Beneath the Mask

CHAPTER 2: THE SIGNATURE

Jennifer's point of view

"My dear," read the tiny print. Even attractive cages are secure.

The pen was frozen in my fingers as I looked up from the thick contract. Behind him, the city lights glowed like cold stars as Damien stood by his office's big glass window.

"You're warning me?" I inquired.

His jaw moved slowly and sharply. I'm allowing you to change your mind. The final one.

I ought to have left. I might still be able to. However, I recalled last night's message: You struck a bargain with the devil.

I kept it a secret from Damien. I wasn't certain if I could trust him. However, I was aware that I trusted my hunger more.

This was what I needed.

I looked down at the contract once again.

Cold words and hot rules on page after page:

• Make two public appearances every week.

• The penthouse is shared.

• No sentimental ties.

• No one publicly opposes physical touch.

• A complete year.

• No early departures.

• Confidentiality is necessary.

The lump in my throat was swallowed. "What would happen if I broke it?"

The money is then lost, as well as your profession. He didn't raise his voice. It wasn't required. The air was as cold as winter.

"My profession?"

You'll be placed on a blacklist. Silently. Indefinitely. You'd be shocked at how many galleries pay attention when I call.

His voice resembled silk around a sword. I raised my head once again. He remained at the window, taking in the city as if he owned it.

Perhaps he did.

I inhaled deeply before writing my name, Jennifer Hart, on the line.

Something unseen clamped down on my wrist with that pen stroke.

Damien turned around and said, "Congratulations." Officially, you are my wife on paper.

Sliding the contract inside a black folder, he approached me. I noticed a gold stamp—his family's crest—on the final page as he closed it.

A sword around a lion.

Excellent. Similar to him. Sharp, arrogant, and dangerous.

He said, "Pack your things." "You move in early tomorrow."

"Like that?"

He grinned. "What? Did you think I would introduce this to you gradually? You are now a part of my universe. Find out how fast it moves.

Holding the pen as if it had burned me, I slowly rose. "What should I say to Sophie?"

Tell her anything you want to say. Don't bring up the contract, though.

I entered the hallway when he opened the door. His voice was low as he trailed after me.

"Someone will come get you from now on. A vehicle. Dark. Windows with tints. Avoid talking to the driver. Avoid being late.

I said, "And if I am?"

He didn't respond.

He was not required to.

The air felt smaller, as if the walls had closed in on me, when I was back in my flat.

Sophie was sitting on the couch, watching reality TV with popcorn while sporting one of her goofy face masks.

She remarked, peering behind the mask, "You're home early."

I remained in Damien's reality while I stood at the entrance. "I want to share something with you."

She turned the television off. Avoid claiming to be pregnant. You're not even dating.

"No. Even worse. I'm... wed.

She blinked. Once. Twice. "To whom? How inebriated were you, too?

I let out a sigh. "To Damien Knight."

The dish of popcorn fell. Kernels were flying everywhere.

"Damien Knight? Damien—cold-faced, unsmiling, and broke?

"The one and only."

Sophie gazed at me. "You're telling lies."

"I'm not."

"But—you met him just now!"

"I understand."

"And you wed him?"

"Pretend to be married. It's because of...

"What kind of reasons lead you to commit yourself to such a man?"

I glanced down. "Let's just say I couldn't turn down his offer."

She got up, took off her mask, and gestured at me as if I were crazy. "Girl. It sounds like a thriller is about to begin. or a mystery involving murder, or both.

I made an effort to grin. "It is merely business."

"You don't get a kiss at the door from business. I witnessed it.

I fell silent.

Sophie's eyes narrowed. "He gave you a kiss as if it were significant."

I didn't respond. I was unable to. Because I have experienced it myself.

The following morning arrived too quickly.

As Damien had promised, a black sedan was waiting outside. The driver remained silent. With my bag at my side, I got into the rear seat.

As we drew up, we saw a towering, sky-kissing glass skyscraper.

Tower of Knights.

Before I could even touch the door, the doorman opened it. Before it dinged at the top, the elevator whooshed me up, floor after floor.

His penthouse.

I noticed it as the doors slid open.

Gold. Marble. chilly.

It was lovely.

It also wasn't familiar.

With his sleeves rolled up and a cup of coffee, Damien stood near the kitchen.

"Hello," he said. "The rules begin now."

I put my luggage down. "Rules?"

He raised one finger. "No visitors. Never.

"I got it."

"You sleep in the guest room, second."

"All right."

"Third..." His voice lowered as he approached. "When we're out in public, you grin. You pretend to adore me.

"I'm not even fond of you."

It doesn't matter. Everyone else ought to think you do.

His cell rang. After checking it, he turned back to face me. "The media was aware. Tonight, we're hosting a modest welcoming meal. My inner circle.

"Am I allowed to choose what I wear?"

"No. You'll find it in your room. He pivoted. "And something else."

I raised my head.

Once more, he was directly in front of me.

"Avoid entering the west hallway."

I scowled. "Why not?"

"It is not permitted."

"What's inside?"

His eyes grew icy. "You don't need to see anything."

I wandered about the penthouse in the afternoon. It was very silent. No music. No life.

Only walls, glass, and pricey stillness.

There was a dress in the guest room.

Red.

Close.

Lovely.

It still has the $8,500 tag on it.

When I touched it, my hands trembled.

I didn't own it.

I didn't own any of these.

I had signed the line, though. I accepted the offer.

I had to play the role now.

The private rooftop served as the venue for dinner. The city was shining below, and lights were twinkling overhead.

People grinned at me as if I were Damien's prize.

I returned the smile. Their names were unknown to me. They didn't give a damn.

However, I could hear murmurs.

"Is she the one?"

"She appears to be normal."

"She won't be here for a month."

Damien remained near. He never took his hand off the small of my back.

He gritted his teeth and said, "Play the part."

I grinned more broadly. "Your pals are a pleasure to have."

He grinned.

Then I noticed someone.

Standing near the balcony by himself is a man wearing a black suit. Not speaking, not consuming alcohol, simply observing me.

His gaze locked with mine.

chilly.

Sharp.

Known?

He gave one nod. As if he were familiar with me.

I hadn't seen him before, though.

Correct?

Later that evening, the red dress hung on my body like a flame as I stood by my room's window.

Outside, the wind howled.

Below, the metropolis throbbed.

I heard it after that.

A click.

from the corridor.

The guest wing, no.

The corridor to the west.

With a thumping heart, I turned slowly.

I entered the dimly lit hallway. Not a sound. Not a move.

Then I noticed it.

At the end is a door.

Open a little.

I stepped forward.

Nearer.

Inside, the light flickered.

And inside... My face was seen.

It wasn't a mirror, though.

It was a painting.

enormous.

Lovely.

And behind it— Letters, photos, and files.

It's all about me.

My early years. My educational institutions. My foster residences.

private matters.

How did all of this come to him?

I heard his voice before I touched anything.

"I said this hallway was off limits, didn't I?"

I turned around.

At the door, Damien stood.

Unreadable expression.

Speak quietly.

However, eyes—Raging.