Chapter 1: The Signing

The pen trembles between my fingers like a dying bird, ink bleeding across the pristine white paper in stuttered marks. Five hundred thousand dollars. The number stares back at me, mocking every principle I thought I had, every boundary I swore I'd never cross. The leather chair beneath me creaks—expensive, cold—while Kyle's hospital bracelet burns against my palm where I'm gripping it, plastic edges cutting into my skin like a reminder of what I owe, what I've always owed.

The Blake family lawyer's voice drones through the terms, each word hitting like drops of acid on my conscience. "One year of marriage. Conception and delivery of one healthy child. Full medical care provided. Upon completion of the contract, Mrs. Blake will receive—"

"Blake." The name tastes like copper pennies in my mouth. "I'll be Mrs. Blake."

Across the mahogany table that probably costs more than my yearly salary, Damien Blake sits motionless. His dark eyes—God, those eyes haven't changed, still that same intensity that used to make me feel like he could see straight through to my bones—are fixed on some point past my shoulder. Like he can't bear to look at me directly.

Smart man.

"Miss Chen?" The lawyer's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "Do you need a moment?"

I don't look up from the contract. Can't. If I meet Damien's eyes, I'll see the boy who pushed me down the school stairs. The one who made my lunch money disappear, who turned my friends against me with whispered lies.

The boy who left me to burn.

"The terms are quite straightforward," the lawyer continues, his voice clinical in the way that expensive legal counsel perfects. "Following the birth, divorce proceedings will commence immediately. Custody arrangements are outlined in section twelve—"

"She keeps the money either way." Damien's voice is low, controlled, but there's something underneath it that makes my skin prickle with recognition. "Even if complications arise."

Finally, I look up.

Mistake.

Those dark eyes are fixed on me now, and there's something in them that looks almost like... pain? No. That's impossible. Damien Blake doesn't feel pain—he causes it.

"There won't be complications," I say, my voice sharper than intended. "I'm not that fragile little girl anymore."

His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath olive skin that's aged better than it has any right to. "I never said you were."

"You didn't have to."

The silence stretches between us like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap. The grandfather clock in the corner ticks away seconds that feel like eternities, each sound hammering against my skull. His cologne—cedar and something darker, more dangerous—invades my nostrils, bringing memories I can't afford to remember.

"Perhaps we should proceed with the signing," the lawyer suggests, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

"Why me?" The question escapes before I can stop it, and I hate how small my voice sounds. "With your money, your connections, you could have anyone. Why the girl you used to terrorize?"

Something flickers across Damien's face—too quick to catch, but it's there. His hands, resting on the table, curl into fists before he forces them flat again. I watch the movement, mesmerized by the contrast of his control and the tremor beneath it.

"Maybe because you're the only one desperate enough to say yes."

The words hit like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. My ribs feel like they're closing in, crushing my heart between them. I breathe through it the way Kyle taught me—count to five, remember what this is for, remember who needs you.

The hospital bracelet cuts deeper into my palm, and I welcome the pain. It grounds me, reminds me why I'm here.

"You're right." I pick up the pen again, grip it steady this time. My knuckles are white, but my hand doesn't shake. "I am desperate. So let's get this over with."

The pen scratches across paper, signing away a year of my life, and the sound takes me back—another pen, another signature. Kyle's shaking hand on discharge papers, his face pale as death, whispering my name like a prayer.

*The coffee shop is too loud, too bright, and Kyle's hand trembles as he reaches for his water. Six months after the accident, and the movement still looks painful. My fault. Always my fault.*

*"Two hundred thousand?" I stare at the medical bills he's spread across our small table, the numbers blurring together until they become meaningless. Until they become everything.*

*"The experimental treatment... it's the only option left." His voice breaks on the words, and I feel that familiar twist in my chest—the same feeling I've carried since I was eight years old, since the night he threw himself in front of a car to save me. "Without it, the nerve damage... I might never walk properly again."*

*I watch his face—the same face that smiled at me through childhood nightmares, that held me while I cried about Damien Blake's cruelties. The face of the boy who sacrificed everything for me, who still bears the scars of that sacrifice in the way he moves, the way he winces when he thinks I'm not looking.*

*"I'll find a way." The words come automatically, the way they always do when Kyle needs something. "I always do."*

*"Aria, no. You've already given up so much for me—"*

*"You saved my life." I reach across to squeeze his good hand, feeling the slight tremor that never quite went away. His fingers intertwine with mine, holding tight—too tight. "You've been saving it ever since. This is what I owe you."*

*He smiles then, soft and grateful, but there's something else in his eyes. Something that makes my stomach clench with unease I can't name.*

*"You're an angel, you know that?" He lifts our joined hands, presses a kiss to my knuckles that lingers just a moment too long. "I don't deserve you."*

*The words should be sweet. They're meant to be sweet. But something cold crawls up my spine, some instinct I can't name. His grip is tight—too tight—and there's something hungry in the way he watches my face...*

"—signed and witnessed."

The lawyer's voice jerks me back to the present. My signature sits at the bottom of the contract, bold and final. Done. No going back now. The ink is still wet, like blood from a fresh wound.

"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Blake." The lawyer begins gathering papers with practiced efficiency. "The ceremony is scheduled for Friday."

Damien stands, straightening his expensive suit jacket, and I catch a glimpse of something—a scar along his forearm, white against olive skin. Old. Familiar. My breath catches, but before I can examine the feeling, he's speaking.

"Three days." His voice is carefully neutral, but there's something underneath it that makes me look at him sharply. Something almost like... concern? "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

Am I? I think of Kyle, of the bills that keep coming despite the supposed insurance coverage, of the way he flinches when he thinks I'm not looking. Of fifteen years of debt I can never fully repay.

"I've been ready since I was eight years old," I lie.

But as I watch Damien Blake walk away, his broad shoulders rigid with tension, he stops at the door. Turns back. Those dark eyes find mine across the room, and for a moment, the carefully constructed mask slips.

"Aria." My name on his lips sounds different than it did fifteen years ago—rougher, hungrier. Like he's been starving for the taste of it. "I'll pick you up at seven tomorrow. For dinner."

It's not a question.

"That wasn't part of the contract," I manage, my voice barely steady.

Something dangerous flickers in his expression. He takes a step back toward me, and I feel my pulse spike. The lawyer has conveniently disappeared, leaving us alone in this room full of expensive furniture and expensive lies.

"A lot of things aren't in that contract," Damien says quietly, his voice dropping to something almost predatory. "But you're my wife now, in every way that matters. We're going to get to know each other... intimately."

The word hangs in the air between us, loaded with promise and threat. I should tell him to go to hell. Should remind him this is business, nothing more. But something about the way he's looking at me—like he wants to devour me whole—makes my mouth go dry.

"I'm not yours," I whisper, but the words lack conviction.

He moves closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough to count the gold flecks in his dark eyes. When he speaks, his breath ghosts across my ear, making me shiver.

"Aren't you?" His voice is silk over steel. "You signed the papers, Aria. You took my ring. You'll carry my child." His hand hovers just above my wrist, not quite touching, but the threat of contact makes my skin burn. "Tell me how you're not mine."

I can't. God help me, I can't form the words because some treacherous part of me is responding to the possessive heat in his voice, the way he says 'mine' like it's a prayer and a curse combined.

"Seven o'clock," he repeats, stepping back just enough that I can breathe again. "Wear something pretty. I have fifteen years of conversations to catch up on."

The contract lies on the table between us like a death sentence, and I realize with crystalline clarity that I've just sold my soul to the devil I know.

The only question now is whether I'll survive long enough to collect—or if I'll lose myself completely in the process.

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