The billionaire's Curse Bride

A Deal with Shadows The weight of the wedding band on Liana Hayes' finger felt heavier than it should. As she sat in the backseat of the black limousine, watching the towering Blackwood estate come into view, a strange chill crawled up her spine. She had made a choice. Six months of marriage in exchange for enough wealth to erase years of struggle. And yet, as the car rolled past the towering iron gates, an unsettling whisper in the wind seemed to ask: Was it worth it? The Blackwood mansion stood like a forgotten relic of another era. Gothic spires stretched toward the sky, their edges sharp against the storm-heavy clouds. Twisting vines curled around stone pillars, and gargoyle statues lined the entrance, their hollow eyes staring down as if warning her to turn back. Liana inhaled sharply, her grip tightening around the bouquet in her lap. This wasn’t a dream wedding. There had been no white doves, no soft music, no loving vows. Just a courthouse, a cold signature, and Damian Blackwood’s unreadable gaze as he slid the ring onto her finger. A business transaction. Nothing more. Yet, something felt wrong. The limousine came to a slow stop, and before Liana could steady herself, the driver stepped out and opened her door. “Madam,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. Madam. The word sat uneasily on her tongue. Stepping out, her heels clicked against the damp cobblestone driveway. The air smelled of rain and something faintly metallic. She turned toward the entrance as the heavy oak doors creaked open. A woman in her late fifties stood in the doorway. Dressed in a crisp black dress, her silver-streaked hair was pulled into a tight bun. She was tall, her frame rigid with the kind of discipline that came from years of service. But it was her eyes that unsettled Liana—steel-gray and assessing, as if peeling back her skin to see what lay beneath. "Mrs. Blackwood," the woman greeted. Her voice was smooth, yet firm. “Welcome to Blackwood Manor.” Liana swallowed. The name didn’t feel like hers. The woman stepped aside, motioning her in. Liana hesitated for a fraction of a second before crossing the threshold. The moment she did, a cold shiver ran through her body—an invisible force pressing against her skin, whispering against her bones. Something in this house did not want her here. The Man She Married The entrance hall was cavernous, its high ceiling adorned with an intricate chandelier that barely cast enough light to soften the mansion’s dark ambiance. Shadows stretched long across the marble floor, flickering as if alive. A grand staircase curled toward the upper floors, its steps lined with an elaborate crimson carpet. At the far end of the room, a fireplace crackled, yet the warmth did little to chase away the eerie chill that clung to the air. Liana was still absorbing the unsettling grandeur when a deep voice broke the silence. "You’re late." Her breath hitched. Damian Blackwood stood at the base of the staircase, watching her with eyes that burned like molten silver. Her husband. He was dressed in a tailored black suit, the fabric hugging his broad frame effortlessly. Even in the dim light, there was something striking about him—sharp cheekbones, a jawline carved from stone, and lips set in an almost permanent scowl. But it wasn’t his beauty that unsettled her. It was the way the shadows around him seemed to move, bending toward his presence as if drawn to him. "I—" Liana cleared her throat, lifting her chin slightly. "Traffic." A lie. The real reason she had hesitated outside the gates was the growing sense of unease that coiled in her stomach. Damian studied her, his gaze dipping briefly to the bouquet she still held. “There’s no need for that,” he said, voice indifferent. Liana glanced down at the delicate white roses in her grip, their petals still fresh despite the rain-slicked air. It was the only beautiful thing about this entire day. She set them down on the nearby table, suddenly feeling foolish for holding onto something symbolic in a marriage that had none. Damian stepped closer. It took everything in Liana not to move back. "You know the rules of our contract," he murmured. "You’ll stay here, play the role, and in six months, you’ll leave with everything you were promised." His voice was void of emotion, but there was something else underneath it. Something dark. "And in return?" she asked, though she already knew the answer. "You belong to me until then." The words sent an inexplicable shudder through her. Not because of the possessiveness in them, but because, deep down, she wondered if she had just signed away more than her freedom. Maybe she had signed away her soul. A House of Secrets Dinner was served in eerie silence. The long mahogany table stretched across the dining hall, illuminated only by the flickering glow of the candelabra at its center. Liana sat at one end, Damian at the other. The distance between them felt intentional. She forced herself to eat, though every bite tasted like paper. Across from her, Damian moved with effortless grace, sipping his wine with an air of practiced indifference. It was almost normal—almost. Until she heard it. A whisper. Soft. Faint. Like a breath against the nape of her neck. Liana froze, her fingers tightening around her fork. Slowly, she turned her head, scanning the room. Nothing. But the feeling remained—a presence lingering just beyond her sight. "You're pale," Damian observed, breaking the silence. "Are you feeling unwell?" Liana hesitated. Admitting she had just heard a voice when no one was there felt ridiculous. "I'm fine," she lied. Damian’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he resumed eating. But Liana couldn't shake the feeling that someone—or something—was watching her. The Warning That night, after dinner, Liana was led to her room by the same gray-eyed woman who had greeted her earlier. "Mrs. Blackwood," the woman said as they reached the doorway, "my name is Margaret. If you need anything, call for me." Liana hesitated before speaking. "How long have you worked here?" Margaret’s face remained impassive. "Many years." "Then you must know about the curse," Liana pressed, testing the waters. Margaret’s fingers twitched. For the first time, emotion flickered in her gaze—something dangerously close to fear. "Goodnight, Mrs. Blackwood," she said curtly, before turning and walking away. Liana stepped into her room, shutting the door behind her. The air inside was heavy. As she moved toward the window, the wind outside howled, rattling the panes like a warning. She was about to turn when— A soft creak. Liana whipped around. The closet door had shifted open, just an inch. Her pulse thundered. Slowly, she stepped forward, reaching out with a hesitant hand. She gripped the handle. Took a breath. And pulled it open. Nothing. Just a vast emptiness filled with her new wardrobe. She exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to her chest. Get a grip, Liana. Turning back toward the bed, she caught sight of something in the mirror. A shadow. Standing right behind her. A strangled gasp tore from her lips as she spun around— But there was nothing there. Just the empty room. Just the whispering wind. Yet, deep in her bones, Liana knew one thing for certain. She was not alone.