Rules Of The Game
920 Words
Ava woke up disoriented.
The king-sized bed beneath her was too soft, the sheets too smooth, the air too silent. It didn’t feel like a room; it felt like a luxury prison—clean, cold, expensive. For a moment she almost forgot where she was, then the reality slammed into her chest.
Yesterday she had signed away a year of her life to a man who had barely looked her in the eye.
She was now Mrs. Ava Blackwood—on paper at least—bound to a contract thick enough to stop a bullet and detailed enough to map every breath she took. Jace Blackwood’s temporary wife. It sounded ridiculous even inside her head.
She slid from the bed, wincing at the chill of the marble floor, and padded to the window. The sunrise painted the horizon peach-gold, but the high iron gates at the edge of the manicured grounds reminded her that beauty could be a cage too.
A cream-coloured envelope lay on the nightstand. She picked it up with reluctant fingers.
> Breakfast is served at 8 a.m. sharp in the east dining room.
Elise will outline your daily schedule after.
–J.B.
No greeting. No warmth. Just orders.
Ava let the card droop between her fingers. “Good morning to you too,” she muttered, then dragged herself into the en-suite bathroom.
It was larger than her entire apartment bedroom back home. The mirror stretched from floor to ceiling; pale spotlights erased every imperfection. Ava stared at her reflection—tired eyes, tangled hair—and wondered if Jace had ever looked this unguarded. Probably not. People like him were born wearing invisible armour.
She showered, forcing herself to use the lavender body wash that smelled like money, and dressed in simple jeans and a pale blouse she had packed in her lone suitcase. The clothes felt out of place against the marble and gold fixtures, but they were the last scraps of her old life.
Just get through breakfast, she told her reflection.
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At 7:59 she pushed open the double doors of the east dining room. The table was long enough to host a diplomatic summit, set with crystal glasses and fine china. Jace sat at the far end, scrolling through something on a slim tablet. He did not look up.
A liveried footman pulled out a chair two seats away from him. Ava mumbled thanks and sat, hands in her lap.
“Morning,” she offered.
“Sit,” he said, voice flat. He didn’t even gift her a glance.
Silver-domed platters appeared. Omelette, fruit, whole-grain toast arranged with surgical precision. Ava’s stomach twisted; hunger and anger fought a silent duel.
She didn’t touch the food. Jace finally raised his eyes. Hazel—cool hazel that should have been warm—met hers.
“You don’t eat?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’ll need your energy,” he replied, setting the tablet down. “We have a lot to cover.”
“What could possibly require that much energy? You already own me.”
One brow lifted at her sarcasm, but he ignored the bait. “Today we establish parameters.”
“Parameters,” she echoed, chewing the word like glass.
He took a sip of black coffee. “Rule one: public appearances. When I require you to accompany me, you will. You will smile, hold my arm if I offer it, and refrain from contradicting me in public.”
Ava’s fingers curled around her napkin. “Translation—be decorative and silent.”
“If that makes it easier to remember.” He dabbed his lips with a linen napkin. “Rule two: confidentiality. Anything you see or hear within these walls remains here.”
“Anything?” she challenged.
“Everything,” he confirmed. “Rule three: schedule. Elise will provide a calendar of social functions, meetings, dinners. Unless you are ill—or dying—you will attend.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you void the contract. Your father’s debts are reinstated.” He paused. “I believe that possibility is off the table.”
Pain twisted in her chest. “You’re a real humanitarian, Jace.”
He responded with the faintest shrug, as if “humanitarian” were a language he did not speak.
“Rule four,” he continued, “personal conduct. I don’t care how you spend your free hours, but illicit entanglements—s****l, romantic, or otherwise—are forbidden. If you need a hobby, Elise can arrange lessons, charity work, whatever keeps you occupied.”
Ava swallowed the retort building in her throat. What about your entanglements? She kept the thought to herself.
“Do you understand?” he asked.
“I understand these are your rules,” she answered. “Understanding doesn’t equal agreement.”
He leaned back. “Agreement isn’t required. Compliance is.”
A spark of fury flared inside her, but she tamped it down. “Anything else, Your Majesty?”
He ignored the sarcasm. “Final rule: every evening you and I will dine together, no matter how brief. I will not have rumours that my wife and I live separate lives. Pretence works best when we rehearse it.”
Ava pushed her plate away. “Appetite’s still gone.”
“Suit yourself.” He stood, collected his tablet, and strode out without another look.
The moment he disappeared, her shoulders sagged. She had survived breakfast. Only three hundred and sixty-four more days to go.
- Writer
