Chapter 2 – One Year in Chains
"You'll belong to me. For one year."
Elara stared at Damian Voss like he'd spoken a foreign language.
"This is insane," she said finally, the words dry in her throat. "You're asking me to marry you… just like that?"
"Yes." He didn't blink.
"Because you need a wife for… what, exactly?"
He sli the black envelope closer. "My company is going public in six months. The board is pressuring me to soften my image. Investors are skittish about backing a man they believe has no stability in his personal life. A wife… especially one like you, changes that perception."
She snorted. "One like me?"
He didn't hesitate. "Beautiful. Scorned. Intelligent. Marketable. You'll gain sympathy and power in one move. I'll gain credibility."
"So I'm a PR campaign to you."
He gave a slight nod. "Precisely."
Elara's chest tightened. This man wasn't just cold—he was calculated, clinical. But part of her respected it. At least he wasn't pretending to love her before stabbing her in the back. That kind of honesty? It was brutal… and oddly refreshing.
"And after a year?" she asked, voice low.
"We divorce. You walk away with the business I'll help you build. You'll have a legitimate fashion label under your name. No strings."
"And during that year?"
His gaze darkened, the sharp cut of his jaw rigid. "You'll play the role. Publicly and privately. We live together. Attend events together. No scandal, no infidelity. The world will believe we're married in truth."
She narrowed her eyes. "And behind closed doors?"
"That," he said, "depends on you."
Elara's stomach flipped at the intensity in his voice. "You mean sex."
Damian didn't flinch. "If it happens, it happens. If it doesn't, I won't force anything. I'm not a monster, Miss Quinn."
She looked away, jaw clenched. "No. Monsters wear tuxedos and sleep with your sister before the vows."
For the first time, Damian's eyes softened—just a flicker. "Then you should be glad I'm offering paperwork, not promises."
A bitter laugh slipped out. "You think money can fix everything."
"No," he said quietly. "But it can give you power. The kind that makes sure no one hurts you again."
Elara looked down at her whiskey. One sip left.
A week ago, she would've laughed this kind of offer off as fantasy. But today? She had nothing. No fiancé. No family she could trust. No career—not since Liam had pressured her to give up her boutique dreams for "a stable life."
And now here was Damian Voss, handing her a second chance disguised as a contract.
"Why me?" she asked.
"I told you."
"No, why me specifically?" Her voice trembled. "You could pick any woman. Some desperate socialite, an actress, a model. Someone who'd kill to be your wife."
"I didn't want someone who wants me."
The bluntness caught her off guard.
"I wanted someone who has something to gain," Damian continued. "Someone who won't fall in love. Someone with enough pride to keep up appearances—and enough fire to match me."
He looked her straight in the eye.
"You're that woman."
Elara exhaled slowly. It was tempting. Too tempting.
A year of playing pretend, for everything she ever dreamed of. Her own label. Creative freedom. Independence.
And revenge—not through screaming matches or tears—but by becoming something stronger. Untouchable.
"I need to think," she murmured.
"You have twenty-four hours."
"Twenty-four?"
"After that, the window closes."
"And if I say no?"
Damian stood, buttoning his suit jacket. "Then you go back to living in your sister's shadow. Or working as someone else's assistant while the world whispers about how your fiancé left you for your sister. Again."
Elara flinched.
He wasn't cruel—just honest. Brutally so.
Damian placed a business card on the table.
"When you're ready, call me. You'll be picked up discreetly."
"Picked up?"
"You sign with me, Elara… and your life changes overnight."
She didn't sleep that night.
She couldn't.
The city lights flickered outside the window of her tiny apartment—one she hadn't stepped foot in for months because she'd been living with Liam. Now that apartment felt too small, too cold. Too hers.
The dress was crumpled on the floor like a bad memory. Her veil was gone, and her heart felt as though it had been ripped out and dissected.
She stared at the business card.
Damian Voss.
It sounded like danger.
It sounded like opportunity.
And more than anything—it sounded like escape.
By morning, the decision had formed in her chest like steel.
She showered, dressed in black, tied her hair up, and called the number.
A woman answered. "Miss Quinn?"
"Yes. I'm ready."
The car that arrived wasn't just black—it was obsidian. A luxury town car with tinted windows, silent as a ghost. The driver said nothing, but handed her a sealed folder the moment she entered.
Inside: the marriage contract.
It was meticulous. Cold. Ironclad.
Everything Damian had promised.
Duration: One year.
Conditions: No public scandal, cohabitation required, privacy agreements enforced.
Compensation: Full investment in the Elara Quinn fashion brand, including design space, marketing, and launch event within three months.
Termination clause: Early exit voids compensation.
Elara's fingers hovered over the dotted line.
She signed.
One perfect loop of her name—and her life changed.
Damian's penthouse wasn't just luxurious—it was another universe. Towering glass windows. Marble floors. Modern art. Clean lines. Cold light.
He stood waiting in the living room, arms crossed.
"You're early."
"You said twenty-four hours. It's been eighteen."
A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. Approval, maybe.
He walked over to her, stopping inches from her face.
"From this moment on," he said, "you're mine."
Elara raised her chin, refusing to be cowed.
"I don't belong to anyone, Mr. Voss."
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. "We'll see."