Chapter 3: The Rules of Us
The sun barely crept over the skyline when Elara awoke in her cramped apartment—her final morning there.
A courier had arrived before dawn, delivering a sleek envelope embossed with gold lettering: Blackwood Enterprises – Private.
Inside, there was a checklist, a non-disclosure form, and a plane ticket for a weekend "media retreat" to the Blackwoods' private estate. She was to be prepped for the wedding. Trained, dressed, rebranded.
"A bride must reflect the brand," the letter said. Not love. Not partnership. Brand.
By 8 AM, a black car waited outside.
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Blackwood Manor – Private Wing
The estate was a sprawling palace of glass and steel nestled against the sea. Cold, sharp, and flawless—like Lucien.
As she stepped inside, Elara was greeted by a woman in a silver suit.
"I'm Isabel. Mr. Blackwood's personal advisor. You'll follow everything I say."
Elara's eyes narrowed. "Am I a bride or an employee?"
Isabel smiled thinly. "Both, darling."
Over the next hours, Elara endured fittings, interviews with PR teams, etiquette lessons, and a brutal Q&A with Lucien's media strategist.
"You'll never speak of your past. You studied art in Paris. You and Lucien met at a charity gala. You were engaged privately. You prefer privacy."
"But none of that is true," Elara said.
"It is now," Isabel replied without blinking.
By evening, Elara stood before a floor-length mirror in an ivory slip dress, a diamond choker around her throat.
The door opened.
Lucien entered, dressed in his signature charcoal suit. Not a hair out of place. His eyes roved over her once, pausing at her bare shoulders.
"You clean up well," he said.
"You make a lovely prison warden," she shot back.
His lips curled, barely. "Do you always speak like this?"
"Only when I'm being sold."
He stepped forward, slow, purposeful. "No one forced you to sign, Elara."
"No," she admitted, "but don't pretend this is normal."
Lucien circled her, predator-smooth. "Normal is overrated."
She turned to face him. "What do you want from me?"
His eyes held hers, unflinching. "Obedience in public. Silence about our deal. And no falling in love."
The words hit her like ice water.
Elara straightened. "That last one won't be a problem."
Lucien's expression didn't shift, but something flickered in his eyes—amusement? Disappointment?
"I'll have Isabel finalize your schedule," he said. "You'll move into the penthouse tomorrow. The wedding is in four days."
Before he turned to leave, he paused. "One more thing."
Elara raised a brow.
"In private, you can hate me all you want. But in front of the world—" he leaned close, his breath brushing her ear— "you'll smile like you belong to me."
Then he walked out, leaving her with a throat full of pride and a heart already learning how to bleed in silence.