Chapter 2 SIGNED IN
1536 Words
Ava didn’t sleep.
She sat at her tiny kitchen table until dawn, the black folder open in front of her like a loaded gun. Page after page of cold, legal language. Non-disclosure agreements. Public appearance schedules. Separate bedrooms. No expectation of intimacy—unless mutually agreed. A five-million-dollar payout on the day the divorce papers were filed.
It was insane. Degrading. Unthinkable.
Yet every time she tried to close the folder and throw it away, she saw Grandma Rose’s pale face, heard the weak whisper: *I’ve lived a full life.*
By six a.m., her hand was steady enough to sign.
Ava Thompson, in neat, furious script.
She snapped a photo of the signed pages and texted them to the number Marcus had given her. The reply came instantly:
**Marcus:** Car will arrive at nine. Pack for an extended stay. All medical bills have been transferred to Mr. Blackwood’s account. Surgery scheduled for tomorrow morning.
Ava stared at the message until the screen went dark.
She packed two suitcases—everything she owned that wasn’t cheap or sentimental. By eight-thirty, she’d said goodbye to her tiny apartment, leaving the keys with her neighbor for the plants.
The same black Rolls-Royce pulled up at nine sharp.
Marcus opened the door himself this time. “Good morning, Miss Thompson.”
“It’s Mrs. Blackwood now, apparently,” she muttered, sliding into the back seat.
Marcus didn’t reply, but she caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
The drive to Manhattan’s Upper East Side took less than twenty minutes, but it felt like crossing into another universe. The car turned into a private underground garage beneath a gleaming skyscraper of glass and steel.
A private elevator whisked them straight to the penthouse.
When the doors opened, Ava’s breath caught.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the entire city—Central Park a green blanket below, the skyline glittering beyond. The space was enormous, minimalist, and expensive: white marble floors, black leather furniture, abstract art that probably cost more than her yearly salary.
And there, leaning against the kitchen island with a cup of coffee, was Alexander Blackwood.
He was dressed casually—dark jeans, a charcoal sweater that hugged his broad chest—but he still looked like power personified. His gray eyes tracked her every move as Marcus carried her suitcases inside.
“Welcome home, wife,” he said, voice low and laced with dry amusement.
Ava’s chin lifted. “Let’s get one thing straight. This is a business arrangement. I’m here for one year. Don’t get comfortable calling me that.”
Alexander set his cup down and walked toward her slowly. He stopped just close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.
“You signed the contract, Ava. For the next three hundred and sixty-five days, you are my wife. In public, you will smile, touch my arm, laugh at my jokes. You will convince the world we’re blissfully in love.”
“And in private?” she challenged.
“In private,” he said, eyes darkening, “we keep it civil. You have your own room, your own space. I won’t touch you unless you ask me to.”
Heat flashed through her at the way he said it—calm, controlled, but with an undercurrent that made her skin prickle.
“I won’t be asking,” she snapped.
A ghost of a smile. “We’ll see.”
He turned to Marcus. “Show her to her suite.”
Marcus led her down a hallway lined with more art. Her “suite” was bigger than her entire old apartment: a king-sized bed with crisp white linens, walk-in closet already stocked with designer clothes in her exact size—someone had clearly done research—a private bathroom with a soaking tub, and the same stunning city view.
“Your belongings have been unpacked,” Marcus said. “Mr. Blackwood requests your presence for lunch at one. There’s a charity luncheon we’re expected to attend as a couple—our first public appearance. Your outfit is on the bed.”
He left quietly.
Ava stared at the emerald-green dress laid out—elegant, off-the-shoulder, expensive. A diamond necklace and earrings sat beside it.
She wanted to hate it. She really did.
But the fabric felt like silk against her fingers, and when she tried it on… it fit perfectly. Too perfectly.
At one o’clock, she walked back into the living area.
Alexander was waiting, now in a tailored navy suit that made him look even more devastating. His gaze swept over her slowly, appreciatively, before meeting her eyes.
