Elara didn't sleep.
She sat on the edge of her bed until morning, still wearing the same black dress from the funeral, her knees tucked beneath her chin, the velvet ring box unopened beside her.
The apartment was too quiet. Every sound from outside felt sharp and intrusive—the hum of traffic, a dog barking, someone shouting far down the block. Life moved on.
But for Elara, everything had stopped the moment Lucien Knight said, "Marry me."
She'd replayed the moment a hundred times.
Not because she didn't believe it—but because, deep down, part of her did.
---
She'd lived her whole life scraping by on scraps. Her mother had died from illness when Elara was fourteen. Her father had walked out long before that, never leaving anything behind but an old jacket and a pile of debts.
Liana had been her light. Her reason. They shared everything. Dreams. Rent. Fear.
And now she was gone.
Taken.
And in her place was a contract. A ring. A stranger offering her the world—so long as she agreed to chain herself to the man who might have destroyed it in the first place.
What kind of game was this?
Lucien Knight didn't offer without reason. He didn't ask. He commanded.
And yet…
He didn't deny Liana's death.
He didn't pretend not to know.
He invited her into the den—offered her a seat at the table.
He was either bold… or reckless.
But something told Elara: he wasn't reckless. Ever.
---
By noon, she was still staring at the contract.
Her phone buzzed.
Another unknown number.
"Elara Sinclair," the woman's voice from last night said. "Your twenty-four hours are ticking. Mr. Knight expects an answer."
Elara didn't respond.
"Think carefully," the woman added before hanging up.
She did.
For three more hours.
Then she finally opened the velvet box.
The ring inside gleamed with cold, hard brilliance. Not romantic. Not sentimental. Just power—cut into a perfect shape and priced beyond reason.
Elara reached for it.
And slipped it onto her finger.
---
The car came again at five.
Same driver. Same silence.
This time, Elara dressed deliberately.
She wore Liana's coat—a worn leather piece with a frayed sleeve—and tied her curls back into a clean, low bun. Her eyes, lined with kohl, gave her an edge she didn't quite feel.
But she needed it.
Knight Tower looked even taller in daylight. Like a monument to arrogance. Its mirrored glass reflected the skyline, blinding and cold.
When she stepped into Lucien's office, he was already waiting—leaning against the window, city lights casting his silhouette in gold and shadow.
He turned slowly as she entered.
His gaze flicked to her hand.
"So," he said softly, "you said yes."
"No," Elara replied. "I said nothing."
Lucien raised an eyebrow.
"I'm wearing the ring," she continued, walking toward him. "But I haven't signed the contract. Not yet."
His lips curved slightly. "You like to play with fire."
"I'm not afraid of fire," she said.
"I think you are." He stepped closer. "But you're more afraid of the truth. Or what it will cost you."
Elara swallowed.
"I want everything," she said. "Full access. To your estate. Your records. Your people. No locked doors."
"You're not my wife yet."
"Then I'm not your shield."
They stood only inches apart now, heat simmering beneath their words.
Lucien studied her.
"I admire your spine," he said.
"I'm not here to be admired."
"Then what are you here for?"
She met his gaze squarely.
"To win."
---
He offered her a pen.
And she signed.
Her name beneath his.
The contract was clean. Clinical. No vows, no love, no illusions.
Only obligations.
Duration: One year.
Secrecy clause: Absolute.
Divorce: Pre-arranged.
Compensation: Not listed. That wasn't the point.
It was done.
Elara Sinclair was now Elara Knight.
The enemy's wife.
---
She didn't move into the Knight mansion immediately.
Instead, Lucien handed her a key—silver, small, and cold. "You'll be staying in one of our private penthouses. Security is already in place."
Elara frowned. "You don't want me in your house?"
Lucien smirked. "You think I sleep in that museum?"
"I think you like your walls high," she said. "But I'll find my way through them."
"I'm counting on it."
She didn't ask what that meant.
She didn't want to give him the satisfaction.
---
The penthouse was quiet, glass-walled, and smelled like cedar. Minimalist. Too clean.
Elara stood in the middle of the living room, her suitcase untouched by the door, and wondered if she'd just made the biggest mistake of her life—or the most brilliant move she'd ever dared.
She didn't trust Lucien. She never would.
But being close to him gave her something she hadn't had since the day Liana died:
A path.
And she intended to walk it until it either led to the truth—or destroyed her.
---
That night, she opened the drawer of the nightstand beside the massive bed.
Inside was a tablet.
When she powered it on, it opened directly to an encrypted drive labeled "L.S."
Her blood chilled.
Liana Sinclair.
She tapped it.
A password prompt appeared.
Three attempts only.
Elara stared at the screen, her heart hammering.
Was this a test? A trap? A gift?
She tried Liana's birthday.
Incorrect.
Then she tried her own name.
Incorrect.
One chance left.
She stared at the screen, her mind racing. Something personal. Something private.
Her fingers hovered over the keys.
Then typed:
"Butterfly."
It was what Liana always called her.
The name of the cheap pendant she wore every day since their mother died.
The screen flashed.
Access Granted.
Elara gasped.
Hundreds of files appeared—spreadsheets, messages, logs.
And one video file—time-stamped two days before Liana died.
Elara tapped it.
The screen flickered.
And there, on the video, stood Lucien Knight.
Talking to Liana.
His face unreadable.
Her sister… was crying.