DEBT OF DESIRE

CHAPTER SIX: Legal Vows, Unspoken Tensions

The courthouse smelled faintly of disinfectant and polished wood, a world that somehow felt heavier than Blackwood Tower. My heels clicked against the marble floor, echoing in the empty halls like a countdown to a life I hadn’t chosen but had no choice but to step into. Mom held my hand tightly, and Dad shuffled beside her, pale but determined to be there. Their eyes pleaded, and the weight of their hope pressed down on me harder than any contract could.

I had wanted to wear a beautiful wedding dress I had seen online, because Noah could afford it. But he refused. He silenced me by asking me “who wears a wedding dress to a court marriage”

So I had to borrow from Noah's friend who knows a friend.q

Despite that I looked unstoppable. Lena did my makeup and she made sure that I wore a bright red lipstick.

Lena had insisted on coming, waving her little finger at me before we left: “Scar, breathe.You control the terms.” Her words echoed now as I approached the judge’s chamber, but all I could feel was my stomach tightening because I was nervous.

Noah Thorne was already there, leaning against the wall with that perfect posture of control and dominance, as if the courthouse itself had been built just for him. Gray eyes turned towards me as I walked in. His tailored black suit, crisp shirt, and subtly undone tie made him look both untouchable and deliberate. I

He didn’t smile and he didn’t extend a hand. Just a nod which only meant that he noticed I was there. That sent a shiver through me. I felt frustrated getting married to a man that won't even look at me when he is not testing me. … A feeling I wasn't ready to define

The judge’s chamber was small, intimate, the kind of room that made every sound, every cough, shuffle of papers feel amplified. Our lawyers were present, Gerald Crane for Noah and a legal counsel I’d barely spoken to for me.

“Miss Lee, Mr. Thorne,” the judge said, glancing down from her bench. “We are here for a brief civil marriage. As I understand, both parties consent to a contractual arrangement lasting one year, with terms privately agreed.”

I nodded, trying to keep my hands from shaking. Noah’s gaze stayed fixed on me, his gray eyes assessing me again, calculating”

The vows were perfunctory, rehearsed, stripped of sentiment. The judge’s words floated around me: “Do you take…”, “Do you promise…” but it all felt surreal, a checkbox in a life that had just been upended.

When I finally said, “I do,” my voice barely above a whisper, Noah’s eyes flickered, not with warmth, but with acknowledgment, respect, and that unshakable dominance that made me aware of every millimeter between us. He said his “I do” with the same precision, indifferent and even a stranger could tell there was something wrong… I caught a brief pause, a subtle catch, that suggested there was more beneath the surface.

“Congratulations,” the judge said, stamping the certificate. “You are legally married.”

It was over in twenty minutes. And yet, somehow, I felt the weight of every obligation, every expectation settle on my shoulders. One year filled with oublic appearances. And Noah Thorne… my reluctant, cold, commanding husband.

Outside the courthouse, cameras flashed like daggers. Paparazzi yelled questions, but I ignored them, wrapping my scarf tighter. Lena and Mom flanked me, shielding me as best they could. Dad, leaning on his cane, muttered something under his breath that made me glance at him: “You did the right thing, Letty. We’re safe… for now.”

I wanted to scream, to shake off the weight of responsibility that wasn’t really mine to bear, but there was no time. Noah was already at the car, doors held open, posture rigid, presence commanding even in the crisp October air. I climbed in, silently noting the leather interior, the cold minimalism, the lack of warmth, exactly what I’d been thinking about decorating since the first day.

The drive to Blackwood Tower was quiet, the tension thick, punctuated only by the hum of the engine. Noah’s hands were clasped together in his lap, his gaze fixed on the city skyline. I wanted to ask him if he even felt the same pressure, the weight of pretending, but the words died in my throat.

I wanted to ask him why his father and brother were absent from the marriage but I held it back.

Back at the penthouse, the silence stretched. He led the way with precise efficiency, guiding me through the marble floors and austere hallways to a living room that made me want to pull my hair out. White walls, polished chrome, glass tables, sterile and cold.

“It’s dull,” I said bluntly, crossing my arms.

He turned, eyebrow raised. “Dull?”

“Yes. There’s no warmth. No personality. It’s like a showroom. I’ll have to fix it.” I said with the designer in me like a dragon waking up.

Noah’s lips twitched, almost a smirk. “Do you ever rest? Or do you see something, and it must be changed?”

“I see potential,” I shot back, ignoring the heat creeping into my cheeks. “And you, Mr. Thorne, live here. You should feel comfortable like a house… it doesn’t feel like anyone lives here, it just exists. I’m going to make it mine… or at least bearable for a year.”

He didn’t respond, just observed, gray eyes sharp and calculating. I could almost feel him weighing whether he should let me do it. This was going to be a battle, I realized. A quiet war of wills, punctuated by furniture choices, and living arrangements.

Dinner that night was another battlefield. I had brought groceries, insisting I cook to at least claim one space of control. Noah stood by the counter, arms crossed, watching me chop vegetables with precise, almost imperceptible critiques.

“You’re using too much olive oil,” he said flatly, “and that knife isn’t properly aligned with the cutting board.”

I stopped, knife midair, glaring. “And you cook?”

He didn’t answer immediately, just raised an eyebrow. “I’m observing.”

I huffed, realizing it was futile to argue. Instead, I focused on seasoning the pasta just right, determined that this kitchen, my domain, if only temporarily would not become another place where I felt powerless.

As we ate, the tension eased slightly. Conversation was minimal, but small sparks of domestic life crept in the way he poured his wine, the subtle way he watched me adjust the napkins, the quiet routine of learning to share a space. I felt a strange mix of irritation and… something else I refused to name.

Later, as I explored the penthouse, I paused in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city sprawled endlessly, lights twinkling like a million opportunities. One chance to survive without losing myself completely.

I thought of Dad, Mom, and the restaurant the legacy they had built and I felt resolve harden within me. I had boundaries, plans, and skills. I could navigate Noah Thorne, his cold demeanor, his untouchable world. And maybe, just maybe, I could make this contract marriage not just bearable, but a platform to establish my independence, my voice, and my designs.

Yet, in the quiet, I felt the pull of Noah’s presence, the subtle acknowledgment in his eyes that he, too, was measuring this arrangement, calculating, cautious. There was a story behind his behaviour, a hole left by his mother’s death, a resentment toward his father, a wary eye toward his older brother. I had glimpsed it, and though I wanted to hate him, a part of me recognized the loneliness beneath the armor.

I shook my head, reminding myself: Boundaries first, heart second.

And as I began imagining the colors, textures, and designs that would transform this sterile palace into something alive, I allowed a small smile. This was my world now, at least for a year. And

I would conquer it, one room, one meal, one contract clause at a time.