Unholy Matrimony

The Engagement Party.

(Sapphire POV)

If I thought things couldn’t get worse after Damian Blackwood showed up at my home and declared me his fiancée, I was wrong.

They got worse.

Much worse.

Because three nights later, I found myself standing in a glittering ballroom at the Plaza Hotel, wearing a gown that was newly bought, heels that pinched, and a fake smile plastered on my face while flashbulbs exploded around me.

The engagement party. My personal nightmare.

“Smile, Sapphire,” my father hissed through clenched teeth as we stood at the edge of the stage. “This is important.”

Important. Right. Important to save his crumbling empire. Important to show New York society that Montgomery and Blackwood were now united. Important to prove to the world that I was nothing but a pawn in a very expensive game.

I forced my lips upward, though every muscle in my body screamed in protest. My hands curled into fists at my sides.

And then Damian stepped onto the stage.

The crowd hushed instantly, as if the mere sight of him demanded silence. He cut through the throng like a blade, dressed in a black suit that fit him like sin, his expression cold and unreadable.

I had never hated anyone so much. And I had never been so… aware of anyone, either. The way he moved, the way his presence seemed to bend the room around him—it was magnetic. Terrifying.

He reached my side, and without asking, without even looking at me, he slid an arm around my waist. My body stiffened. His touch was firm, possessive, as if he were staking a claim for the entire world to see.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” his voice rolled through the ballroom, deep and commanding, “thank you for joining us tonight to celebrate the union of Blackwood and Montgomery.”

Applause thundered. Cameras flashed. My stomach turned.

He continued, “This is not just a marriage—it is a legacy. One that will strengthen two empires and build something even greater. And it is my honor to introduce my fiancée, Sapphire Montgomery.”

All eyes turned to me.

The cameras blinded me. The whispers buzzed like bees in my ears. She’s beautiful. She’s lucky. She’s doomed. Poor soul.

I lifted my chin, fighting to keep my composure. But inside, I was screaming.

A man in the front row—one of my father’s old business rivals, I recognized him vaguely—raised his glass and smirked. “Lucky girl,” he said loudly enough for the microphones to catch. “Damian, I didn’t know you had a taste for such… delicate things.”

The crowd chuckled. My face burned.

Before I could react, Damian’s arm tightened around my waist, pulling me flush against him. His gaze cut to the man like a blade, sharp and merciless.

“Careful,” Damian said softly, but the softness was more dangerous than a shout. “You don’t want to find out how quickly delicacy can be destroyed.”

The man paled. The laughter died instantly.

The entire room seemed to hold its breath.

And in that moment, I understood. It wasn’t just money that made people fear Damian Blackwood. It was something darker, something lethal simmering beneath his polished exterior.

The man lowered his glass, muttering an apology, and Damian turned back to the crowd, his expression smooth, unbothered, as if he hadn’t just threatened someone’s life with a smile.

I swallowed hard, my body trembling. Part of me wanted to push him away, to scream that I didn’t need his protection. But another part—traitorous, foolish—felt a flicker of something else. Gratitude. Safety.

And that terrified me most of all.

The speeches ended, the champagne flowed, and the crowd dispersed into smaller circles of gossip and business talk. My father vanished into a cluster of investors. Damian stayed glued to my side, his hand never leaving me, as if I might disappear if he let go.

Finally, when the chatter and flashing lights became too much, I slipped out onto the balcony, desperate for air.

The cool night breeze hit my face, carrying the distant hum of Manhattan traffic. I gripped the marble railing and closed my eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to remember who I was before all this. Before Damian Blackwood.

An artist. A dreamer. A girl who once believed in freedom.

Now, I was nothing but a bargaining chip in an empire I never asked to inherit.

I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t hear the door open behind me until I felt the shift in the air.

“Running away already?”

My eyes flew open. Damian.

Of course.

He strolled onto the balcony, his presence swallowing the night itself. He moved like a predator, slow, deliberate, every step a warning.

I spun to face him, my hands gripping the railing behind me. “I wasn’t running.”

His mouth curved in that infuriating half-smile. “Then why do you look guilty?”

“I just needed air,” I snapped. “Forgive me for not wanting to suffocate in there while people gossip about how lucky I am to be shackled to you.”

His gaze darkened, his steps closing the distance between us until the railing dug into my back. He braced one hand against the marble beside my head, caging me in.

“Careful, Blue eyes,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “People are watching. They’re waiting to see if you’ll break. And I won’t have my fiancée looking weak.”

The nickname ‘blue eyes’ took me by surprise. A pleasant surprise. But I would rather eat nails than admit that.

“I’m not your fiancée!” I hissed.

His other hand lifted, his finger grazing the underside of my chin, tilting my face up to his. My pulse hammered so loudly I swore he could hear it.

“You are,” he whispered, his breath brushing my lips. “In every way that matters. You can fight me, hate me, scream at me… but you’ll still be mine in the end.”

My chest rose and fell, fury and fear warring inside me. “You don’t own me.”

His smirk deepened. “Don’t I?”

The words sank into me like chains.

And as his eyes burned into mine, cold and unyielding yet glinting with something unreadable, I realized the truth: Damian Blackwood wasn’t just going to ruin my freedom. He was going to consume me.