Chapter 2
982 Words
*Chapter 2: The Red Dress*
The dress was a warning.
Arielle stared at the crimson silk spilling over her bed. Sleeveless. Backless. A slit that went up to her thigh. It screamed “look at me” in a room full of people trained not to look at anything unless it made them money.
There was no note this time. Damian didn’t explain gifts. He just expected her to wear them.
8 PM sharp.
His driver was already downstairs.
She did her own makeup. No glam team. No stylist. If she was going to play Mrs. Cortez, she’d do it her way. Red lipstick to match the dress. Hair pulled back low, sharp, controlled. Armor in a different form.
The gala was at The Crest — Manila’s most exclusive hotel. Cameras. Billionaires. Women dripping in old money and newer scandals. And Damian Cortez walking in like he owned the building. Which, technically, he did.
His car stopped at the red carpet. The door opened. And there he was.
Black tux. No tie. First two buttons undone. Cold eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on her.
For half a second, his mask slipped.
Just half a second.
Then it was gone.
“You’re late,” he said, offering his arm. His voice was even, but his eyes dragged over the dress once. Slow. Calculating.
“Clause 12 didn’t say I had to be punctual,” Arielle shot back, sliding her hand through his arm. His bicep was solid under the fabric. Of course it was.
Flashbulbs exploded the moment they stepped out.
“Damian! Who’s the girl?”
“Cortez got married and didn’t invite us?”
“That’s Reyes’ daughter. The bankrupt one.”
The whispers followed them like smoke. Arielle kept her chin up. She’d practiced that in the mirror. If you’re going to be talked about, make sure they remember your face.
Inside, chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls. The air smelled like expensive perfume and lies. Damian led her straight to the center of the room. He didn’t hide her. He displayed her.
“Maeve,” he greeted a woman in diamonds. “This is my wife, Arielle Cortez.”
“Wife?” Maeve’s smile was plastic. Her eyes raked over Arielle’s dress, her shoes, her lack of a five-carat ring. “How... sudden. We didn’t even get an invitation.”
“Didn’t think you’d come,” Damian said smoothly. “You always skip charity events unless there’s press.”
Maeve’s laugh was sharp. Arielle had to bite back her own smile. Okay. Maybe playing Mrs. Cortez wouldn’t be so hard.
The night was a blur of handshakes, fake compliments, and questions that weren’t really questions.
“Where did you two meet?”
“How long have you been dating?”
“Is it true Reyes Industries is—”
“Is true,” Damian cut in before anyone could finish. “My wife prefers I handle business. That’s why she married me.”
Arielle’s nails dug into his arm. Handle business? She was the business.
Halfway through dinner, Damian leaned in. His cologne was cedar and something colder. “Smile more. You look like you’re calculating how to kill me.”
“I am,” she murmured into her wine glass. “Clause 4 says no romantic involvement. It doesn’t say I can’t fantasize about murder.”
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
Then her ex appeared. Tristan. Damian’s younger brother. The reason her father’s company started bleeding money in the first place.
Tristan stopped in front of their table. His eyes widened when he saw her dress. Then saw whose hand she was holding.
“Bro,” he said carefully. “Didn’t know you liked charity cases.”
The room went quiet. Everyone pretending not to listen while listening to everything.
Damian didn’t stand. Didn’t raise his voice. He just looked up at Tristan with those dead gray eyes.
“My wife,” he said, the word deliberate, heavy, final. “Has a name. Use it. Or leave.”
Tristan laughed, but it was nervous. “Come on. She’s just—”
“Mrs. Cortez,” Damian finished for him. “Say it.”
Arielle’s breath caught. This wasn’t in the contract. Protecting her wasn’t part of the cold price.
Tristan muttered something and walked away. The room exhaled.
Under the table, Damian’s hand found hers. His palm was warm. His fingers threaded through hers like he’d done it a hundred times.
“Clause 4,” Arielle whispered, heart hammering. “No romantic involvement.”
“This isn’t romance,” he said, eyes still on the stage. “This is ownership. You’re mine for 12 months. I don’t share what’s mine.”
Possessive. Territorial. Cold.
And Arielle realized something terrifying.
She didn’t hate it.
When they left, cameras followed them to the car. The red dress had done its job. Tomorrow every gossip blog would run the same headline: _Billionaire Damian Cortez Marries Broke Heiress. Family Feud Ignites._
In the car, silence. Heavy, but not uncomfortable.
Damian loosened his tie. “You did well.”
“Was I supposed to do badly?”
“No. But you didn’t flinch. That’s rare.” He glanced at her legs, at the slit of the dress, then back to her eyes like he caught himself. “The dress suits you.”
“Thanks. It’s a cold price for frostbite.”
This time he did smile. Small, real, gone in a second. “Get some sleep, Mrs. Cortez. Tomorrow the real vultures come out.”
Arielle looked down at their hands. He hadn’t let go yet.
Clause 4 said no romantic involvement.
But nobody told her what to do when the coldest man in the room made her feel warm.
And as the car pulled away from The Crest, she wondered which would break first. The contract... or her resolve.
- Writer
