BECOMING MRS CROSS

007

The limousine was too quiet.

Lena sat stiffly against the soft leather seat, her arms crossed like armor. She hated how much space he seemed to take up across from her. Damon Cross lounged like he’d been born to command backseats of cars that cost more than she made in a year. His arm stretched casually along the seat, his phone balanced loosely in one hand, his gaze moving over it as if the entire world bent itself to his schedule.

He hadn’t looked at her once since they left his mansion.

Lena told herself that was a blessing. It gave her space to breathe, to keep her thoughts her own. Except… it didn’t. Because even when he wasn’t looking, she could feel him, like heat on the back of her neck, a reminder that she wasn’t free.

She pressed her nails into her palms, trying to anchor herself. Six months. That was all she had to endure. Six months of playing dress up in his world. Six months of being Damon Cross’s wife on paper, on camera, in front of strangers. And then she’d be free, rich enough to take care of Harper forever.

If she survived it.

“You’re quiet, sweetheart.” His voice cut through the silence, low and unhurried. The faintest thread of amusement wove through it, like he already knew the reason. “Plotting my death?”

Her head snapped toward him. Those blue eyes weren’t on his phone anymore. They were on her, sharp, unreadable, assessing.

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

He slid his phone into his pocket, mouth curving into the kind of smile that had to be practiced in boardrooms and bedrooms alike. “A charity event . Manhattan’s finest. Overpriced champagne, stale speeches, too many cameras. And,” his gaze lingered on her in a way that made her stomach tighten, “our first appearance as Mr. and Mrs. Cross.”

Lena’s breath caught. She hadn’t expected this, not so soon, not with the ink barely dry on that ridiculous contract. “You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly.”

Her pulse spiked. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Handled,” he said smoothly. “There’s a dress waiting. Hair, makeup. You’ll look the part.”

“The part of what? Your trophy wife?”

His smirk sharpened, cutting. “The part of my wife. Period.”

Her chest burned with the words she wanted to throw at him, but they tangled before reaching her tongue. She hated that his voice got to her, hated the way he spoke like he was stating facts no one could dispute.

“This is insane,” she muttered, turning back to the city rushing past the tinted glass.

“Life comes at you fast,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting. “One minute you’re drinking dollar margaritas in Vegas, the next you wake up in my bed with my ring on your finger.”

Her stomach flipped, anger, humiliation, something hotter she didn’t want to name. She clenched her hands tighter in her lap. “I’m not your anything.”

His smile turned slow, predatory. “For six months, you are.”

The limo slowed before she could answer. She heard it before she saw it, the thunder of voices, the frantic clicking of cameras. Light poured in through the tinted glass.

Her throat dried.

Outside, velvet ropes held back a sea of people. Photographers, reporters, onlookers pressed close, flashes bursting like fireworks. At the end of the long red carpet, the doors of a glittering hotel swung open, swallowing guests in diamonds and tuxedos.

Lena’s chest tightened. She couldn’t do this. She wasn’t built for this world, for blinding lights and strangers shouting her name.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

Damon leaned forward, and suddenly the air between them was gone. He was too close, his presence overwhelming. “Yes, you can. You signed the contract. You wear the ring, you smile, and you stand beside me. Do not embarrass me.”

Her breath stuttered. His tone wasn’t loud, but it carried a command that left no room for argument. She hated that it steadied her, even as her pride bristled.

The door opened. The sound crashed in, a wall of noise, flashes exploding. Damon stepped out first, the crowd erupting at the sight of him. He adjusted his cufflinks, cool and unbothered, as though this chaos existed purely for him.

Then he turned back, extending his hand into the car.

Her heart pounded. She could refuse. She could stay inside, refuse to play this part. But she pictured Harper’s pale face, pictured overdue bills, pictured six months standing between her and freedom.

She slid her hand into his. His grip was steady, warm, firm and possessive. He pulled her into the storm.

The carpet stretched like a gauntlet. Cameras screamed. Voices shouted questions she couldn’t even process. Her cheeks ached from forcing a smile. Damon’s hand pressed against the small of her back, steering her through the chaos with practiced ease. To them, they must’ve looked perfect. To her, it felt like drowning.

Inside, chandeliers spilled golden light over a ballroom that glittered with wealth. Every gown shimmered. Every suit was cut to perfection. Waiters wove between tables with trays of champagne.

It was another universe.

Damon leaned down, lips brushing her ear. “Smile, Mrs. Cross.”

She wanted to elbow him in the ribs. Instead, she smiled, brittle and sharp.

They made the rounds. Business associates shook Damon’s hand while eyeing her with thinly veiled curiosity. Socialites appraised her like she was a new handbag. She played along, smiling, nodding, speaking when spoken to while her insides screamed.

By the time they reached their table, her skin felt too tight.

“I need air,” she muttered.

Damon didn’t stop her. But his hand lingered on hers for a second too long before letting go, his thumb brushing across her knuckles, a small, claiming touch that rattled her more than the flashing cameras.

The balcony was mercifully empty. Cool air hit her face, cutting through the champagne soaked glitter inside. She gripped the stone railing and tried to breathe.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she whispered, staring at the city sprawled beneath her.

A shadow fell across the balcony.

She didn’t have to turn to know.

Damon stood in the doorway, framed by golden light. His gaze locked on her, unreadable but sharp enough to pin her in place.

“Running already?” His voice was cool, but there was something beneath it…..a thread she couldn’t name.

“I’m not running.” She crossed her arms, trying to steady herself. “I just needed to remember what oxygen feels like.”

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “Careful, Lena. Out here, people are watching too.”

Her jaw tightened. “Why do you care so much about appearances?”

“Because in my world, appearances are survival.”

The way he said it sent a shiver down her spine. She wanted to ask what he meant, what danger lurked behind his polished smile. But his gaze had already dropped to her mouth, lingering just long enough to make her pulse skitter.

And then his hand cupped her jaw, tilting her face up.

“Damon…..”

He kissed her.

Not sweet. Not gentle. Possessive. Deliberate. The kind of kiss that left no room for misunderstanding: she was his, whether she wanted to be or not.

Her body betrayed her. Her fingers clutched his jacket, her lips parting against his. For one treacherous moment, she forgot the cameras, the deal, the six-month clock ticking in the background. She only felt him, the heat, the power, the way he consumed her.

When he pulled back, her breath was ragged, her heart hammering like a trapped bird.

“I hate you,” she whispered, because it was the only defense she had left.

His smirk was slow, dangerous. “Good. Hate makes things interesting.”

And then he turned, leaving her shaken on the balcony, lips burning with the taste of him.

Lena pressed her palms against the railing, her chest rising and falling too fast.

What the hell was happening to her?