Signed to Obey

The Mansion

The car was silent. Black leather interior. Not a single speck of dust. Even the driver looked like he’d been trained not to blink unless Cassian Wolfe gave him permission.

Eden sat in the backseat, arms folded, eyes fixed on the blur of streetlights.

Seven on the dot. Just like he said.

The punctuality didn’t impress her. It irritated her. Like everything about him was controlled down to the minute. The man didn’t walk—he calculated each step, probably had internal software for breathing efficiency.

The car pulled up to the mansion and Eden’s mouth dried.

This wasn’t a house. It was a damn museum of wealth.

Tall, sleek gates. Marble stairs. Ivy that somehow looked rich instead of overgrown. And the building itself—massive and dark, like it had secrets older than the city.

The doors opened before she knocked.

Of course they did.

A maid greeted her with a polite nod. “Miss Eden. Welcome.”

Miss Eden? Okay.

She followed silently through the vast hallway—shiny floors, dim lighting, and art pieces she was 90% sure cost more than her entire existence.

Every step echoed.

It didn’t feel like a home. It felt like a warning.

They led her into a grand living room. Cassian stood by the fireplace, as if it was scripted. Same cold expression. Same perfect posture. He didn’t even glance at her luggage.

“Cutting it close,” he said without turning. “I expected you five minutes earlier.”

“Traffic, and I paused to question my life choices. Obviously, I ignored the screaming voice in my head.”

That earned her the barest flicker of an eyebrow.

Progress?

Doubtful.

Cassian finally looked at her. “You’ll be shown to your room. Meals are served at seven. If you wish to eat elsewhere, inform my assistant.”

She blinked. “Do I get a manual too, or just flashcards?”

He didn’t bother replying.

The man had mastered the art of dismissing people with a single breath.

Eden scanned the room—the expensive rugs, the gleaming grand piano, the bookshelves lined with titles that screamed intellect and isolation.

“This place is nice,” she said, walking further in, casually dragging her fingers along a pristine surface. “Bit cold. But that tracks.”

He ignored her. Walked past like she was background noise.

She turned to him. “So… do I call you Cassian? Mr. Wolfe? Or just ‘emotionally unavailable’?”

He stopped in the doorway, spine stiff. “You’ll call me nothing unless necessary.”

Her smirk was immediate. “Wow. You really do make people feel at home.”

He didn’t turn. “This isn’t your home. It’s a transaction. Don’t confuse the two.”

She muttered under her breath, “I wouldn’t confuse you with warmth if you were on fire.”

“I heard that.”

“Good. Just testing your humanity.”

He walked away.

The maid reappeared, gesturing gently for Eden to follow. She did—reluctantly. Upstairs, around a bend, into a guest suite that looked like something out of a royal fantasy. Cream walls. Velvet cushions. Floor-length mirrors. A bed that could fit three of her.

Eden walked in slowly.

It was stunning. Too stunning. Like it was designed to impress her, maybe distract her from the reality of what she’d just stepped into.

The maid spoke softly. “If you need anything—”

“I’ll call the butler, throw a gold bar at someone, or signal the crows,” Eden replied, flopping onto the bed. “Thanks.”

The maid blinked. Then nodded and left with the soft shuffle of someone used to stranger residents.

Once alone, Eden stared up at the ceiling. Quiet settled again, thick and tense.

She didn’t belong here.

Not even a little.

But she was here now.

A fake wife to a real man with no soul in his eyes. Living in a house too clean to feel alive. And bound to a contract that paid her for silence and obedience.

Still, she smirked.

He wanted a woman who wouldn’t fall for him?

Perfect.

Because she was going to make sure that if anyone cracked in this icy little arrangement—it wouldn’t be her.

Eden's POV:

It was too quiet.

No creaky fan. No neighbors arguing. No leaky faucet dripping in stubborn rebellion.

Just silence. Cold, perfect silence that echoed louder than chaos ever could.

I sat at the edge of the bed, still fully clothed, staring at my reflection in the gold-rimmed mirror like I was trying to remember myself.

I didn’t recognize the girl in silk sheets with a contract in her bag and a wolf down the hallway.

This wasn’t my world. This wasn’t my rhythm.

But I’d chosen this.

Scratch that. Life had pushed, and I’d shoved back the only way I knew how—by faking my way into a man’s castle with nothing but pride and attitude to keep me standing.

And him?

Cassian Wolfe wasn’t just cold. He was the kind of cold that wasn’t born—it was built. Layered. Reinforced with years of emotional frostbite.

And I wasn’t planning to thaw him.

I didn’t care if he ever softened, smiled, or treated me like anything other than a business deal.

I just wanted to survive the year with my spine intact.

And maybe mess with him. Just a little. Because if I was going to be treated like a contract clause, I might as well enjoy getting under his skin.

---

Cassian's POV:

She was louder than she looked.

Not in volume—she wasn’t shrill or messy.

But in presence.

Even now, hours after she’d arrived, I could still hear the echo of her voice mocking me, feel the trace of her footsteps challenging the silence of my home.

Eden Monroe was… inconvenient.

I’d expected someone quiet. Grateful. Maybe a little intimidated by the scale of my world.

Instead, I got fire wrapped in sarcasm and dressed in defiance.

But she’d signed. She’d agreed. That was all that mattered.

I didn’t need her approval, affection, or amusement. I wasn’t here for pleasantries. I was here to buy time, satisfy a condition, and keep my life precisely the way I built it—controlled, clean, and emotionless.

And yet...

Something about her grated.

She wasn’t trying to impress me. She wasn’t bending, flattering, or pretending to be less.

She talked back. She looked me in the eye. She said things that didn’t belong in this house—like warmth or humor or freedom.

But she was contained now. A fixed piece on the board.

One year. I could endure her.

Or outlast her.

Either way, she’d serve her purpose.

Then she’d leave. And everything would go back to silence.

Just the way I liked it.