Frequencies of Regret

2. The Contract of Convenience

​The drive to his parents' estate was a familiar one, yet tonight, the route felt like a march toward a sentencing. Damian Blackwood sat in the back of his sleek black sedan, the city lights of New York blurring into streaks of neon against the dark windows. He stared at his phone, his thumb hovering over a text message from Meredith.

​“Have a good dinner, my love. Don’t let them stress you out too much. I’ll be waiting for you back home with wine and that movie you wanted to see.”

​He didn’t reply. Instead, he let his phone drop onto the leather seat beside him and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a silver lighter. He snapped it open, the flame dancing briefly before touching the tip of his cigarette. He inhaled deeply, the harsh, burning sensation in his lungs the only thing that felt real right now. He wasn’t worried about his parents' lectures; he was annoyed by the interruption of his life. He had a routine. He had Meredith. He didn't have space for a stranger.

​When the car pulled up to the imposing wrought-iron gates of the Blackwood manor, Damian stepped out into the crisp autumn air. The house was massive—a legacy of stone and privilege that he had spent his entire life trying to conquer, and now, it was threatening to swallow him whole.

​Inside, the dining room was illuminated by the soft, golden glow of a chandelier. His parents, Arthur and Eleanor, sat at the head of the table like monarchs on a throne. But they weren't alone.

​Sitting across from them was a man Damian recognized as an associate from the finance sector—a man he didn’t particularly respect—and next to him sat a girl. She was looking down at her lap, her hands folded tightly on the white tablecloth.

​Damian walked in, his suit tailored to perfection, his presence commanding. He didn't offer a smile. "You called, Mother. I'm here."

​"Damian, sit down," Eleanor commanded, her voice as sharp as a blade. She didn't look at him; she was staring at the girl next to the man. "We are having a very important discussion."

​Damian pulled out the chair opposite the girl and sat. He finally looked at her, and for a fleeting second, his breath hitched. He hadn't expected her to be... this. She was wearing a simple, dark blue dress that made her pale skin look like porcelain. Her hair was a cascading wave of ash-brown, tucked behind her ears, revealing a delicate jawline and long, sweeping lashes. When she lifted her gaze, her eyes caught his—an piercing, crystalline emerald-blue that seemed to hold a world of quiet intelligence and unspoken fear.

​She was beautiful, in a way that felt dangerous to someone like him. She wasn't the polished, sophisticated type like Meredith. She looked like a painting left in the rain—stunning, but fragile.

​"Damian," his father started, his voice booming in the quiet room. "This is Harley Sterling. And you are already acquainted with her father."

​The man beside Harley cleared his throat, looking at Damian with an eager, pathetic smile. "Mr. Blackwood, it is an honor to—"

​Damian cut him off with a cold stare. "Let’s skip the pleasantries. Why am I here?"

​The silence that followed was suffocating. Harley shifted in her seat, her fingers trembling slightly. She kept her gaze fixed on the tablecloth, her heart hammering against her ribs. She had known this meeting was coming, but seeing him—seeing the man who was supposed to be her husband—was a shock she hadn't prepared for. He was tall, imposing, and his eyes were dark, devoid of the warmth she had secretly, foolishly hoped to find.

​"You are here," Eleanor said, setting down her wine glass with a sharp clink, "because we have reached a decision regarding the future of the Blackwood empire. We are tired of the scandals and the distractions. You need a wife who understands duty, someone who will support the Blackwood name, not tarnish it with trivial, short-term romances."

​Damian felt his blood boil. He glanced at Harley, who looked like she wanted to disappear. He didn't want this. He didn't want to be the reason that look of terror was etched into her face. But the threat from his father—the control of the company—was hanging over him like a guillotine.

​"So, that’s it?" Damian asked, his voice low, vibrating with suppressed rage. "You’ve arranged a merger, not a marriage. And you think I’ll just go along with it?"

​"We know you will," his father replied smoothly. "Because you are a Blackwood. And because we have already settled the terms with Mr. Sterling."

​Harley’s father leaned in. "Harley is a bright girl, Damian. She’s a computer engineering student, top of her class. She’s quiet, obedient, and she will be a fine addition to your household."

