THE RULES OF THE GAME
516 Words
Ariella
The contract smells like clean ink and control.
Page after page of conditions, expectations, clauses designed to keep my mouth shut and my body close. Not sexually—he makes that very clear. This isn’t that kind of deal.
There are no kisses.
No touches.
No “accidental” slips into something real.
Just a performance.
Public displays of affection are optional but encouraged. Emotional attachment? Forbidden. Personal questions? Off-limits. Violations? Punishable by breach penalties that make my lungs seize.
Clause 9:
You will not leak, publish, or indirectly reference any confidential information regarding Cassian Wolfe, Wolfe Industries, or his personal affairs for the duration of the contract, nor in the ten (10) years following its termination.
Ten years.
He wants to erase me, long after we’ve played pretend.
I glance up from the document. Cassian is still watching me—arms folded, expression unreadable, like I’m a lab rat choosing between cheese and electrocution.
“Why a year?” I ask.
“Because by then,” he says coolly, “either this story dies, or you do.”
I freeze.
He says it without malice. Like he’s stating a weather report.
“Are you threatening me?” I ask quietly.
“No,” he replies. “I’m warning you. If you don’t take my protection, someone else will take your life. I’m not the worst option, Ariella.”
And somehow, I believe him.
I flip to the last page. My name is already typed above the signature line.
He came prepared.
“You really think the world will believe this?” I ask. “You and me? We don’t even like each other.”
He gives me that half-smile again. Arrogant. Amused. Dangerous.
“Love is rarely believable,” he says. “But hate? That’s always convincing.”
---
Three days later, I’m standing in front of a full-length mirror in a designer boutique, wearing a diamond ring I didn’t choose, and a press-ready smile I don’t recognize.
Cassian stands behind me like a shadow in a tailored suit, arms folded, cold eyes locked on my reflection.
“You look... tolerable,” he says.
I don’t turn around. “That’s practically a proposal coming from you.”
“No. That already happened.” He nods toward the camera crew being briefed outside the shop window. “Now you just have to make it look like it meant something.”
I take a breath. “And if I don’t?”
He steps closer—close enough that I can feel the hum of heat and ice that surrounds him like a shield.
“If you mess this up,” he murmurs, “the truth won’t just come out. It’ll bury both of us.”
---
Later, as we step onto the red carpet for our first public appearance as an “engaged couple,” Cassian places his hand lightly—strategically—on the small of my back.
To the cameras, we look flawless. Polished. Untouchable.
To me, it feels like being touched by a loaded gun.
And the worst part?
My heart skips anyway.
- Writer
