Unholy Matrimony

(Sapphire’s POV) My life ended the evening my father poured me a glass of wine and told me I was getting married. Not asked. Not suggested. Not begged. Told. I sat at the polished mahogany dining table of our Manhattan penthouse, the lights of the city glittering through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. My pulse was louder than the clinking crystal in my hand. I had just turned twenty-four, just graduated from Columbia, just begun to dream about freedom—and now, it was gone. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I whispered, as I stared at the red wine I hadn’t tasted. “This is insane, Dad. People don’t just… arrange marriages anymore. We’re not living in the seventeenth century.” My father’s expression didn’t flicker. Victor Montgomery—business tycoon, ruthless negotiator, and apparently, destroyer of my future—looked at me the same way he looked at a quarterly report: cold, calculating, final. “This is bigger than you, Sapphire,” he simply said. “The Blackwoods have agreed. Damian will be your husband by the end of the month.” My chest tightened. Damian Blackwood. The name alone carried weight. He was the billionaire everyone whispered about, the one every news channel called a Predator. Forbes crowned him the king of Wall Street. Ruthless. Untouchable. And now… my future husband. “No.” The word scraped out of my throat. “No way. I don’t even know him, and I don’t want to. I won’t do it!” “Oh yes, you will.” My father chuckled dryly. “I won’t!” My chair scraped against the marble floor as I stood. “You can’t just sell me off like some stock!” My father’s gaze hardened. “This marriage is a business merger. And you’ll do as you’re told.” A cold laugh escaped me. “Unbelievable. You’re actually trading me like I’m stock.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “Watch your tone, young lady. This is about securing your future.” “My future?” I scoffed. “Or your empire?” His silence was answer enough. I felt my throat tighten with fury. “I don’t care how rich Damian Blackwood is, or how many zeros his bank account has. I’m not marrying a stranger!” “You’ll marry him because I said so,” he snapped, slamming his palm flat on the table. “Do you have any idea what’s at stake? The Montgomery name, our company, our legacy. This is the only way to secure it.” I froze. My father rarely raised his voice—but when he did, it meant there was no room for argument. But I wasn’t about to let him decide my life. “I don’t care about the company!” My voice cracked, but I forced it louder. “I’m not some pawn in your game, Dad. I’m a person. I’m your daughter!” “You’re a Montgomery,” he said coldly. “And Montgomeries do what must be done.” The words cut deeper than any slap he would have given me. I shook my head, my chest heaving. “I hate you for this.” I spun on my heel, my stilettos clicking furiously across the marble as I stormed out of the dining room. My father didn’t follow, didn’t call after me. Why would he? In his mind, the deal was already done. I stormed up the grand staircase to my room, slamming the door so hard the chandelier rattled. My heart was pounding, my hands shaking. My heart heavy. Damian Blackwood. I had never met him, but I had seen enough. His face was everywhere—on magazines, financial news, social media. Tall. Dark. Devastatingly handsome. And absolutely terrifying. They said he never smiled. They said he could make a man bankrupt with a single phone call. They said women threw themselves at him, but none lasted more than a month. And now, he was supposed to be my husband? No. Over my dead body. I paced my room, my mind racing. There had to be a way out. Maybe I could run away. Maybe I could disappear until my father gave up. But even as I thought it, I knew the truth: no one escaped this Blackwood. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a message from my best friend, Luke: “Party at the Waldorf tonight? You in?” I stared at it, tears blurring my vision. How could I tell him that instead of partying, I was being shoved into a marriage with the predator himself? I typed back with shaking fingers: “Not tonight.” But Luke being Luke, he immediately knew that something was wrong. “Okay, what is going on?” He sent back almost immediately. “I am fine, best.” I sent him. “I am coming over.” He texted. At once, I panicked and sent him a long episode of why he should not even think of that. Father didn’t have a problem with Luke being my best friend. But this was certainly not a good time as the tension in the house could make even someone as cheerful as Luke to sweat. Tossing the phone aside, I sank onto the bed, burying my face in my hands. My world was crumbling, and I was powerless to stop it. A knock on my bedroom door jolted me upright. “Sapphire.” My father’s voice. Steady. Commanding as always. “Come downstairs.” “Go to hell,” I muttered under my breath. “I won’t ask again.” I groaned, wiping my face, and yanked the door open. “What do you want? Haven’t you ruined my life enough for one night?” He didn’t flinch. Instead, his eyes flicked past me, down the hallway. Then he stepped aside. And my blood ran cold. Because standing there, in the middle of our hallway, was Damian Blackwood in the flesh. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. His chiseled jaw was shadowed with dark stubble, his hair slicked back, his eyes—God, those eyes—icy gray and unblinking. He looked at me like he already owned me. My throat went dry. Damian’s lips curved into the faintest smirk. “Hello, fiancée.”