Chapter Four
The morning air in the Blackwood penthouse felt sharp and too clean, like even the city had been filtered through glass and silence.
Elena woke earlier than usual, her heart racing, not from excitement, but from the weight of what was coming.
Today, she would walk into a room full of strangers and marry a man who never smiled. Adrian Blackwood.
Even in her thoughts, his name sounded cold, like the marble floors she'd been walking on since she arrived.
She dressed slowly, buttoning her plain dress one careful snap at a time. No lace. No veil. Just white fabric and quiet resolve.
When she turned, Adrian was already at the door. He didn't knock. He didn't need to. His presence filled every space before his words did.
"You're ready," he said. It wasn't a question.
Elena nodded. "As I'll ever be."
His eyes flicked to the hem of her dress, then back to her face. "You'll need a coat. It's cold outside."
It was such a simple thing to say—almost kind—but his tone made it sound like an instruction, not concern. She slipped her coat on anyway.
---
The drive to the courthouse—or rather, the private floor he had booked—was quiet at first. The city moved past them in blurred streaks of gray and gold, the morning rain soft against the car windows.
Elena sat with her hands clasped in her lap, counting her breaths, too aware of the man sitting beside her.
After a few minutes, Adrian spoke—unexpectedly.
"Are you nervous?"
She blinked, caught off guard. "Would it matter if I said yes?"
He didn't look at her. "No. But I asked anyway."
A small silence followed. The kind that held more meaning than words.
"Are you?" she asked quietly, almost teasing—though her voice trembled a little.
His lips curved, barely noticeable. "I don't get nervous."
"Of course you don't," she murmured, looking back out the window. "You're Adrian Blackwood. Everything you do is planned two steps ahead."
This time, his gaze shifted toward her. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
She hesitated, then said softly, "No. Just… lonely."
He didn't reply, but she saw his jaw tighten, the faintest flicker of something unreadable in his expression.
The rest of the drive passed in silence, but the air between them felt different—less cold, more complicated.
---
When the elevator doors opened, she almost laughed at how sterile it all felt. A small white room. A table. Two witnesses. A clerk. And the faint hum of security just outside. No flowers. No music. Just paperwork waiting for signatures.
The clerk's voice broke the silence. "Mr. Blackwood, Ms. Moore—are you both ready to proceed?"
Adrian's response was immediate. "Yes."
Elena forced a small smile. "Ready."
The ceremony began. The clerk read through the contract in a careful, measured tone. The words sounded more legal than romantic—phrases like "non-interference," "confidential agreement," "emotional boundaries."
Elena's hands twisted together as the question came.
"Do you, Elena Moore, take Adrian Blackwood to be your lawfully wedded husband, in accordance with the agreed terms—for one year?"
Her voice caught for half a second. Then, quietly, "I do."
The clerk turned to Adrian. "And do you, Mr. Blackwood?"
"I do." His answer was low, steady, almost mechanical.
When the rings were exchanged, their fingers brushed briefly. His hand was warm, but the touch felt rehearsed, as if he'd practiced detachment.
The clerk smiled politely. "You may shake hands, if you wish."
Elena hesitated, then held out her hand. Adrian glanced at it, then took it firmly—nothing more.
"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood," the clerk said, as if announcing a business deal.
Adrian nodded. "Thank you." Then, to Elena, quietly: "It's done."
A photographer took a few pictures. They stood side by side, expressionless. The flash went off three times. Each click felt like another lock sealing shut.
As they walked out, Elena finally spoke. "That's it? No toast? No—something?"
Adrian glanced down at her. "Would you prefer a celebration for a contract?"
She pressed her lips together. "No. Just... feels strange."
"It's supposed to." His tone was unreadable. "Marriage isn't always sentiment. Sometimes it's strategy."
The words stung more than she expected. "And which is this for you?"
"Strategy," he said simply.
Silence fell again. The city moved past the window as they drove back, the rain blurring lights into streaks. She caught his reflection in the glass—focused, composed, unreachable.
He broke the quiet once they reached the penthouse. "You'll stay in your room tonight. Tomorrow, we discuss expectations."
Elena nodded faintly. "Right. Rules."
He gave a small nod. "It will make things easier."
She managed a polite, "Goodnight, Mr. Blackwood."
"Adrian," he corrected.
Her brows lifted. "Right. Adrian."
He hesitated for just a second before saying, "Goodnight, Elena," and then disappeared down the hall.
---
The door shut, and the silence returned—heavy, complete.
Elena folded her dress carefully over a chair and sat on the bed. The city stretched beneath her, endless and cold, but alive in a way she no longer felt.
Her mother would be safe now. That had to be enough.
She whispered to herself, "One year. Just one year."
But as she lay down and listened to the rain against the windows, her chest tightened with a quiet, stubborn ache she couldn't quite name.
Because even now, with everything settled and signed, her heart still refused to act like it understood rules.