His Contract Wife

Chapter 4: Wife Training 101

The next morning, Aria woke up to the sound of her door opening.

She didn’t even bother pretending to sleep. She’d been awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything Adrian said last night. _Tomorrow, we start training._

“Training for what?” she’d asked.

“Being my wife,” he’d answered.

Aria sat up as the maid walked in, carrying a garment bag and a tray. The smell of fresh coffee and warm croissants hit her instantly, making her stomach betray her with a low growl.

“Good morning, Mrs. Blackwood,” the maid said politely. “Mr. Adrian said to have you ready by nine. There’s a charity brunch.”

Aria groaned, throwing the blanket off her face. “It’s not even eight.”

“It’s 8:47, Mrs. Blackwood.”

Great. Even her mornings were being controlled now. She hadn’t slept past 9 AM in three years. Somehow Adrian knew that and used it against her.

Thirty minutes later, Aria stood in front of the full-length mirror in Adrian’s penthouse dressing room. The space was bigger than her entire apartment. Rows of designer clothes she’d never be able to afford lined the walls, and the lighting was perfect enough to make anyone look expensive.

The dress the maid picked out was a soft cream silk dress that hugged her body perfectly. Not too revealing, not too plain. Expensive without looking like she was trying too hard. It had a modest neckline and fell just below her knees, elegant in a way that made Aria feel like she was playing dress-up in someone else’s life.

“Mr. Adrian said you’re not allowed to wear black today,” the maid said, adjusting Aria’s hair into a loose bun. “He said it makes you look like you’re attending a funeral.”

Aria scowled at her reflection. “He doesn’t get to decide what I wear.”

“He does now,” the maid said simply. She wasn’t rude. Just stating a fact.

Aria hated that. Hated how much sense it made. Hated that every part of her life now had Adrian’s name stamped on it.

When she walked into the dining room, Adrian was already there. He was dressed in a navy suit, looking infuriatingly calm and composed. His hair was perfectly styled, his tie loosened just enough to look effortless. He looked like he owned the world, and honestly, he probably did.

His eyes swept over her the moment she entered, and for a second, something flickered in his gaze. Approval. It was gone so fast she almost thought she imagined it.

“Good,” he said, setting down his tablet. “You look appropriate.”

“Wow, thanks for the compliment,” Aria muttered, sitting down as far from him as possible. The chair felt too big, the table too long. Everything about this felt wrong. “Didn’t know I was auditioning for a role.”

“You are,” Adrian said, pouring her coffee without asking. He knew exactly how she liked it—two sugars, no cream. That annoyed her more than it should have. “And you’re terrible at it.”

Aria almost spilled her coffee. “Excuse me?”

“You spent the entire breakfast yesterday glaring at Damian like you wanted to stab him,” Adrian said casually, like they were discussing the weather. “You gave one-word answers to Mr. Kessler. You looked miserable the entire time.”

“So? I am miserable.”

Adrian leaned forward, his voice dropping. “And that’s the problem. If you look miserable, people will talk. They’ll wonder why my wife is unhappy. And if they start wondering, they start digging. And if they start digging, they’ll find your father.”

Aria’s stomach dropped.

There it was again. The threat, wrapped in logic. He always found a way to make her compliance look like her own choice.

“So what do you want me to do?” she asked through gritted teeth. “Smile and pretend I’m happy being kidnapped?”

“I want you to act,” Adrian said simply. “You’re an actress now, Aria. Act like you’re my devoted wife. Smile. Laugh. Touch my arm when I speak. Make people believe it.”

Aria stared at him. “You’re insane if you think I can do that.”

“Then I’ll teach you.”

Before she could respond, the doorbell rang.

Adrian stood up, straightening his cuffs. “They’re here. Remember—smile.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“My mother.”

Aria froze. Her coffee turned cold in her hands. “Your mother?!”

Adrian’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened. “Yes. And she cannot know this marriage is fake.”

Aria’s heart started pounding. Meeting his mother was one thing. Lying to a dying woman was another. “Adrian, I can’t—”

“You can,” he said firmly. “You will.”

The door opened, and in walked a woman who looked like an older, softer version of Adrian. Elegant, silver hair styled perfectly, eyes sharp despite her warm smile. She had the same commanding presence, but without the cruelty.

“Aria, this is my mother, Margaret Blackwood,” Adrian said smoothly.

“Mom, this is my wife, Aria.”

Margaret’s face lit up, and before Aria could react, she was pulled into a hug. The woman smelled like expensive perfume and something vaguely like lavender.

“Oh, my dear! I’m so happy to finally meet you!” Margaret pulled back, holding Aria’s hands between hers. Her hands were warm, slightly frail. “Adrian never brings anyone home! I thought he’d die alone in that office of his.”

Aria opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She glanced at Adrian, panicking.