​Obedient. The word felt like acid in Damian's mouth. He looked at Harley again. She wasn't looking at the table anymore; she was looking at him, her eyes wide, glistening with a silent plea. She didn't want this either.

​"What do you have to say, Miss Sterling?" Damian asked, his voice surprisingly soft, though laced with disdain. "Are you just going to sit there and let them trade you like a stock?"

​Harley felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She straightened her back, her voice barely a whisper but steady. "I... I don't have a choice, do I? My father has made it clear that my opinion is not part of this contract."

​Her answer surprised him. It wasn't the submissive whimper he expected. It was a statement of fact, delivered with a chilling amount of resignation. She was trapped, just like him.

​"Good," his mother interrupted, clapping her hands once. "Then it is settled. The announcement will be made at the gala next month. You two will be married by the end of the semester."

​Damian stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. He felt trapped in a cage of his own family’s making. He looked at Harley, who was staring down at her hands again, her knuckles white. He realized, with a sudden surge of irritation, that he was going to be responsible for this girl—or rather, he would be her warden.

​"I need a drink," Damian muttered, turning toward the study.

​"Damian!" his father warned.

​"I am going to get a drink," Damian repeated, his voice icy. "You want me to marry her? Fine. But don't expect me to play the happy groom tonight."

​He stormed out of the room, leaving the tension thick enough to choke on. Harley remained seated, her hands trembling uncontrollably. She could feel the stares of the adults around her, but her mind was reeling. He hated her. She saw it in his eyes—the way he looked at her not as a person, but as an obstacle. She thought of Meredith, the woman she had heard rumors about. She knew she was competing with a ghost, a woman who already had everything Harley was denied.

​I have nothing, Harley thought, a bitter taste rising in her throat. I have no love, no future, and now, I don’t even have my own life.

​A few minutes later, the parents stood up, leaving Harley alone in the dining room while they stepped out onto the terrace to discuss the "details."

​Damian returned a moment later, a glass of scotch in his hand. He looked agitated. He stopped when he saw Harley, who was still sitting there, looking small and fragile in the vast, expensive room. He didn't sit down. He stood over her, his shadow casting a darkness across her face.

​"Listen to me," he said, his voice cold and commanding. "I don't know what they told you, and I don't care about your dreams or your little degree. This marriage is nothing but a business arrangement. Do not expect me to be a husband to you. I have a life, I have a woman I am with, and that will not change."

​Harley looked up, her emerald eyes meeting his. She didn't flinch. "I didn't ask for this, Mr. Blackwood. You think I want to be here? You think I want to be the 'Blackwood wife'?"

​"Then we understand each other," Damian said, leaning down slightly, the scent of expensive cologne and scotch wafting off him. He studied her face for a second—the curve of her lips, the vulnerability in her eyes. It was annoying how beautiful she was. "You stay in your corner, I stay in mine. We maintain appearances for the public, and behind closed doors, we remain strangers. If you can do that, we’ll get along just fine."

​"And if I don't?" Harley asked, her voice trembling slightly.

​Damian smirked, a cruel, sharp expression. "Then you'll find out that being a Blackwood isn't just about the privilege. It’s about the consequences."

​He turned and walked away, leaving Harley in the silence of the dining room. As the weight of his words sank in, Harley felt a tear slip down her cheek. She wiped it away furiously, refusing to let him see her break. She was twenty-one, and she had just been sold into a prison with a man who already belonged to someone else.

​In the hallway, Damian leaned against the wall, taking another drag of his cigarette. He felt a strange tightening in his chest. He looked back toward the dining room. She was alone, looking so small. For a second, he considered going back to apologize for his harshness, but he crushed the thought. No, he told himself. She’s a pawn. Nothing more.

​He opened his phone and dialed Meredith.

​"Damian?" her voice was sweet, warm, and familiar. "Is everything okay? You sound... different."

​"I'm on my way back," he said, his voice flat. He looked at the heavy oak door behind him, knowing that the woman inside was now his future, and the woman on the phone was his present. "Everything is fine, Meredith. Just a long night."

​But as he walked out into the cool night air, he couldn't shake the image of those emerald eyes. They were haunting, like a frequency he couldn't tune out, a low hum of regret that was just beginning to play.

​He didn't know it then, but the cage had already been locked. And Harley Sterling was the only one with the key, even if she didn't know it yet.