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The sound of his voice still echoed in my ears as I stood frozen by the stairs.

“Get dressed. We’re leaving.”

No further explanation. No gentleness. Just a command. The kind that didn’t expect resistance.

I stood in front of the vanity mirror, fingers trembling slightly as I fastened the last clasp on the delicate gold necklace.

My reflection didn’t look like me.

Not the girl who walked through rain-soaked streets. Not the woman who sat beside a hospital bed hoping for a miracle.

No, the woman staring back at me had been sculpted by elegance curated like a mannequin for a man’s world.

The gown was satin emerald green, hugging my body like it was stitched to my skin. It flowed at the hips and shimmered under the soft white light of the mirror. The slit rode high on my thigh. Scandalous yet elegant.

My dark hair had been curled into soft waves cascading down my back, adorned with golden pins that sparkled like stars.

Even my makeup had been done by a professional the staff summoned without a single word from me. A soft, sultry look: barely-there eyeshadow, bold lashes that made my hazel eyes look… dare I say it, seductive.

And my lips were stained red.

I looked… expensive.

I looked like his wife.

I was adjusting the strap on my heel when a knock came at the door. One of the maids peeked in.

“Mr. Blackwood is waiting downstairs.”

Of course he was.

I took a deep breath and walked out of the room, feeling the weight of each step on the marble floor.

And then I saw him.

Standing at the foot of the grand staircase like a figure from another world.

For a moment, I forgot how to move.

Dressed in a sharp, jet-black tuxedo, he looked devastating. His features were carved like marble. Strong jawline, cheekbones that could slice glass, and lips that held no warmth.

But it was his eyes that stole my breath. Those unnerving pale irises, not quite grey or blue, but something in between. Almost silver. Almost white. Like frost on glass.

Eyes that saw everything. Eyes that burned through you.

His thick dark hair was styled neatly, swept away from his face. Everything about him screamed dominance, cold beauty, and unshakable power.

“You’re late,” he said coolly, his gaze skimming over my dress lingering for a second too long.

I swallowed hard.

“You didn’t say where we were going.”

“You’ll see.”

He offered his arm. I hesitated for a moment, then placed my hand in the crook of his elbow.

His presence was overwhelming… too close, too cold, too magnetic.

We said nothing during the drive. The silence was heavy, only broken by the soft clink of his cufflink against the armrest. I looked out the window, unsure whether to prepare for war or charm school.

But when we arrived, I knew this wasn’t just a casual outing.

The restaurant was elite. An exclusive rooftop venue with a panoramic view of the city skyline. The kind of place where CEOs, celebrities, and royalty dined behind velvet-draped doors.

I mean, hey—it’s not like he would take me to some run-down shack. He was Alexander Blackwood.

“Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood,” the maître d’ greeted us instantly, bowing low and leading us to a private table draped in black silk and crystal stemware.

There were a few others too mostly couples from the looks of it.

But eyes still followed us.

Not just because of him. Well… mostly because of him. But also because of me.

Mrs. Blackwood.

As soon as we sat, a waiter appeared with champagne and the first course something that looked like decorated leaves.

I picked up my glass slowly, trying not to tremble, but the tension in my chest hadn’t eased.

“Why are we here?” I asked softly, unable to hold the silence any longer.

Alexander leaned back slightly, eyes studying me over the rim of his glass.

“Because people need to see us.”

“See us?”

“We’re married, Isla. Publicly. That means appearances.”

I clenched my jaw.

“So tonight is a performance?”

He didn’t deny it.

“You’re not here to play the role of a wife for my entertainment only,” he said calmly. “You’re here because I need you.”

I blinked.

“Need me? I thought this was a convenience arrangement.”

He rested his elbows lightly on the table and leaned in, voice low.

“My father… before he died, the old sob entrusted everything—and I mean everything to my conniving stepmother.”

I frowned.

“Your stepmother?”

“Yes. And her son. Legally, they hold controlling rights to Blackwood Holdings. But his will included a clause, a hidden provision they weren’t expecting.”

“What kind of clause?”

His pale eyes locked onto mine.

“That I must be married for at least three consecutive months to gain any rights to contest the power structure. If not, it all goes to them permanently.”

I stared at him.

“So… I’m your key to taking back what’s yours.”

“Yes.”

My mind reeled.

