Elara woke to sunlight slicing through the penthouse windows like golden knives. For a mont, she forgot where she was. The silk sheets weren’t hers. The air slled of clean marble and faint cologne. And the ring on her finger glead like a shackle in the light.
She was a wife now.
A wife to Damien Arclight.
The thought alone made her sit up, pulse quickening with sothing that wasn’t quite fear, but wasn’t far from it either
She found Damien in the kitchen.
Wearing a black button-up and no tie, he stood at the stove, calmly making eggs like a man who hadn’t just destroyed soone’s life and married the wreckage.
"Morning," he said without looking up.
"Is this the part where you pretend to be normal?" she asked.
"No." He plated the eggs. "This is the part where I go over the terms of our marriage."
She sat across from him, taking the plate only because the food slled good and she hated how hungry she was.
"We’ll be seen in public together once a week," he began. "Galas, charity events, board functions. You’ll have a stylist and driver. Keep up appearances. I don’t care what you do privately."
"And what if I do sothing that embarrasses you?" she challenged.
"Don’t." He said it with the sa calm he used when flipping the eggs.
She stabbed a fork into her food. "And sleeping arrangents?
"Up to you. You have your own room. I won’t force anything." He looked up then. "Unless you want sothing."
Elara choked slightly on her coffee.
"I’m joking," he added after a pause. "Mostly."
She glared at him. "You think this is funny?"
"I think it’s inevitable. We can pretend we’re enemies all we want, Elara. But at so point, this... tension will take a different shape."
She stood, chair scraping back. "Not everything is a negotiation, Damien."
"You’re right," he said. "So things just are."
Later that day, a sleek black car arrived to take her to her first "appearance" as Mrs. Arclight. It was a luncheon for the Arclight Foundation, charity for disadvantaged youth, though she suspected half the people attending had never missed a al in their lives.
Elara wore a deep red dress, classic and sharp, the neckline modest but commanding. She didn’t ask for Damien’s opinion.
The crowd buzzed when they entered.
"Elara," he said, offering his arm. "Smile like you don’t want to stab ."
"I’m considering poison. It’s quieter."
They walked in together, a perfect image of elegance and wealth. Caras flashed. Questions buzzed. Elara kept her posture queen-like, the way her mother had taught her.
Behind the charm, she took ntal notes. Faces. Nas. Allies. Enemies.
She could play this ga.
At the table, a socialite leaned in, eyes sharp with curiosity.
"We were all surprised," she said in a low whisper. "You and Damien. I an... there was never a hint of scandal."
Elara smiled with practiced grace. "That’s because we’re very discreet."
"Discreet?" The woman raised a brow. "I heard your family was...."
Elara cut her off smoothly. "Fortunes rise and fall, darling. But legacies? Those last longer."
Damien, beside her, let out a small, approving breath.
Later, in the car, he turned to her. "You handled that well."
"I’ve been surviving vultures since I was fourteen."
"Good. You’ll need that skill."
That night, back in the penthouse, Elara stepped onto the balcony alone. The city stretched beneath her like a sea of light. Sowhere far below, people lived ordinary lives. Made real marriages. Chose who they loved.
She didn’t have that luxury.
Behind her, Damien stepped out.
"You did well today."
"I’m not doing it for you."
"No," he said. "You’re doing it for them. Your family. That’s admirable."
She turned. "You think this makes weak? That I’m playing house while you hold the leash?"
He stepped closer. "No. I think you’re stronger than most people I’ve t. That’s what makes this interesting."
Elara’s heart pounded.
"You want a fight, Damien?" she said, stepping into his space. "You’ll get one. Just don’t forget, I can break you too."
He smiled faintly. "I’m counting on it."
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