Bound By His Vows

I never believed a signature could change a person’s life. But when my pen hit that dotted line, I felt my heart stop. The room was cold — too cold for June — and the man sitting across from me looked like he’d been carved from stone. Damien Blackwood. Every inch of him screamed danger and power. The black suit. The sharp jaw. The eyes that saw too much. And he was about to become my husband. Not because I loved him. But because I had no other choice. “Sign it, Amelia.” His voice was smooth, dark — like velvet over a blade. “You’ve had enough time.” I swallowed hard, my fingers trembling over the contract. “You’re really going to make me do this?” He tilted his head, lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Make you? You came to me, remember?” He was right. I had come to him. Desperate. Cornered. Willing to do anything to save my father’s company — even marry the man who once vowed to ruin our name. I signed. My hand shook, but I signed. When it was over, he rose from his chair, buttoned his jacket, and walked over to me. His cologne hit first — rich, masculine, dangerous. He stopped just close enough for me to feel the heat from his body. “Congratulations, Mrs. Blackwood.” The words dripped with mockery. “You’ve just sold your freedom.” I met his eyes — grey and unreadable. “And you’ve just bought a woman you don’t love.” “Love?” he echoed with a quiet laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself. This isn’t love, Amelia. It’s business. A deal sealed with vows.” He turned and left the room before I could breathe again. I didn’t realize I was crying until the tears hit the paper. --- The wedding happened two days later — small, private, hidden from the world. He didn’t look at me once during the vows. Not even when he said I do. When it was over, his hand gripped mine for the camera flashes, firm but cold. We smiled for the world, but inside, I was breaking. He whispered low against my ear, just loud enough for me to hear: “Remember why you’re here, Amelia. Don’t start dreaming.” --- That night, I stood by the window of his mansion — our mansion — staring at the rain. The city lights blurred through the glass, and I realized something terrifying. I wasn’t just trapped in a marriage. I was trapped with a man who wanted revenge. And worse… Some part of me wanted to know why he hated me so much. Because beneath that anger, that coldness — I could feel it. A spark. A pull. A dangerous attraction that neither of us could afford. I hated myself for wanting him. And I hated him for making me feel it. --- He walked in, unbuttoning his cuffs, his gaze unreadable. “You can have the east wing. Stay out of my way, and we’ll be fine.” His tone was calm — too calm. But when our eyes met, something shifted. “Do you hate me that much?” I asked softly. He froze for half a second — then smiled. “No, Mrs. Blackwood,” he said. “Hate would mean I still care.” He walked out, leaving me in silence. But I could still feel his stare. And deep down, I knew — this was just the beginning. The beginning of something neither of us could control.