Coldest Fire
1190 Words
The kiss ended, but the heat didn’t.
Dominic stepped back, his expression unreadable as he ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair like something had shifted. Or snapped.
Then just as quickly, it was gone. The crack in the armor sealed.
“We’ll keep up appearances for the press,” he said, voice like smooth glass over ice. “No scandals. No slip-ups. You’re my wife now. Don’t forget it.”
I stared at him, the warmth of his mouth still on mine, his words colder than a blizzard.
“Is that all I am to you? A business decision?” I asked.
His jaw flexed, and he turned to pour another drink. The expensive scotch glinted like liquid gold in the glass.
“You’re a Grant by name. A Blackwell by contract. Don’t confuse that with romance.”
A contract. That’s what this was to him. And yet, that kiss had said something else entirely.
I moved to the mirror and looked at my reflection. My lipstick was smudged. My eyes held things I didn’t want to unpack. Regret. Desire. Shame.
I had always known Dominic was cold, ice in a thousand-dollar suit but I hadn’t expected his distance to burn this much.
“Why me, Dominic?” I whispered.
He looked at me through the mirror, those sharp, storm-gray eyes meeting mine. “Because Camilla would have destroyed everything. And you were the only one smart enough not to.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You want honesty?” He stepped closer, setting his drink down with a soft clink. “Fine. I didn’t pick you because of love, Elena. I picked you because I knew you wouldn’t ruin me.”
I turned, stunned silent.
“I’ve watched you,” he continued, voice lower now. “You never speak unless necessary. You don’t drink too much. You don’t chase attention. And unlike her, you don’t lie with every breath.”
My throat tightened. “So I’m convenient.”
“You’re stable.”
“And you’re heartless.”
He didn’t blink. “Heartless men don’t survive in my world.”
For a second, I hated him.
For a second, I wanted him even more.
⸻
The next morning, the penthouse felt too big for two people who didn’t speak.
Dominic had already left for a meeting by the time I came out of the guest bedroom. Yes, he made it clear we would not share a room.
Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper, gave me a small nod as she cleared the breakfast table.
“He had to fly to Tokyo. Emergency with the Tokyo firm. Left at 4 AM.”
Of course he did.
I sat down at the marble island and stared at the untouched croissants. The ring on my finger sparkled with the arrogance of everything I never asked for.
My phone buzzed. It was a message from Dominic.
New stylist arriving at noon. You’re expected at the Blackwell Foundation Gala tonight. Wear red. And smile.
— Dominic
Not a good morning. Not a have you eaten. Not a how do you feel after marrying your sister’s fiancé while she crashed the ceremony in a fury of eyeliner and vengeance.
Just a command.
I almost threw the phone across the room.
But I didn’t.
Because I knew how to play quiet. How to play obedient. I had done it my entire life.
And maybe now was the time to stop.
⸻
By the time the stylist left, I barely recognized myself.
The gown was a deep crimson satin, molded to my body like a sin. The slit ran high up my leg, the neckline dipped just low enough to make someone wonder. My hair was in soft curls. My lips were painted the color of blood and secrets.
I looked like Camilla. Or at least the version of her they loved in society pages.
When Dominic arrived home just past six, he stopped in the doorway. His brows lifted, the only indication he was surprised.
“You clean up well.”
I turned to him, arching a brow. “That’s your way of saying I’m beautiful?”
“It’s my way of saying you’ll survive tonight.”
He moved past me to grab his cufflinks. He wore a tailored black tuxedo that hugged his frame like a second skin. Every inch of him screamed control, money, danger.
I swallowed. “What exactly is tonight?”
“A feeding frenzy. Press. Investors. Enemies. Smile, speak little, and don’t drink.”
“Anything else, my lord?”
His eyes flicked to mine. “Yes. Don’t run.”
⸻
The gala was held at the Blackwell Hotel, twenty floors below the penthouse.
A ballroom filled with chandeliers, gold detailing, and enough secrets to drown in.
As soon as we entered, flashes went off.
“Dominic! Elena! Over here!”
“Is it true you replaced the bride last minute?”
“Dominic, is Camilla Grant still missing?”
He didn’t flinch. He simply slid an arm around my waist and pulled me in so close I could feel the fabric of his tux against my skin.
“She’s my wife,” he said calmly. “That’s all anyone needs to know.”
The crowd hushed.
He kissed my cheek. To them, it was affection.
To me, it was a warning.
Smile. Say nothing.
I played my part. I shook hands. I laughed politely. I danced once. I smiled until my cheeks ached. But my mind was spinning with questions.
What game was Dominic really playing?
And why did I feel like I was falling into something deeper than just a fake marriage?
⸻
Later that night, after the music faded and the last guest had been escorted out, I stood on the balcony of the penthouse. My bare feet touched cold marble. The night breeze wrapped around me like a whisper.
I didn’t hear him approach.
“You handled it better than I expected,” Dominic said.
“I’ve been surviving your world longer than you think.”
He moved beside me, his presence looming but oddly comforting.
“I meant what I said,” he added. “Don’t run.”
I looked up at him. “Why? Are you afraid I’ll leave?”
“No.” He met my gaze. “I’m afraid you’ll look for love where there isn’t any. And end up broken.”
That hurt. More than it should have.
“Don’t worry,” I said, voice tight. “I stopped believing in love the day you kissed me and made it feel like punishment.”
He looked at me for a long moment, and for the first time, I saw it.
The flicker of something behind all that steel. Regret. Maybe fear. Or something he couldn’t name.
“Good,” he finally said. “Then we won’t disappoint each other.”
And with that, he walked away.
Leaving me alone. Wearing a ring I never asked for.
In a marriage I never truly chose.
With a man I couldn’t help but want, even as he built walls higher than I could ever climb.
- Writer
