His contract Bride, His secret child

The Golden Handcuffs

Amara’s POV

The drive to the Wolfe Mansion was conducted in a silence so thick I could almost taste it. Adrian remained glued to his phone, his thumb flicking across the screen with a ruthless efficiency. To him, the last hour—the wedding, the press, the lie—was just another successful transaction.

To me, it was the end of the world.

"Thorne will give you the tour," Adrian said as the car crested the hill and the massive iron gates of the estate swung open. "I have a board meeting at four. I won’t be back for dinner."

"Is that how this works?" I asked, my voice echoing in the plush interior of the car. "I just... wait for you like a piece of furniture?"

Adrian finally looked at me. His gaze was sharp, dissecting. "You have a job, don’t you? You insisted on it. Use the studio I’ve had prepared for you. Buy whatever fabrics you need. Just stay out of the east wing. That’s my private space."

"Understood," I said, biting my lip. "Mr. Wolfe."

He didn't acknowledge the sarcasm. The car stopped, and he was out before the driver could even reach the handle. I watched his tall, imposing figure disappear into the house. He didn't look back. Not once.

A Studio of Glass

Thorne met me at the door. "This way, Mrs. Wolfe."

The name still felt like a burn. I followed him through corridors that felt more like a museum than a home. Everything was pristine, expensive, and utterly soulless. We stopped at a set of double doors on the second floor.

"Mr. Wolfe thought you might find this adequate," Thorne said, pushing the doors open.

I gasped. The room was breathtaking. Three walls were solid glass, overlooking the manicured gardens and the forest beyond. In the center stood a professional-grade cutting table, a line of industrial sewing machines, and dozens of high-quality dress forms. On the far wall, a shelf held hundreds of spools of silk thread in every color imaginable.

It was everything I had ever dreamed of. It was also the most beautiful cage I could imagine.

"He had all this done in twenty-four hours?" I whispered.

"Mr. Wolfe is very efficient when he wants something," Thorne replied. "There is a digital account linked to your name for supplies. There are no limits."

I walked over to the glass wall. Below, I could see a gardener pruning roses. For a moment, I imagined I was just a guest here. But then I saw my reflection in the glass. The pale grey suit, the diamond band on my finger that felt like a lead weight.

I wasn't a guest. I was an acquisition.

The First Crack

I spent the afternoon lost in the fabrics. It was the only way to drown out the noise in my head. I began draping a bolt of deep emerald silk over a mannequin, pinning and tucking, trying to visualize a gown that felt like... well, not this.

I was so focused I didn't hear the door open.

"You’re the one, then."

The voice was like shattered glass—elegant, but sharp enough to draw blood.

I turned. Standing in the doorway was a woman who could only be Adrian’s mother, Eleanor Wolfe. She was dressed in a suit that probably cost more than my father’s shop, and her hair was pulled back in a bun so tight it looked painful.

"I’m Amara," I said, wiping my hands on my skirt and stepping forward.

Eleanor didn't move. She stayed in the doorway, her eyes raking over me with a look of pure, unadulterated disdain. "I’ve seen the news. 'The Designer Bride.' A charming story. It’s a pity Adrian didn't consult me before bringing a stray into the house."

"I’m not a stray," I said, my pulse Beginning to race. "I’m his wife."

Eleanor let out a dry, hollow laugh. "You’re a contract, dear. I know exactly what my son is doing. He thinks he can use you to quiet the board, to show them he’s 'stable.' But a Wolfe doesn't marry a tailor's daughter for love."

She walked into the room, her heels clicking like a countdown on the marble floor. She stopped at the mannequin I had been working on. She touched the emerald silk with a gloved hand, then pulled away as if it were contaminated.

"Draping is messy. This room is for art, not labor," she said coldly. "Adrian may have given you this playground, but don't mistake it for power. You are here to look pretty at galas and keep your mouth shut. If you think you’ll ever be more than a footnote in this family's history, you’re even more delusional than you look."

"I don't want your power, Mrs. Wolfe," I said, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. "I just want to do my work."

"Work," she spat the word. "You'll learn soon enough that in this house, the only work that matters is maintaining the image. And you? You’re a smudge on that image."

She turned on her heel and walked out, leaving the scent of expensive, bitter perfume behind.

I sank into my chair, the emerald silk mocking me. The battle lines had been drawn. Adrian was cold, but his mother was a storm. And I was caught right in the middle, with nothing but a contract and a needle to protect me.

I looked at the phone

on the table. No calls from Adrian. No "how are you?"

I was alone.