His Contract Bride

CHAPTER THREE

The house was too quiet.

Lila wandered through her new bedroom like a guest in someone else’s life. Everything felt pristine, untouched. Like no one had ever lived here—just existed.

She ran her hand across the velvet armchair near the fireplace. Even the fabrics felt expensive. Everything in this place screamed power and money.

Except her.

She still wore the navy dress from earlier, but someone—probably the housekeeper—had unpacked her suitcase. Her meager possessions looked almost sad inside the massive closet. A few books. Two sweaters. One worn pair of jeans.

She hugged herself as the weight of it all settled in. She was married now. To a man who didn’t know her. Didn’t care to. And still, he owned her fate for the next six months.

Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since her slice of toast yesterday. But pride kept her rooted where she was.

She didn’t want to face him yet.

Not until she figured out how to look him in the eye without feeling like she’d sold her soul.

A knock at the door shattered the silence.

She stiffened. “Come in?”

The door opened and Damien stood in the frame.

No suit jacket. No tie. Just a white shirt rolled to his elbows and dark slacks. His hair was slightly tousled like he’d run his hands through it after a long day of controlling the world.

“I thought you’d be at dinner,” he said, stepping inside. “There’s a formal meal every night. Unless you’d prefer something in your room.”

She met his gaze. “I wasn’t sure if I was allowed.”

He raised a brow. “You’re my wife now. You don’t need permission to eat.”

The word wife settled between them like a challenge.

“I’ll remember that,” she said, voice quiet but firm.

He nodded toward the hallway. “Come downstairs. There’s food. And we need to talk.”

Something about the way he said that made her stomach twist more than the hunger.

Still, she followed him.

The dining room looked like it belonged in a palace. A long mahogany table stretched the length of the room, with enough chairs for twenty guests. Tonight, it was just the two of them.

Lila sat across from Damien, too far to make eye contact feel natural, too close to pretend he wasn’t watching her.

The chef brought out roasted salmon, wild rice, and sautéed vegetables. Lila’s eyes widened, but she tried to keep her composure. She wasn’t used to eating like this—or being served.

She took small bites at first, not sure if it was a test.

Damien didn’t touch his food right away. He simply watched her.

“You don’t eat like someone who’s starving,” he said.

She set her fork down. “You watching me eat is a little creepy.”

His lips twitched—just the barest hint of amusement—but it was gone as quickly as it came.

“I needed to see how easily you adjust. You’re going to be in public with me. High society, press events, charity galas. They’ll be watching for weakness.”

Lila blinked. “You want me to be your puppet, then? Look pretty, stay quiet, and play the perfect wife?”

“You’re not here to be a puppet,” he said calmly. “You’re here to be convincing. I don’t do scandals. And I certainly don’t make mistakes.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “Thanks for the reminder.”

He leaned back in his chair, wine glass in hand, studying her like she was a puzzle he hadn’t decided whether to solve or shelve.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said finally.

“Poor enough to be desperate but not meek enough to stay silent?” she asked dryly.

His eyes flickered with something unreadable. “Exactly.”

A beat passed.

Lila picked up her fork again, trying not to show how shaky her hands were. “What happens now? Do I get a schedule of events? A script? Practice interviews?”

“There’s a charity gala Friday night. Black tie. You’ll need a dress. My assistant will handle the arrangements.”

“This Friday?” she choked. “That’s in four days.”

“You’ll manage,” he said. “You’re intelligent. Or did you want me to hire someone to train you to act like a proper wife?”

His words weren’t cruel—but they were cold.

“Wouldn’t want me to embarrass you,” she muttered.

“No,” Damien said simply. “I wouldn’t.”

She looked up, finally meeting his eyes full-on. “Why do this, Damien? Why not just hire an actress or find someone who wants to be here?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he set down his glass and stood.

“Because actresses want fame. Real wives want money. And most women who want me do so for reasons I don’t respect.”

Her breath caught at the way he said it—like desire was a weakness he’d long since stopped tolerating.

“And me?” she asked, softer now. “What am I?”

“A means to an end,” he said bluntly. “But at least you’re honest about it.”

Lila stood too, pushing her chair back with more force than she intended.

“I may have married you out of desperation,” she said, voice tight, “but I still have pride. I didn’t ask for your charity. And I won’t be spoken to like I’m beneath you.”

His eyes narrowed, the mask slipping slightly. “You live in my house. You wear my ring. Don’t mistake this for equality.”

“No,” she said, holding his gaze. “It’s a contract. That’s all. And don’t worry, I’ll play my part. I’ll smile, I’ll wear the dress, and I’ll lie for the cameras. But I won’t be your doormat.”

For a moment, they simply stared at each other. The silence buzzed with tension—not attraction, not yet—but the kind that sparks before a fire starts.

Then Damien stepped back, straightened his cufflinks, and gave her a curt nod.

“Good. I hate doormats.”

Without another word, he turned and left the room.

Later that night, Lila lay awake in her massive bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Her chest still burned from the confrontation, but a strange sense of clarity came with it. Damien might own the house. He might control the narrative.

But he didn’t own her.

And if he thought she’d be easy to break, he was in for a surprise.

The bedroom door creaked as someone pushed a folder through the gap. Lila sat up and picked it up.

Inside was her schedule for the week.

At the bottom, typed in neat black letters, was a single line:

Friday, 7:30 p.m. | Blackwood Foundation Charity Gala

All eyes will be on you. Wear confidence.

She stared at the words, heart pounding.

This wasn’t just a test.

It was a battlefield.

And she was done walking on eggshells.