“But why me? You could’ve picked anyone. Someone from your world.”

His eyes darkened.

“The reason I chose you doesn’t concern you.”

I froze at his curt response.

Threading lightly, I asked, “And what’s your stepmother like?”

“She hates weakness. She hates anything she can’t manipulate. And you… well, she obviously has nothing on you.”

He took a swig of wine.

I didn’t know if that was a compliment or an insult.

“What about her son?” I asked cautiously.

His jaw tightened.

“He’s a parasite. Latches onto his mother like a child needing breast milk. Totally useless. My father always knew it. That’s why the clause exists.”

There was something deeper in his voice then—a venom I hadn’t heard before. His hate wasn’t cold. It was personal. Deep. Ugly.

“And what happens after six months?” I asked.

“You walk away. Richer. Your mother safe. And I get back what’s rightfully mine.”

He said it like it was that simple.

But I knew nothing about his world was ever simple.

The second course was served—seared scallops in truffle cream. I barely touched mine.

“So that’s my role,” I said after a moment.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His silence said it all.

“Fine,” I murmured. “I’ll play the part. Just tell me one thing…”

He looked up, brows slightly raised.

“What happened between you and your stepmother that made you hate her this much?”

His lips twitched—almost bitterly.

“That’s a story for another time,” he said, swiping his napkin across his lips.

But before I could press further, a cat-like voice interrupted us.

“Alex…?”

The voice was sweet. Sultry.

I turned just in time to see her.

Tall. Blonde. Radiant in a crimson cocktail dress. Perfume thick in the air. She moved like she owned the room—and everyone in it.

And without hesitation, she walked straight up to him and slid her hand across his shoulder like she’d done it a thousand times.

“Oh my God, it really is you,” she cooed, completely ignoring me, her fingers lingering on his collar. “You’ve been avoiding me, you know.”

Alexander didn’t flinch.

I sat still, watching her, my stomach knotting.

“Still as brooding and handsome as ever,” she purred, leaning closer. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

I expected him to introduce me. To pull away. To say something, anything.

But he didn’t.

And then, finally… her gaze shifted toward me.

Her smile faltered.

Her eyes widened slightly.

She looked me over slowly, from my dress to my hair, as though realizing I wasn’t just a dinner companion.

Then her brows arched, and her lips parted in disbelief.

“You’re with her?”

Her reaction was too strong to be normal. It wasn’t just jealousy. It was something else… recognition, maybe?

Then, in a swift, almost unnoticeable move, Alexander shifted in his seat, causing her to unlatch her hands from his body as he reached under the table.

I caught it.

He pinched her arm—firm and deliberate.

The blonde flinched. Her eyes snapped to him. He didn’t say a word, but something passed between them. A silent warning, perhaps?

She cleared her throat and straightened, forcing a smile.

“Well… she’s lovely,” she said, glancing at me briefly though the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You’ve always had a type, haven’t you, Alex?”

I offered a polite nod, unsure how to respond.

“Celeste,” Alexander said sharply.

So that’s her name… Celeste.

She raised her hands in mock surrender.

“Right. I’m leaving.” Her voice was light, but tension laced every word.

Just before she turned away, she looked at me again longer this time. Her brows furrowed, like she wanted to say something… but didn’t.

Instead, she forced a small laugh.

“Anyway… it was nice meeting you, Isla. I’m Celeste,” she said, gesturing between herself and Alexander.

“If this big man here doesn’t do the honors of an introduction, I might as well have to.”

I managed a quiet,

“Sure. Nice to meet you… Celeste.”

Still trying to understand her unease.

She knows my name.

She nodded once, then walked away, heels clicking sharply on the marble floor as she passed a brunette waitress—almost knocking her over.

I glanced at Alexander. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed on the glass in front of him like he was willing it to shatter.

“What was that about?” I asked softly.

“Nothing important,” he replied curtly.

But something about that moment stuck with me—like a thread left hanging.

I looked down at my reflection in the silver spoon, then back in the direction Celeste had gone.

All this glamour was new to me… but I knew when someone was uncomfortable. And that woman—she was really uncomfortable when she saw me.

I saw it in her eyes.

Maybe it had something to do with that portrait I’d seen in Alexander’s private room—the one with the woman who looked uncannily like me.

My fingers tightened slightly around my fork.

Was it just a coincidence?