Chapter 3
1252 Words
Chapter 3 – The Wedding Lie
The whiskey glass shattered against the marble floor, the golden liquid spreading in a sticky arc between them.
Damian didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just looked at her with that same icy detachment that made her feel like a problem he was already calculating how to fix.
“If you touch me again,” Elara said, her voice low, seething, “I’ll burn this deal and everything tied to it.”
Damian tilted his head. “Including your sister’s treatment?”
Her chest heaved. “You bastard.”
“Emotion doesn’t change facts.” He stepped back, folding his arms. “You’re pregnant. The contract didn’t cover that. But now it will.”
“I never agreed to—”
“You agreed to be my wife. And as far as the world knows, this is a real marriage. Real marriages come with consequences.”
“You mean control,” she hissed. “You want to own me.”
“I want to contain chaos.”
She nearly laughed. “You should’ve hired a robot instead of a wife.”
His eyes narrowed, something sharp flickering there. “You’re angry. Good. Anger means you’re awake. Just don’t mistake it for leverage.”
With that, he walked out, leaving her surrounded by glass shards and the echo of her own fury.
She didn’t sleep that night.
The walls of the penthouse felt too high, the silence too thick. Even her bedroom, luxurious and cold, felt like a cage with silk cushions. She stared at the ceiling, one hand over her belly.
Pregnant.
The word still hadn’t settled. She hadn’t told Layna. Had barely accepted it herself. It had been four weeks since the test, and she’d planned to terminate—until the offer came. After that, her life moved too fast to even consider what came next.
But now, it wasn’t just her mistake anymore.
Damian Voss knew.
And that made the child a pawn.
At 6 a.m., the door to her bedroom buzzed. Kara, the assistant, stood outside with a tablet and a tight smile.
“Good morning, Mrs. Voss. Time for briefing.”
Elara nearly slammed the door. “It’s six. In. The. Morning.”
“Mr. Voss prefers to maintain a precise schedule.”
Of course he does.
Reluctantly, she followed Kara to a sleek conference room. A woman in heels and a sharp red suit stood waiting.
“Vivienne Black,” the woman said briskly. “Your publicist.”
Vivienne handed Elara a massive folder labeled ‘Voss-Marriage Media Strategy’ and flipped to the first page.
“Your first interview is Friday. For Icon Weekly. You’ll speak about how you met Damian, the magical moment he proposed, and why you chose a small, intimate wedding.”
Elara blinked. “I chose none of that.”
Vivienne didn’t even look up. “They don’t need the truth. They need a headline.”
Kara passed her a tablet. “Please memorize your relationship timeline by tomorrow. Mr. Voss is already rehearsed.”
Elara scrolled through it:
First Meeting: Charity gala, Paris.
First Date: Helicopter tour over Manhattan.
Proposal: Private yacht, Capri.
She dropped the tablet. “You turned my life into a fairy tale I wasn’t invited to.”
Vivienne finally looked up. “Do you want this to work?”
Elara’s throat tightened. “It’s not supposed to work. It’s supposed to end.”
Vivienne smirked. “Not before the world believes in it.”
That afternoon, a nurse arrived at the penthouse for the prenatal exam. Elara was forced to sit through it under the watchful eye of Damian’s private security team posted nearby.
“Vitals look good,” the nurse said. “Strong heartbeat.”
Elara nodded stiffly, heart aching. She hadn’t even heard the heartbeat before now. That steady thump-thump on the monitor—it wasn’t just a sound. It was a life.
A life she had to protect.
Even from its own father.
Damian returned home late, removing his coat as he walked past her in the hallway.
“Did you memorize the timeline?” he asked.
“I’m not a damn actor.”
“You’ll be one soon.”
She blocked his path. “You think you own this story. But you don’t own me.”
He leaned in, voice low. “Then start acting like someone who wants to survive this.”
She didn’t move. “Why did you want me? Why not someone like you? A rich heiress. Someone trained for this world.”
His answer was immediate. “Because they want love. You don’t.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it.
Because he was right.
She didn’t believe in love anymore.
The next evening, they were photographed having dinner at the rooftop restaurant Morrow, a place with a six-month reservation wait. Elara wore a red designer dress with a neckline that made her nervous. Damian hadn’t even glanced at her, but the cameras never stopped clicking.
“Laugh,” he ordered quietly.
She forced a smile, pretending to react to something he said. The wine was untouched in her hand.
“Hold my hand.”
“I’d rather hold a snake.”
“You’re not making this easier.”
“I didn’t agree to pretend I like you.”
He leaned closer, lips brushing her ear in a whisper no one could hear.
“If we fail at the illusion, I lose my company. You lose your sister’s cure. And our child—loses a future.”
The words stabbed deep.
He pulled back, smiling for the press.
Elara smiled too. It wasn’t for them. It was a smile of quiet war.
When they returned home, Damian went to his private study and shut the door. Elara wandered back to her room, changed into sweats, and lay on the bed staring at the ceiling.
One year.
How was she supposed to live like this?
Her phone buzzed. Another anonymous message:
He’s not what he seems. Dig deeper. Start with the hidden room on the 66th floor.
She bolted upright.
The hidden room. She’d seen it on the first night. A heavy wooden door with no handle, just a small keypad. She assumed it was a panic room or server closet.
Her heart raced.
She slid out of bed, tiptoed barefoot through the hall, checking that the guards weren’t watching. She made her way to the unmarked door near Damian’s study.
The keypad blinked red.
She tried four digits. Nothing.
Then she tried again—this time, Cassian’s birth month. A number she hadn’t even told Damian yet.
0-6-2-4.
Beep. Green.
The lock disengaged.
The door creaked open.
Inside was darkness.
And something else.
A flickering screen. Files. Shelves full of photos. Of her. From years ago. In medical school. At the hospital. With Layna. Eating alone in the park. Reading in cafés. Dozens. Hundreds.
Elara stumbled back.
This wasn’t surveillance.
This was obsession.
A monitor blinked to life.
A video recording began to play.
Damian’s voice echoed from the speaker.
“Delete the girl’s file. She’s the perfect candidate. She won’t ask questions. Not if her sister’s dying.”
Her breath caught.
The timestamp: Six months ago.
Before she ever met him.
Before the contract.
Elara steps back from the screen, horror dawning—Damian Voss hadn’t stumbled into her life by chance.
He had chosen her.
Hunted her.
And now, she was trapped in a marriage that had started long before she ever signed the contract.
- Writer
