Chapter One: The Vows We Never Meant
1211 Words
The sound of camera shutters clicking echoed through the private hall like gunfire. Flash after flash captured a lie, frozen in time—a love story that never existed.
Aria stood at the altar of St. Augustine’s Cathedral, dressed in a custom Vera Wang gown worth more than her entire life savings. Her back was straight, her face calm, her smile... practiced. Next to her, Damian Blackwood stood in a black tuxedo like he was made of marble—sharp lines, unreadable eyes, and not a flicker of emotion betraying him.
They looked perfect.
Picture-perfect.
And yet, not a single thing about this moment was real.
The priest cleared his throat. “Do you, Damian Blackwood, take Aria Monroe to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold—”
“I do,” Damian said, crisp and automatic.
Aria didn’t turn to look at him.
She knew that tone. The same one he used when signing contracts or dismissing assistants.
The priest’s gaze shifted. “And do you, Aria Monroe, take Damian Blackwood—”
“I do.”
The words burned her tongue like acid.
The rings were slid onto their fingers—cold, heavy, foreign.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
The air seemed to stall.
Aria’s heart thumped once, loudly, as Damian leaned in. His face was a mask. No heat, no softness. Just control.
He brushed his lips against hers with mechanical precision.
It lasted a second.
But it stole her breath anyway.
Not because it felt romantic. But because it felt like surrender.
The guests clapped. Cameras flashed.
And just like that, Aria Monroe was gone.
Mrs. Aria Blackwood had taken her place.
The wedding reception was held in the rooftop ballroom of the Blackwood Grand, one of the tallest hotels in Manhattan. Chandeliers sparkled above a sea of designer gowns and tuxedos. Waiters floated like shadows, offering vintage wine and appetizers on silver trays.
Aria stood near the edge of the crowd, champagne untouched in her hand.
From afar, it looked like she belonged—elegant, poised, the perfect socialite wife. But inside, she was drowning.
Every congratulations felt like a dagger. Every smile from strangers felt like mockery. The pianist in the corner played soft classical music, and it sounded like a funeral.
“Why aren’t you mingling?”
His voice was smooth as scotch, right behind her.
She turned slightly. “Because I don’t feel like pretending to be something I’m not.”
Damian’s expression didn’t change. “You signed up to pretend. You said you understood the rules.”
“I understand just fine,” she said, voice low. “But I didn’t think it would feel this... hollow.”
He stepped closer, his cologne subtle but intoxicating.
“Then fill the emptiness, Aria. Smile. Laugh. Play the part. For one year, you belong to this world.”
She turned to him, tilting her chin defiantly. “And after that?”
“You’ll have your money. Your freedom. And your father, healthy.”
His words were like ice cubes down her spine—practical, emotionless.
She wanted to slap him.
Instead, she lifted her glass and gave a mock toast. “To love, lies, and lucrative contracts.”
He didn’t flinch.
“Careful, wife,” he murmured. “You're becoming interesting.”
By midnight, the guests were gone, the music had faded, and the city lights below glowed like embers.
A black Rolls-Royce waited outside, sleek and silent.
Damian opened the door without a word.
Aria slid in beside him, the weight of the wedding band on her finger growing heavier by the second. The car moved without a sound, gliding through the city like a predator in the dark.
She glanced at him.
He sat like a statue, hand resting on his thigh, eyes fixed out the window.
“What happens now?” she asked.
“You move into the Blackwood Estate. Permanently.”
She swallowed. “And where do I sleep?”
He looked at her then. Just once. “In the East Wing. Far from mine.”
The words shouldn’t have stung.
But they did.
The Blackwood Estate was less of a home and more of a fortress—ten bedrooms, marble floors, a library that smelled like old money, and walls too high to see over.
Aria’s new room was as big as her entire apartment back in Queens. There was a fireplace already lit, a walk-in closet filled with designer clothes she hadn’t picked, and a view of the Hudson River that shimmered under the moonlight.
But it felt sterile.
Like a gilded cage.
There was a knock at the door just as she was removing her earrings.
A maid entered, bowing slightly. “Mr. Blackwood requests your presence in the study.”
Aria hesitated.
Was he going to lay down more rules? Ask for signatures? Remind her again of how transactional this all was?
Still, she followed.
The study was dimly lit, filled with books and the scent of scotch. Damian stood by the fireplace, hands in his pockets.
He didn’t look at her when he spoke.
“I know this isn’t what you wanted. But you agreed to it.”
She crossed her arms. “You gave me no choice.”
He turned to her then. “There’s always a choice. You made yours.”
She held his gaze. “Do you enjoy reminding people of their desperation?”
“No,” he said. “I enjoy reminding them of the cost of freedom.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then he walked toward the desk and placed a small envelope on it.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“An account in your name. It has enough to pay off your father’s treatment. The rest of the payments will come in installments.”
She stared at it.
This was what she had agreed to. Security. Stability. A chance to save her father.
But as she looked at the man in front of her—so guarded, so cold—she wondered if she’d sold her soul to the devil himself.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly.
Damian studied her. “You can hate me if it helps. Just don’t forget the rules.”
“I know,” she said. “No touching. No emotions. No real marriage.”
“Exactly.”
She nodded once and left.
But even with her back turned, she could feel his eyes following her—like he was waiting for her to fall apart.
She didn’t cry that night.
Instead, Aria lay awake in the massive bed, staring at the ceiling. Her wedding dress hung from a mannequin in the corner, a haunting reminder of everything she’d traded.
She had no illusions.
This wasn’t a fairy tale.
This was survival.
But deep down, a flicker of defiance sparked to life.
She wouldn’t just be a pawn in Damian Blackwood’s game.
He thought she was weak.
He thought he could control her.
But he didn’t know the first thing about her.
And by the time this year was over, she wouldn’t be the only one changed.
Because Aria Monroe had married the cold-hearted billionaire...
And she had no intention of leaving with a frozen heart.
- Writer
