The Moretti Marriage Contract

The Cold War

Ruthlyn’s POV

The emerald silk of my gown felt like a second skin I wanted to claw off.

As the Maybach glided through the rain-slicked streets of Valerius City toward the Grand Cathedral Hall, the silence between us was loud. I stared out the window, but I wasn't seeing the city lights. I was seeing the library.

Flashback: Last Night

Ruthlyn’s POV

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my palm against my mouth to stifle the sound of my own panicked breathing. The space under the desk felt smaller by the second, the scent of expensive mahogany and George’s signature cologne closing in on me.

The debt wasn’t an accident. It was a harvest.

The heavy thud of his oxfords stopped right in front of the chair. I could see the sharp crease of his charcoal suit trousers. He was so close I could hear the faint, rhythmic click of him tapping his tablet screen.

"Arthur," George’s voice sliced through the silence, vibrating through the desk above my head. It wasn't the voice he used when he teased me. It was the voice of the Ice Heir—the man who moved lives like chess pieces.

"Yes, Master George?" Arthur’s voice crackled through the room.

"The Bennett file. It’s been moved."

My heart stopped. I looked at the cream-colored folder clutched in my shaking hands. I hadn't even had the chance to put it back.

"I haven't touched it, sir," Arthur replied, his voice laced with confusion. "Should I check the security feeds?"

A long, agonizing pause followed. I watched as George’s shoes turned. He didn't answer Arthur immediately. Instead, he leaned down. I saw his hand—the same hand that had gripped my waist with such hunger hours ago—reach for the edge of the drawer I’d left ajar.

He didn't pull it. He just rested his fingers on the wood.

"No," George said softly, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on my arms stand up. "I think I know exactly where the 'leak' is."

He went silent. Then, I heard the sound of the chair being pulled back. The heavy wheels rolled over the rug, exposing the space where I was huddled.

I didn't move. I couldn't. I looked up, and there he was.

George was sitting in the chair, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He didn't look angry. He looked... fascinated. Like an apex predator watching a rabbit try to hide in an open field.

"It's a bit cramped under there, don't you think, Ruthlyn?"

I crawled out slowly, my legs leaden, clutching the folder to my chest like a shield. I stood up, my knees shaking, and threw the file onto the desk between us.

"You didn't clear the debt," I rasped, my voice thick with a rage I didn't know I possessed. "You built it. You watched my father lose everything to your own gambling rings just so you could swoop in and play the hero."

George didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He reached out, his fingers tracing the edge of the file I’d thrown.

"I needed a wife, Ruthlyn. And you were the only one worth the effort of a trap."

"I'm a human being, George! Not a 'variable' for your Council induction!"

He stood up then, his height instantly making the room feel microscopic. He walked around the desk, stopping until he was so close I had to tilt my head back to look him in the eye. He reached out, his thumb catching a stray tear on my cheek, his touch as cold as the ice he was named for.

"In this city, everyone is a variable," he whispered, his eyes dark with a terrifying, possessive intensity. "The only difference is that you're my variable. And now that you've read that file... you realize there's no way out of this contract. Not for two years. Not ever."

He leaned in, his lips inches from my ear. "Sleep well, Ruthlyn. We have a Gala to attend tomorrow. Try to look like a woman who isn't planning my murder. It’ll be better for your father’s health."

He turned and walked out, the click of the lock finally engaging as the door closed behind him.

I stood in the dark library, the realization hitting me like a physical blow.

I wasn't standing beside the danger.

I wasn't even the target.

I was the prize in a game I didn't even know was being played.

And the King had no intention of letting me go.

Present Day

I blinked, the neon signs of the Gala venue snapping me back to the car. George was sitting perfectly still, his profile like a Roman statue.

He thinks I’m appalled by the "business." He doesn't realize I’m appalled by him. He has all the money in the world, yet he chose to let my family bleed just to ensure I’d be sitting in this car tonight.

"You're doing it again," George said, not even turning his head.

"Doing what?"

"Thinking. Your pulse is visible in your neck, Ruthlyn. It’s too fast. If the Lion Head sees you this agitated, he’ll think I can’t control my own household."

"Maybe you can't," I snapped. "Maybe buying someone doesn't mean you own their heart rate."

George’s POV

I watched the reflection of her eyes in the tinted glass. She was remembering last night. I could tell by the way her fingers dug into the velvet clutch in her lap.

She remembers a man who trapped her.

I remember a woman who, even in the middle of her terror, looked at me with more fire than anyone has in a decade. When I caught her under that desk, for a split second, I didn't want to be the "Ice Heir." I wanted to tell her the truth—that the gambling rings weren't just for profit, they were the Council's way of marking the city's weak points. I wanted to tell her that I "picked" her because she was the only part of Valerius City that didn't feel like a lie.

But I couldn't. To the Council, she is leverage. To me, she is the variable that is currently ruining my focus.

"Hand," I commanded as the car slowed to a crawl.

The paparazzi were already swarming the red carpet outside. The "Vultures" were waiting.

"Don't touch me," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"Ruthlyn," I leaned in, my voice dropping to a lethal, velvet growl. "Last night, you found out how I get what I want. Don't make me remind you in front of five hundred cameras. Give me your hand, smile like you’ve been waiting your whole life for this moment, and we might both survive the night."

She looked at me then—really looked at me—and for a heartbeat, the shipyard girl was gone. In her place was the Moretti bride. Cold. Beautiful. Lethal.

She placed her hand in mine, her nails digging slightly into my palm. A challenge.

"I'll play the part, George," she whispered as the door began to open. "But don't forget—I know exactly what's under the suit now. And I'm not afraid of the dark anymore."

The door swung open. The wall of camera flashes hit us like a physical blow.

I stepped out first, my hand firm on her waist, pulling her flush against my side. The roar of the crowd and the shouting of reporters filled the air, but all I could feel was the heat of her skin through the emerald silk.

"Master George! Master George! Is it true the wedding was private because of the pharmaceutical lawsuits?"

"Madam Moretti! Look this way!"

I ignored them all, my eyes fixed on the massive gold doors of the Cathedral Hall. Inside sat the Council. Inside sat my future.

And as we stepped onto the carpet, I realized with a jolt of genuine fear: I wasn't worried about the Council anymore. I was worried about the woman on my arm, and the fact that I’d rather burn the whole city down than let go of her hand.