Contracted Hearts

New Walls

Fog curled around the tires as the dark sedan wound up the quiet drive, far-off streetlamps flickering like faint stars. Her eyes stayed fixed on the glass, thoughts tangled in what she’d agreed to do. One full turn of seasons now stretched ahead, shaped by that choice.

A shape of glass and stone stood ahead, the Blackwood house looming into view. Cold air seemed to seep from its walls, stunning to see yet distant somehow - less a place to live, more a gilded trap wrapped in silence.

Out came Theodore Blackwood, reaching for her fingers without a word. Her palm met his - warmth lingered just long enough. Twelve months here - that truth settled between them as he spoke

A hush fell as they stepped past the threshold. High above, the ceiling vanished into shadow, cold marble underfoot stretching like a frozen lake. Art hung on walls - simple shapes, quiet tones, each piece surely priced beyond reason. Standing still near a doorway, a woman in a stiff white coat watched, her posture sharp, age lining her face.

“Mrs. Whitaker, the head housekeeper,” Theodore said. “She will show you to your suite in the west wing.”

Upstairs went Eleanor behind Mrs. Whitaker, step by step on the wide staircase. Stunning waited the suite ahead - walls painted calm creams mixed with quiet blues. Centered stood a big bed fit for royalty, covered in smooth silk that shimmered under light. Nearby sat a bathroom carved in marble, holding a tub meant for long baths. Inside one room stretched a closet full of high-end clothes, every piece made to match her shape perfectly.

“Mr. Blackwood had everything prepared this afternoon,” Mrs. Whitaker said gently. “Dinner will be served in the main dining room in thirty minutes.”

After the housekeeper walked out, Eleanor pulled on a plain dark blue dress that somehow looked graceful. Her eyes locked onto the glass hanging on the wall. That last name - Blackwood - sat wrong, as if borrowed from a stranger she had never met.

Half an hour passed before she stepped into the grand dining space. At the far end of the dark wooden table, Theodore waited, already in place. Light danced from the candles, casting shadows where words should have been. The space between them felt wider than the room.

He stood as she approached. “You look appropriate for the role.”

Eleanor sat down. “Is that the best compliment you can give your new wife?”

“This is not a real marriage,” he reminded her coolly as the first course was served - seared scallops with a delicate sauce. “It’s a contract. The sooner you remember that, the easier this year will be.”

Food moved slowly across their plates. Each scrape of metal on porcelain rang out like a warning inside the empty space.

Eleanor finally broke it. “We’re going to live together for a full year. Are we really supposed to eat every meal in complete silence like strangers?”

Theodore took a sip of wine. “I prefer quiet. It allows for clear thinking.”

“Or it allows you to avoid feeling anything,” Eleanor countered, meeting his dark eyes. “I’m not one of your employees, Theodore. I’m your contractual wife. We should at least be able to have a civil conversation.”

He set his glass down. “Very well. Tell me about your work as a nurse before everything fell apart.”

Out of nowhere, Eleanor began describing her days at the hospital - those stretched-out hours, the people she tried so hard to keep alive, the quiet meaning found in gripping a dying person's fingers. Silence sat between them while Theodore stayed still, eyes giving nothing away.

When she finished, she turned the question back to him. “And you? What does the cold-hearted CEO do when he’s not buying temporary wives?”

A faint twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth. “I work. I protect the empire my parents left behind. I make sure Leopold never gets his hands on it. And I survive my grandfather’s endless tests of loyalty.”

Out of nowhere, that ache returned. For a heartbeat, his voice lost its edge when he spoke about his mother and father.

The filet mignon landed on the table, warm and precise. While eating, words slipped out in bits. Not much at once. Topics rose - how things should run. What might happen next. How people ought to act where others can see. Each thought came slow, like breath after a long pause.

Before dessert, Eleanor looked at him directly. “Do you ever smile, Theodore? Or is that against the contract too?”

Across the flickering glow, his eyes lingered on hers. Smiles come through effort, he said, never by agreement

Out of nowhere, silence followed those last words, thick with unspoken weight. A moment passed - just one - when his gaze shifted, revealing curiosity wrapped in caution.

Dinner ended. Theodore stood. “Goodnight. Your wing is yours. Remember the rules. They protect us both.”

Off he went, silence trailing behind.

Staring into the wavering candlelight, Eleanor stayed seated. The house pressed down on her, heavy like the wedding band she wore. Him too - part of it all, tangled up in the weight.

Back in her suite, she lowered herself onto the bed's edge. Around her, the big house stayed quiet too long. Her mind drifted to that small apartment, then to the hospital rotations, everything gone now after just two days.

Out of nowhere, a gentle tap came from the doorway. In walked Mrs. Whitaker, carrying a tray in both hands. Tea, she figured, would be good for Mrs. Blackwood right about now - just before sleep took over

“Thank you,” Eleanor said quietly. “You can call me Eleanor.”

The housekeeper smiled kindly. “It will take some getting used to for all of us.”

Out beyond the glass, city lights blinked like tired eyes while Eleanor held her cup. The man whose name she’d learned only yesterday kept himself locked behind silence, sharp where it showed yet shaped by old wounds. A whole twelve months stretched ahead inside these walls because of one decision made long before today.

A full twelve months dressed up for everyone to see.

One year of pretending.

Twelve months spent stepping carefully around feelings for someone who said, straight up, romance wasn’t happening. A slow stretch of time where every glance felt like crossing a line he’d already drawn. Moments piled up - quiet ones, loud ones - all leading nowhere by design. His words hung there, unchanging, while hope kept creeping back anyway. Each day brought another chance to remember what was never on offer. Silence between them grew heavier than any promise ever could. Still, something lingered beneath the surface, stubborn as breath.

The cup sat empty beside her when the room went dark. Lying there on sheets that felt strange against her skin, a quiet voice broke the silence - “One year. That is all it takes.”

Still, beneath it all, a quiet knowing lingered - making it out alive after facing Theodore Blackwood could well be her greatest struggle yet.