Chapter 3: Paper Rings

I didn’t wear white.

Not because I didn’t have the dress—I did. It hung in the closet like a ghost. Lace and silk and softness I didn’t ask for. But I didn’t wear it. I wore black. Not to make a statement, not to be dramatic.

I just didn’t want to pretend.

This wasn’t a fairytale.

There were no flowers. No vows whispered through tears. No music swelling in the background while someone’s mother dabbed at her eyes.

It was a room.

A single room.

No windows.

Just marble walls, a thick oak table, and two chairs that didn’t face each other.

He came in first. Koven Elrik Mavros.

Black suit. No tie. Cold eyes like always. He didn’t say anything. Just sat down across from the lawyer and nodded once.

I came in after.

The silence swallowed me as soon as the door closed behind me.

Even my heels felt too loud.

No one stood. No one smiled. Not even the damn officiant, if that’s what he could be called. Just a man with a clipboard and a watch that kept ticking, like he had somewhere better to be.

“Are both parties ready?” he asked.

I didn’t look at Koven. I looked at the pen.

Silver. Sleek. Like everything in his world.

I nodded.

He didn’t.

But he signed.

His name inked across the paper in perfect strokes, like he’d practiced being heartless.

Then it was my turn.

I stared at the line for longer than I should have. My hand didn’t shake. I made sure it didn’t. But for a second, something inside me did. Something small. Something I’d buried.

And then I signed.

Zephyra Aislyn Corvan. In letters that looked calm. Collected. Like they belonged to someone else.

The man behind the table stapled the forms. Stamped them.

And that was it.

No kiss. No rings. No promises.

Just silence.

Koven stood up. Adjusted the cuff of his suit.

“This isn’t love,” he said flatly. “Don’t expect it to become one.”

I looked at him.

“I don’t,” I said.

And I didn’t.

The car was waiting downstairs. Black again. Everything with him was black. The color of power. Of warning.

He walked ahead of me. Never looked back. His hand reached for the door, pulled it open like he was just being polite. But when I moved to get in, his palm pressed against my lower back. Barely there.

But enough.

Enough for me to notice that he held it for a second longer than necessary.

A second too long.

My skin felt it. The pause. The heat.

And then it was gone.

He shut the door behind me. Cold again.

Silent again.

Like that moment didn’t just happen.

The drive was quiet.

I stared out the window. Tried not to wonder what I’d just done. Tried not to calculate the distance between who I used to be and who I was becoming.

He didn’t speak.

I didn’t either.

But once, at a red light, I turned my head and looked at him.

He wasn’t looking at the road.

He was looking at me.

And when our eyes met, he didn’t look away.

He just said, “You can still run.”

I tilted my head. “Would it matter?”

His jaw tightened.

“No,” he said.

And that was the truth.

The penthouse looked the same. Clean. Sharp. Expensive. But now there was a thin, invisible shift in the air. Like it had swallowed our signatures and was deciding what to do with us.

The driver unloaded nothing. I had no bags. No flowers. No honeymoon to chase.

Just a contract. And a man who never blinked first.

He walked in without a word, straight to the elevator. I followed. I always followed now.

When the doors closed, the mirror caught our reflections. Two strangers in matching scars.

He didn’t say anything.

But he was standing close.

So close that I could hear his breath, even when he didn’t want me to.

When we reached the top floor, he stepped out and turned right. I waited, uncertain. The hallway was dim, long. Like something out of a place where dreams go to die.

“Your room’s to the left,” he said, without looking back.

I nodded. Moved past him.

But then he paused.

His voice was lower this time. “Mine is right here.”

I glanced over my shoulder.

He stood by the master bedroom door. Hand on the knob.

“Stay out of my room,” he said.

I stared at him.

His eyes were cool. But the way he gripped that door… there was tension there. Like he wasn’t used to sharing space.

Or maybe he was afraid of what happened when he did.

“Unless I ask you in,” he added.

And then he went inside.

Left the door open.

Unlocked.

I found the guest room. It was too clean. Too big. Like a hotel room waiting for someone with no luggage.

I sat on the edge of the bed. Stared at my hands.

They looked the same.

But they weren’t.

Nothing was.

And somewhere, on the other side of this glass tower, was a man who didn’t believe in love... but still left his door open for the girl who just signed away her name for twelve months of pretending.