy part.”
She swallowed.
If this was the easy part… What came next?
Back at the Mansion—Midnight
Ariella kicked off her heels and leaned against the wall of her room. Her feet ached. Her face was sore from smiling. Her stomach twisted from too many glasses of champagne and too little food.
She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at her ring.
It glittered under the chandelier light. Silent. Heavy. Final.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
A message.
Unknown Number: Nice performance tonight, Mrs. De Luca. But we both know it’s all a lie.
Her heart skipped.
Another buzz.
Unknown Number: You might have fooled them. But not me.
Ariella froze.
Was it Darian?
Vanessa?
Or someone new?
Before she could respond, her phone buzzed one last time.
Unknown Number: Welcome to the game, Ariella. Let’s see how long you last.
Her blood turned to ice.
She gripped the phone, her pulse thundering.
This contract... this life... it wasn’t just a game of appearances.
It was a storm.
And she was already caught in it.
- Writer
