CHAPTER 5: Sign Here to Save Yourself
1373 Words
Elena
Marriage used to mean something. Vows. Rings. Devotion.
Now it’s paperwork.
Legal ink disguised as commitment.
I married Damien Cross twenty-four hours ago, and already I feel like I signed up for something I can’t name—just a whisper of danger wrapped in luxury.
The press found out.
Who leaked it? No idea. Could’ve been one of Damien’s enemies. Could’ve been him.
Could’ve been part of the plan all along.
Because nothing about this man is random.
Everything is a calculated risk.
A strategy.
A setup.
The photos are already online. Me stepping out of his car. Him holding my hand—not like a lover, but like he owns the moment. Like he owns me.
And maybe, in some ways, he does.
At least on paper.
The Tower is on lockdown. His people ushered me out of the office and into a guest suite on the 40th floor with floor-to-ceiling windows and cold gray marble that looks expensive enough to insult me.
I sit on the edge of the bed in a silk robe I didn’t ask for, waiting for whatever comes next.
Damien doesn’t knock when he enters.
Of course not.
He walks in like this is still his world and I’m just a well-placed piece on his very curated chessboard.
“You look tired,” he says.
I stare. “I just got married to a stranger and found out paparazzi are camped outside your building. No spa day could fix this.”
He doesn’t smile. But his gaze lingers.
He sets a leather folder on the nightstand. Unsnaps it. Slides out a fresh contract.
“Another one?” I ask.
He nods. “This one’s the real deal.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So the wedding wasn’t?”
“It was legally binding. But it lacked parameters. This establishes the rules.”
He hands me the document. I glance at the title:
Marriage Agreement – Phase Two
Length: Two Years
Terms: Public appearances, joint interviews, quarterly events, daily proximity.
Clause 4.3: No s****l activity. No romantic entanglement.
Clause 7.1: No breach of image. No deviation from narrative.
Clause 10.5: Termination penalty – $10 million.
My throat dries.
“You really love contracts,” I mutter.
“I love clarity.”
I flip through the pages. It reads like a merger between two corporations, not a relationship. No room for intimacy. No room for trust. Just obligations. Performance. Control.
“And if I don’t sign?” I ask.
“You’re free to walk,” he says. “But without protection. Without the money. And without the power that comes from being my wife.”
“Sounds like a threat.”
“It’s a reality check.”
I toss the contract on the bed.
“You think I’m desperate enough to hand over two years of my life for a stack of zeros?”
He doesn’t blink. “I think you’re smart enough to see the trade-off.”
I stand. “What happens after the two years?”
“You walk. Debt-free. Wealthy. Untouched.”
“And you?”
He meets my gaze. “I move on.”
Of course he does.
There’s no sadness in his voice. No hesitation. Just the brutal efficiency of a man who’s never failed at sealing a deal.
“Tell me what this is really about,” I say. “Because I don’t believe for a second that this is just PR cleanup.”
He steps closer, voice low.
“I need stability. The board is on edge. Roman is circling like a vulture. And Victoria left something—an asset, an account, a document—I don’t know what it is yet. But I know she tied it to you. You’re the last card she played. I need you in the game long enough to figure out why.”
“Spoken like a true romantic.”
He doesn’t react.
“I’m not your puppet,” I add.
“No. You’re my partner.”
I hate how that lands. Not sweet. Not soft. But honest.
He never lied about what he was offering.
He just never offered anything human.
“You’re good at pretending,” he says. “I’ve seen it.”
“So this is all pretend?”
“Yes. Two years. A role. A performance. And then we disappear from each other’s lives.”
“And what if I forget I’m pretending?”
His gaze sharpens. “Don’t.”
He hands me a pen.
I stare at it like it’s a loaded weapon.
Because it kind of is.
I think of my mother—how she fought to stay alive even as the hospital drained every cent we had.
I think of the locket I pawned. The nights I slept in two coats. The hunger that became background noise.
And then I sign.
One stroke. Then another.
When I finish, Damien doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t smile.
He simply picks up the contract, nods once, and says—
“Welcome to hell.”
An hour later, I’m in a town car headed to our first “appearance.”
A black-tie fundraiser hosted by the Ashford Historical Society. Because nothing says “newlyweds in love” like pretending to be happily married in a room full of ancient rich people and political donors.
Damien sits beside me. Reading emails. Unbothered. Perfect posture. Not a single strand of hair out of place.
“You do this a lot?” I ask.
“Smile for the sharks?”
“Yeah.”
“Often.”
“How do you not break?”
He glances at me. “Because I broke a long time ago.”
I don't know why, but that lands hard.
The ballroom is a gold-plated nightmare. Chandeliers the size of cars. Waiters in white gloves. String quartet playing something expensive and joyless.
We make our entrance. All eyes turn.
Damien’s arm slides around my waist. Not possessive. Not intimate.
Just calculated.
The photographers descend.
“Smile,” he murmurs.
I do.
But it doesn’t reach my eyes.
We mingle. Shake hands. Lie with grace.
I lose count of how many people congratulate us on our “whirlwind romance.” Damien plays the part flawlessly—slight touches, hushed tones, the occasional brush of his hand against mine like we’re magnetized.
It’s nauseatingly good.
A man approaches. Mid-fifties. Thin smile. Oil in his voice.
“Mr. Cross. Mrs. Cross.”
I tense.
“Senator Langston,” Damien says smoothly.
Langston takes my hand. Holds it a beat too long.
“You’re a lucky man,” he tells Damien. “This one’s a beauty.”
Damien’s hand tightens on my waist. Just slightly.
“Indeed,” he says. “And taken.”
Langston chuckles. “Don’t worry. I don’t poach. Anymore.”
He walks away.
I exhale.
“Friends of yours?” I ask.
“Enemies with expensive cologne.”
“You’re very calm for someone constantly under fire.”
He looks at me. “That’s what the suit is for.”
Later, after the speeches and handshakes, we retreat to a private lounge.
Damien pours two glasses of scotch. Hands me one.
“You held your own,” he says.
“I’m getting used to pretending I belong.”
He raises his glass. “To survival.”
I sip. It burns.
But I don’t let it show.
“You said Victoria built me like a time bomb,” I say.
He nods. “And now everyone’s racing to find the detonator.”
“Even you.”
“Especially me.”
“And when you do?”
“Then we renegotiate.”
Before I can ask what that means, his phone buzzes.
He answers. Says nothing.
Just listens.
Then: “We’re on our way.”
He hangs up. His jaw is tight now. Tighter than I’ve seen it.
“What is it?”
He looks at me.
“They found something. In Victoria’s safe deposit box.”
I stand. “What?”
“She named you. Again. This time, in writing.”
“What does it say?”
He meets my eyes.
“That you’re not just my wife.”
I swallow. “Then what am I?”
“You’re her heir.”
- Writer
