THE CONTRACT
1022 Words
The envelope arrived at dawn.
Ariella stood in the cramped kitchen of her one-bedroom flat, clutching the thick white parcel like it was a bomb. Her coffee sat untouched on the counter, its steam curling silently into the air. Outside, the city was still half-asleep — the occasional honk, the whisper of a passing bike, a dog barking distantly. But inside her, everything was on high alert.
She didn’t need to open the envelope to know what it contained.
Dominic Blackwood didn’t wait. Not for answers. Not for compliance. Especially not for regret.
She tore the seal open with slow fingers. Inside were two documents: a formal copy of the marriage contract she’d signed in the boardroom yesterday, and a detailed schedule for the week ahead.
Pick-up: 3:00 PM, Thursday.
Fitting appointment at Vincenzo’s: 5:00 PM.
Public engagement dinner: Friday, 7:00 PM.
Private welcome ceremony (Blackwood Estate): Sunday.
Press release to go live Monday at 10:00 AM.
There were notes, instructions, even fashion preferences listed — ivory over cream, diamond studs over pearls, closed-toe heels no higher than three inches. Ariella felt her skin crawl.
She was being styled like an accessory.
Her eyes flicked to the final note:
Do not bring anything sentimental. Everything you need will be provided.
That one line pierced her chest.
She folded the paper slowly, her fingers numb.
By 2:50 PM, she stood outside her apartment complex with a single suitcase and a satchel over her shoulder. She hadn't packed much. A few sketches. A framed photo of Mateo. Some clothes she doubted she’d ever wear again.
The black town car arrived precisely at 3:00 PM.
A tall man in a dark suit stepped out. He looked like he belonged in a spy movie — earpiece, jawline carved from marble, no-nonsense aura.
“Miss Cruz?”
She nodded.
“I’m Thomas. Mr. Blackwood’s personal assistant.”
"Of course he has one of those," she muttered under her breath.
Thomas didn’t react. He simply opened the door for her with professional stiffness.
Inside, the car smelled like leather and power. Bottled water. Tinted windows. Silence.
As the car pulled away from the curb, Ariella stared out the window and whispered a silent goodbye to her life.
They drove into the heart of the city — past familiar neighborhoods and unfamiliar streets — before arriving at Vincenzo, the most exclusive fashion atelier in the country. Ariella had never even stepped inside. She'd only seen the name gracing the covers of elite bridal magazines, usually next to words like custom and six-figure gown.
Inside, the world smelled of luxury — rose oil, silk, and money.
Three stylists descended on her like birds on a feast.
“She’s stunning.”
“Natural curves — perfect for the midnight cut.”
“Dominic always chooses well.”
She wanted to protest. To scream. To tell them she wasn’t chosen, she was cornered.
But she remained still as they zipped her into one gown after another. Lace. Satin. Organza. Each one heavier than the last. Each one more elegant, more oppressive, more foreign.
By the time they settled on a dress — fitted bodice, sheer sleeves, pearls dusted like frost — she felt like a mannequin in a cage.
“Mr. Blackwood will approve,” one stylist said with a nod.
She wanted to ask if he’d even notice her eyes.
Back in the car, Thomas handed her a new phone.
“From Mr. Blackwood,” he said. “This will be your official contact device. Personal phone use is permitted, but all press appearances and event confirmations must go through this one.”
Ariella accepted it reluctantly. The phone lit up as soon as she touched it.
Dominic Blackwood:
Welcome to the contract, Mrs. Blackwood.
– D
She stared at the message. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, then dropped into her lap. What was there to say?
Thank you for legally owning my life?
By Friday evening, she was seated across from Dominic in a private dining suite at a five-star hotel overlooking the city skyline.
The table was set for royalty. Crystal glasses. White linen. Gold-rimmed plates. A server in white gloves poured her wine with mechanical grace before retreating into the shadows.
Dominic looked flawless as always. His suit was dark navy this time. His cufflinks bore the Blackwood crest.
He studied her.
"You look like you're thinking about prison."
"I'm thinking about murder."
He smirked. "Hopefully not mine. At least not until after the photo ops."
Ariella rolled her eyes. "Why dinner? Why play this game?"
"Because appearances matter. Our first public outing sets the tone. And your posture’s all wrong. Sit straighter. Tilt your chin slightly. Don’t fidget."
She stared at him. "I’m not one of your business assets."
"No," he said, his eyes narrowing, "You’re far more expensive."
She hated how calm he looked. How easy it all seemed for him. She took a slow sip of wine.
“What happens if I back out now?” she asked.
“You won't,” he said simply. “You signed. Your brother’s case disappears Monday morning. Don’t make me unmake it.”
Ariella stared at him for a long moment. “Do you ever regret anything, Dominic?”
He paused, fork suspended in mid-air.
"Regret requires a conscience. I had mine surgically removed in boarding school."
She looked away.
Later that night, she was escorted to her new suite in the Blackwood penthouse — on the east wing, far from Dominic’s quarters.
The space was breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A king-sized bed with ocean-blue bedding. Marble floors. An art nook with fresh canvases and oils, custom-ordered in her favorite brand.
It was all… too much.
And none of it was hers.
On the bedside table sat a note.
Your schedule starts at 6:00 AM. Breakfast with the press team at 8:00.
Dress accordingly.
Welcome home.
— D.
She folded the note, set it down, and curled up on the edge of the mattress. She didn’t cry. Not yet.
But in the dark, she stared at the ceiling and wondered:
What had she just sold her soul for?
- Writer