“You look beautiful,” he said simply.
“Don’t,” she warned.
He held up his hands. “Just practicing for the cameras.”
The luncheon was at a rooftop restaurant overlooking the park. Paparazzi were already waiting outside—somehow tipped off.
Alexander stepped out of the car first, then turned and offered his hand.
Ava hesitated for half a second before taking it. His grip was warm, firm.
Cameras flashed like lightning.
“Mr. Blackwood! Who’s the lucky lady?”
“Alexander, over here!”
He pulled her close, arm sliding around her waist possessively. To the world, it looked intimate. To her, it felt like a brand.
“Everyone,” he said smoothly, smiling for the cameras, “meet my wife, Ava Blackwood.”
Gasps. Shouts. Questions fired rapid-fire.
“When did this happen?”
“Secret wedding?”
“How long have you been together?”
Alexander laughed—a deep, genuine-sounding laugh that surprised her. “We’ve kept it quiet for months. But now that the ring’s on her finger…” He lifted her left hand, showing off the massive diamond that had mysteriously appeared there that morning. “We’re ready to share our happiness.”
Ava forced a smile, leaning into him just enough to sell it.
Inside the restaurant, heads turned. Whispers followed them to their table.
Victoria Langford was already there—Alexander’s ex, a stunning blonde heiress in red. Her eyes narrowed the moment she saw Ava on his arm.
“Alexander,” she purred, standing to kiss his cheek. “And… who is this?”
“My wife,” he said again, the word rolling off his tongue like he enjoyed it.
Victoria’s smile froze. “Wife? Since when?”
“Recently,” Ava said coolly, meeting her stare. “Very recently.”
They sat. Conversation buzzed around them—congratulations, questions, speculation.
Alexander played the doting husband perfectly: hand on the back of her chair, leaning in to murmur in her ear, refilling her glass.
Every touch sent sparks across her skin, no matter how much she tried to ignore it.
Under the table, his thumb brushed her knee—accidental? Intentional? She jerked slightly, and his lips curved.
By the time dessert arrived, Ava’s nerves were frayed.
Victoria leaned forward. “So, Ava, what do you do? Model? Influencer?”
“I’m a marketing executive,” Ava replied evenly.
Victoria laughed lightly. “How… quaint. Alexander usually dates women in his own league.”
“Victoria,” Alexander warned, voice low.
But Ava smiled sweetly. “Funny. I thought marrying a billionaire put me exactly in his league.”
A few gasps. Then laughter from some of the men.
Victoria’s face flushed.
Alexander’s hand tightened on Ava’s thigh under the table—not in warning, but something that felt dangerously like approval.
The ride home was silent.
In the elevator, Ava finally spoke. “Your ex is charming.”
“She’s irrelevant,” he said.
“She doesn’t think so.”
He turned to face her as the doors opened to the penthouse. “She’ll get the message eventually. Especially when the world sees how devoted I am to my wife.”
Ava stepped past him. “Just remember—this is fake.”
Alexander caught her wrist gently, stopping her.
His voice was quiet. “For now.”
Her pulse jumped. She pulled free and walked to her room without looking back, heart racing.
That night, she lay in the massive bed, staring at the ceiling.
She was married to Alexander Blackwood.
Living in his home.
Wearing his ring.
And the worst part?
A tiny, traitorous part of her had felt a thrill when he’d called her beautiful.
When his hand had rested on her waist.
When he’d looked at her like she was the only woman in the room.
She hated him.
She did.
But as sleep finally pulled her under, the last thing she felt was the ghost of his touch on her skin.
And across the hall, in his own room, Alexander stood at the window, staring out at the city lights.
He’d gone into this with a plan: a convenient marriage, no emotions, full control of his empire.
But one day in, and Ava Thompson was already under his skin.
Her fire. Her strength. The way she challenged him without fear.
He’d told himself he chose her because she hated him—because she wouldn’t fall in love.
But now?
He wasn’t so sure.
And that terrified him more than losing his company ever could
- Writer