He just raised an eyebrow, as if saying _I told you to smile.

So Aria smiled. It felt fake and painful, but she did it. Her cheeks hurt immediately.

“It’s nice to meet you too, Mrs. Blackwood,” she said.

Margaret clapped her hands. “Please, call me Margaret! None of that Mrs. Blackwood nonsense. We’re family now.”

Family.

The word made Aria’s chest tighten. She hadn’t felt like part of a family since her mother died. The thought made her throat ache.

The next two hours were hell.

Margaret talked nonstop about Adrian as a child, about family traditions, about how she’d always wanted grandchildren. She told stories about a young Adrian building Lego towers and refusing to eat vegetables. Aria nodded and laughed at all the right times, while Adrian’s hand rested possessively on the small of her back under the table.

Every time Aria slipped—when she forgot to smile, when her answer was too short, when she looked away too long—Adrian would squeeze her back. A silent reminder. A silent threat.

Aria learned quickly. She learned to laugh on cue, to touch Adrian’s arm when he made a joke, to lean into him slightly when Margaret wasn’t looking. It felt dirty. It felt like betrayal.

But it worked. Margaret believed every second of it.

When Margaret finally left, Aria collapsed onto the couch, exhausted. Her face hurt from smiling, and her legs felt like jelly from standing in heels.

“I hate you,” she said immediately, not even bothering to look at Adrian.

Adrian poured himself a drink, looking entirely unfazed. “You did well.”

“Did well? I felt like I was in a hostage video!”

“You made her believe it,” Adrian said. “That’s all that matters.”

Aria sat up, glaring. “Why does it matter so much? Why does your mother need to believe this lie?”

Adrian’s jaw tightened. For a second, Aria thought he wouldn’t answer. He stared into his glass like the answer was written in the amber liquid.

Then he said, “Because she’s sick. She has six months, maybe a year. I’m not letting her spend her last months worrying about me being alone.”

Aria blinked.

Oh.

That… changed things.

She opened her mouth to say something, but Adrian cut her off.

“Don’t pity me, Aria. I don’t need it.”

“Then why tell me?”

“Because you need to understand the stakes,” Adrian said. “If this falls apart, she’ll know. And it’ll kill her.”

Aria sat back, her anger fading into something heavier. Guilt. She hated that he could make her feel guilty. She hated that it worked.

For the rest of the day, Adrian didn’t let her rest.

He dragged her to etiquette lessons with his assistant, a woman named Elise who had the posture of a queen and the patience of a saint.

“How to walk in heels,” Elise said, placing a book on Aria’s head. “Chin up. Shoulders back. Imagine a string pulling you from the top of your head.”

Aria wobbled. “This is ridiculous.”

“It’s necessary,” Adrian said from the corner of the room, watching like a hawk. “Next week there’s a gala. You’ll be photographed.”

“How to hold a wine glass,” Elise continued. “Never wrap your whole hand around it. Hold the stem. It keeps the wine from getting warm.”

“How to make small talk with investors without revealing too much,” Adrian added. “If they ask about our marriage, you say we met at a charity event. You say we fell in love quickly. You say I’m attentive and generous.”

Aria shot him a look. “Liar.”

Adrian smiled faintly. “Convincing liar.”

“How to stand beside him without looking like you want to run,” Elise finished, though she gave Adrian a pointed look when she said it.

By evening, Aria’s feet were killing her, and her brain felt fried. She’d learned more about wine pairings and fork placement than she ever thought possible.

When they finally got back to the penthouse, Adrian stopped her in the hallway.

“Good job today,” he said.

Aria looked up at him, too tired to argue. Her makeup was smudged, her hair was falling out of the bun, and her feet were throbbing. “Thanks.”

Adrian studied her for a moment, his expression softening in a way that made Aria’s stomach flip. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was lighter than before. Less possessive. Almost… gentle.

“You’re learning fast,” he said quietly.

Aria swallowed, suddenly very aware of how close he was. “Don’t get used to it.”

Adrian smiled faintly. “Too late.”

He walked away, leaving Aria standing there with her heart beating a little faster than it should. She hated that he could do that to her with just a look.

That night, Aria lay in bed, staring at the ceiling again.

She was angry at Adrian. She hated what he’d done to her life. She hated that he held her father’s life over her head. She hated that he expected her to lie to his dying mother.

But she couldn’t deny that today, she’d seen a glimpse of something else.

When Adrian talked about his mother, his voice had changed. It was softer. Vulnerable. For the first time, she saw that beneath all the control and coldness, there was a son who was terrified of losing the last family he had left.

Something almost human.

And that scared her more than anything.

Because if Adrian was human, then hating him became harder.

And if hating him became harder, then what did that mean for her?

Aria turned onto her side, pulling the blanket up to her chin. She closed her eyes, but sleep didn’t come easily.

Tomorrow would be harder. She could feel it.