THE BILLIONAIRE'S BROKEN BRIDE

Serenity I signed my life away with a pen that cost more than my car. The contract sat between us on a slab of gray marble so polished it reflected the overhead lights like a smirk. Luca Vance didn’t say a word as he slid the document toward me. No greeting. No small talk. Just the kind of silence that says you’re here to serve a purpose, not a presence. My fingers tremble slightly as I picked up the pen. I told myself it was the air conditioning. But it wasn’t. He watched me. Not the way a man watches a woman, but the way a CEO watches a merger. Calculated. Distant. Not cruel—just completely uninterested in the human attached to the deal. “Anything unclear?” he asked finally, voice low and smooth like the espresso he hadn’t offered me. I shook my head. “No.” Even my voice sounded foreign—too calm for someone agreeing to become Mrs. Vance for the next eighteen months. His nod was crisp, impersonal. “Then we proceed.” I flipped to the final page. My name stared back at me. Serenity Noelle Hayes. It looked out of place between the legal jargon and VanceCorp letterhead. Like someone had dropped wildflowers into a sterile hospital room. “Sign and date,” he said. I did. Just like that, I became someone’s wife. He reached for the document once I set the pen down. Not a flicker of hesitation, not even a glance my way. Just picked it up, checked the signature, and stacked it neatly with the others like he was logging inventory. “Your schedule for the week has been emailed to you,” he said, already rising from his chair. “Your fittings start tomorrow. We will release the press statement on Wednesday.” I stood too, slower. “Do I get a copy?” His eyes flicked to me then—sharp and unreadable. “A copy of the contract?” I nodded in affirmation. “You’ll get a bound version sent to the penthouse. Legal likes printed things.” Right. Because this wasn’t a marriage. It was a product launch. He was already halfway to the door. “Jenna will escort you out.” That was it. No handshake. No congratulations. No look of remorse or warning. Just a billionaire brushing the dust off another transaction. The elevator down was mirror-lined, silent, and fast. I caught my reflection in the glass and barely recognized her—the woman in designer heels, a cream blouse pressed within an inch of its life, lipstick in a color her mother swore made her look expensive. She looked composed. Clean lines. Neat bun. Glossed lips. But underneath? A girl with a sinking gut and a name that now meant nothing. Back in the town car Luca’s assistant had arranged, I stared out at the city as it blurred past. New York was always moving. People weaving through traffic like it owed them something. Glass towers stabbing the sky like they were in competition. It was loud, unbothered, and alive. And I’d just agreed to disappear inside it. For my family. For the name they were clinging to like it hadn’t already drowned. The Vances were legacy. Old money with newer tricks. Luca wasn’t the oldest or the flashiest—but he was the most precise. Everything about him was measured. His tone, his suits, his gaze. And now… me. An asset acquired with clean margins and emotional distance. My phone buzzed. Mom: “Did it go through?” Me: “Yes.” Three dots appeared. Then nothing. Not thank you. No, I’m sorry you had to do this. Just silence. My shoulders curled inward as I put the phone down. The chill in Luca’s office was still clinging to my skin. I wasn’t expecting warmth. But I hadn’t known cold could feel this personal. The penthouse was quiet when I arrived. Not silent—quiet. The kind that feels curated. Music that didn’t play. Art that didn’t mean anything. Furniture too elegant to sit on. Jenna handed me a tablet with my week’s schedule and vanished like she was trained by MI6. I walked slowly through the main hallway, heels muffled by pristine hardwood. My name echoed in my head: Serenity Vance. No, that wasn’t right. Not yet. Not really. There was a welcome basket on the dining table. The kind hotel guests get in penthouse suites: high-end chocolate, imported water, hand-cut soap. Nothing personal. Nothing warm. The contract was still in my bag. I’d folded it like it was paper, not the terms of my body, my face, my name. Later, I sat in the guest bedroom—my bedroom, apparently—and stared at the view. From thirty-seven floors up, everything looked small. Like I could flatten the city with a breath. I didn’t cry. Not because I wasn’t sad. But because crying required energy, and I’d spent it all looking composed. A knock came just past ten. I opened the door to find him standing there. Luca Vance. Shirt sleeves rolled, jacket gone. He still looked like a power incarnate, but slightly… unbuttoned. “I wanted to say,” he started, voice quieter than before, “this won’t be difficult. As long as expectations are clear.” “Clear like the contract?” I asked, leaning on the doorframe. His eyes flicked to mine. “Exactly.” “And if I have questions?” “You ask Jenna. Or legal.” Right. Of course. Silly me, expecting a husband to be… accessible. “I’m not going to interfere with your life,” he said. “We both benefit if this goes smoothly.” I blinked. “Do you actually believe that?” He frowned, not out of confusion—more like he was recalibrating. “I believe in clarity,” he said. “And clarity prevents disappointment.” That was the most honest thing anyone had said to me all week. “Well,” I said, pulling the door gently back toward me, “then let’s hope we stay very, very clear.” I closed it. Not rudely. Not dramatically. But Just… closed it. I didn’t hear his footsteps retreat.I didn’t hear him walk away.But when I opened the door a minute later—just to check—he had gone. In bed, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about how fast the pen had moved. How easy it was to sign something that would rewrite my entire life. How Luca hadn’t even looked at me when I did it. And how a man like him—cold, composed, untouchable—had built an empire by being a ghost in his own story. So what did that make me? A footnote? A placeholder? No. I found a solution. A calculated choice. But the thing about choices is… they have consequences. And no matter how many zeroes were on that contract, Luca Vance had no idea what he’d just signed up for. The next morning, Jenna knocked at seven sharp with a clipboard and a half-smile. “We’ve got hair, wardrobe, and PR all lined up this week. Fittings start in thirty minutes.” I nodded. “Do I get breakfast or just a parade of stylists?” Her smile thinned. “There’s coffee. Wardrobe requested you to avoid carbs for the next three days.” Charming. I pulled on the silk robe they’d laid out—tags still attached—and followed her. We passed Luca’s office door. It was closed. Of course. But just as we turned the corner, I heard it. His voice. Quiet. Clipped. “I don’t care what she looks like. Just make sure she doesn’t embarrass us.” Jenna paused. My feet stopped moving. Luca. Talking about me. I felt the air rush out of my chest, slow and sharp. He didn’t care what I looked like. He just didn’t want to be embarrassed. Not impressed. Not intrigued. Not even curious. Just managing his assets. That was all I was to him. I didn’t say a word. Not to Jenna. Not to myself. But as I sat in that chair and let strangers pull at my hair and tug zippers and hold up shoes like trophies— —I started making a list. A quiet one. A list of everything he thought he could control. And exactly how I’d prove him wrong. Because if I was going to be the ghost in his story— —I’d make damn sure he remembered me. Even after I have gone.