THE BILLIONAIRE'S FORCED WIFE'

THE BRIEFING

Chapter Three: The Briefing

Aria woke to sterile sunlight. For a disoriented moment, she expected the familiar c***k in her ceiling plaster, the sound of Mr. Henderson’s old terrier barking next door. Then the sheer, vast expanse of the room—the panoramic view of a distant, tiny Brooklyn—reclaimed her reality with a sickening lurch. The contract. Blackwood. The cage.

A digital clock on the nightstand glowed 7:02 AM. At nine, she was to meet Felix Chen for her “briefing.” The word made her feel like a weapon being readied for deployment.

She explored the suite, finding the walk-in closet empty except for a few generic, price-looking garment bags hanging at one end. The bathroom, all marble and chrome, was stocked with unopened luxury products. No personal touch, no history. It was a hotel suite for a perpetual, paying guest.

At 8:55, a soft chime sounded, not from the door, but from a discreet panel on the wall. A calm, digital female voice announced, “Mr. Chen is in the central living area for your nine o’clock appointment, Miss Rossi.”

They were timing her. Monitoring her. Of course they were.

She dressed in her own clothes—the soft cotton sweater and jeans from yesterday, a tangible piece of her past. She left her hair down, a dark, wavy curtain she usually tied back while working. It felt like a small act of defiance.

Felix Chen was waiting in the living area, standing beside a large tablet propped on a stand. A pot of coffee and a delicate porcelain cup sat on the low table. “Miss Rossi. I hope you rested. Coffee?”

“Black,” she said, her voice still rough from sleep and spent tears. She took the cup he poured, the heat a grounding sensation.

“We have a lot to cover before the Vanguard Gala,” Felix began, tapping the tablet. A sleek presentation appeared. “This is a dossier on Lysander Blackwood. Biography, business holdings, known associates, personal preferences.”

Aria’s stomach twisted. “I need a dossier on my own husband?”

“For the purposes of public credibility, yes,” Felix replied, unflappable. “You should know he prefers Scotch, specifically Lagavulin 16, not whiskey. He dislikes public speaking but is excellent at it. He is a patron of the Museum of Modern Art but personally prefers Renaissance-era maps. He attended Cambridge, rowed for his college, and founded Blackwood Global Capital at twenty-four.” He swiped. “These are the key people you will meet. Sebastian Frost, CEO of Frost Syndicate—a primary competitor and occasional collaborator. Approach with polite caution. Eleanor Vance, of Vance Holdings—a family friend and former…” He paused, selecting his word with care. “…social companion.”

Aria studied the photo of Eleanor. She was stunning, with sleek blonde hair and a sharp, confident smile that didn’t reach her calculating eyes. A “social companion.” The euphemism was clear.

“What am I supposed to be?” Aria asked, setting her cup down with a sharp click. “A brilliant art restorer he swept off her feet? Or a demure socialite?”

“A bit of both,” Felix said. “The story is this: You met six months ago during a private viewing of the Uffizi drawings at MoMA. Mr. Blackwood was impressed by your knowledge. He pursued you discreetly. Your shared passion for art and Italian culture fostered a deep, private connection. The rapid marriage is due to, ah, an eagerness to begin your life together, not any external pressures.” He said it all with the flat delivery of a teleprompter.

It was a flimsy, romantic fiction. And she had to sell it.

“Now, your presentation.” Felix swiped to a new screen showing three stunning evening gowns. “Mr. Blackwood has approved these options for the gala. The sapphire-blue Valentino aligns best with the established narrative of classic elegance. You will have a fitting with the stylist this afternoon. Hair and makeup will arrive at five PM on Saturday.”

Aria stared at the dress. It was beautiful. It was also a uniform. “What if I prefer the red one?”

Felix didn’t look up from his tablet. “The sapphire blue has been selected. It complements Mr. Blackwood’s assessment of your coloring and the desired public image.”

Assessment. She was being curated, like another piece for his collection.

The briefing continued for an hour—etiquette, talking points, a list of subjects to avoid (his family, the specifics of any deal, her brother). It was a crash course in becoming Aria Blackwood, a fictional character.

Just as Felix was concluding, a door on the far side of the penthouse opened. Lysander entered, dressed for the day in another impeccable suit, a dark grey today. The morning light etched his severe features even more starkly. He carried with him an aura of intense, focused energy that seemed to chill the air.

Felix straightened almost imperceptibly. “Sir.”

Lysander’s gaze swept over Aria, taking in her unchanged clothes, her untamed hair. A flicker of something—disapproval?—passed through his stormy eyes. “You are briefed?”

“We’ve covered the essentials for the gala, sir,” Felix answered.

Lysander nodded. “Good. Aria.” He said her name as if testing its weight. “You will accompany me to a business lunch today at one. It is a low-profile meeting with a potential partner from Milan. Your presence, and your fluency in Italian, will be advantageous. Consider it a trial run.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a directive, another item on her new schedule.

Before she could formulate a response, he turned to Felix. “Have the car ready at twelve-forty-five. And ensure her wardrobe is addressed before then.” His eyes returned to her, a final, sweeping inspection. “Wear the black sheath from the closet. And pull your hair back.”

Then he was gone, the door closing behind him, leaving a vacuum of silence in his wake.

Aria stood frozen, humiliation and fury warring within her. He’d looked at her like a mismatched accessory, one he had to quickly polish before use.

Felix cleared his throat softly. “The stylist for the gala fitting will also bring suitable daywear options. The black sheath is by Akris. It’s in your closet.”

Aria didn’t move. She felt the walls of the contract tightening, shifting from abstract clauses to concrete commands about her hair, her dress, her time.

“Miss Rossi,” Felix said, his voice dropping to a near-conspiratorial tone. “He sees everything as a strategy. The lunch, your Italian—it’s a tactical move. Don’t take it personally. It’s the only way he knows how to operate.”

Aria finally met his gaze. “That’s the problem, Felix,” she said, her voice low but clear. “I am a person. Not a tactic.”

She turned and walked back toward her wing, her back straight. She would wear the black sheath. She would pull her hair back. She would speak flawless Italian at the lunch.

But the fire in her chest, the one born of tears and fury last night, had found its first fuel. Lysander Blackwood wanted a tool? He would get one. A sharp, polished, and potentially very dangerous one.