The news broke the very next morning.
"Billionaire Damian Blackwood Set to Marry Mysterious Fiancée in Week-Long Wedding Extravaganza!"
The headlines splashed across every major media outlet, accompanied by a carefully chosen photo of me—one I had never posed for.
My phone exploded with calls and messages. Friends. Ex-co-workers. People who hadn't spoken to me in years, suddenly acting like they cared.
I ignored them all.
Because from the moment I signed that contract, my life was no longer my own.
I was carried away into a whirlwind of preparations.
Dress fittings. Bridal interviews. Rehearsals.
Everything was planned to perfection, not by me, but by Damian's team. I was just a piece in the spectacle.
Every gown I tried on, every flower arrangement I approved, every single choice was dictated by someone else.
"This is the dress," the stylist announced when I stepped into the final fitting.
It was stunning. An exquisite white gown, shimmering with delicate embroidery. The kind of dress little girls dream of.
But when I looked in the mirror, I didn't recognize myself.
"Beautiful," the woman gushed. "Mr. Blackwood will be pleased."
I wanted to laugh.
Damian Blackwood didn't care what I looked like.
This wedding wasn't about love.
It was about power.
And I was just another pawn.
Then the day finally came.
Cameras flashed. Voices whispered.
And Damian Blackwood, my new husband, barely even looked at me.
I had thought the hardest part would be signing the contract. That once the ink dried, reality would settle in, and I'd find some way to accept it.
I was wrong.
It wasn't me.
Nothing about this was me.
But none of that mattered. Because this wedding wasn't about love or dreams. It was about the contract. A performance. A show for the world to see.
I had agreed to this. And now, there was no turning back.
The ceremony was held at one of the most luxurious venues in the city, a grand cathedral with high towers stained-glass windows and golden chandeliers. Every seat was filled with the rich, the powerful, the curious.
The media called it "The Wedding of the Century."
To them, I was the lucky nobody who had captured Damian Blackwood's heart.
If only they knew the truth.
I stood at the entrance of the cathedral, my fingers curled around my bouquet. My heart pounded as I took the first step down the aisle. The entire room watched me, but all I saw was him.
Damian stood at the altar in a black tuxedo, perfect as always. But something was off.
He wasn't watching me.
His gaze was fixed straight ahead, his face without a single smile, his hands clenched at his sides. He looked cold. Unreadable. Like this was just another business meeting he needed to endure.
Not a wedding.
Not our wedding.
The realization made feel sad.
I had known from the beginning that this wasn't real. That Damian Blackwood didn't want a wife, he wanted an image.
But standing there, walking toward a man who wouldn't even look at me, the truth cut deeper than I expected.
The ceremony passed in a daze.
The officiant spoke. Vows were exchanged. I forced the words out when it was my turn.
"I do."
Damian's voice was steady when he said the same. But still, he didn't meet my eyes.
A ring was slipped onto my finger. A symbol of a marriage that meant nothing.
"You may now kiss the bride," the officiant announced.
For the first time that day, Damian looked at me.
His blue eyes were as cold as steel. No warmth. No hesitation. Just calculation.
Then, he leaned in, pressing the barest whisper of a kiss against my lips.
It lasted less than a second.
A performance. Nothing more.
The crowd erupted into applause, the cameras flashing like fireworks around us. But all I could hear was the hollow silence between us.
I had just become Mrs. Blackwood.
And my husband was hiding something.
The applause still echoed in my ears as we stepped away from the altar. Damian's hand rested lightly on my waist, an effortless display of possession for the cameras. But the moment we were out of sight, he dropped it.
The reception was just as fancy as I thought it would be. There were shimmering chandeliers, walls covered in white roses, and a guest list full of people who had more money than I could imagine.
As soon as we entered the ballroom, the crowd broke into applause. Cameras clicked away, capturing the perfect moment of the couple.
Damian's hand was on my waist, but it felt more like a pose than an embrace. His touch felt distant, just the kind of touch that signaled to everyone we were the picture-perfect couple.
But inside, I felt empty.
No comfort. No safety. Just the heavy feeling of the contract binding me, like an invisible weight.
"Smile," Damian whispered in my ear.
I made an effort, even though my cheeks started to feel sore from faking it all evening.
Guests came over, greeting us with a lot of forced excitement. Everyone wanted to talk about how I had managed to tame Damian Blackwood.
If they only knew the truth.
I played along, smiled when I had to, nodded at the right times, and took sips from a champagne flute I couldn't really enjoy. Damian was charming enough to keep up appearances but never too much to seem invested.
I noticed some women looking at him like they wanted me out of the picture. Like I had taken something that had never been mine.
If only they knew.
Dinner was served, toasts were given, and the whole event felt like an endless show. I was just waiting for it to end.
Then it was time for the first dance.
The lights dimmed, casting a warm glow on the dance floor. Damian extended his hand, his expression unreadable.
"Shall we?"
I took a deep breath and took his hand.
The music started—a slow, haunting tune. He drew me close, one hand on my waist, the other holding mine.
From the outside, we looked great. A storybook moment. A dream wedding.
But up close, the space between us felt stifling.
"You're tense," Damian noted calmly as he led me smoothly across the floor.
Then he met my gaze. "I wonder why."
There was something in his eyes. Was it amusement? Frustration? It disappeared too quickly to tell.
"This won't be so bad, Elena," he said in a steady voice. "Just play your part, and we both get what we want."
I tilted my head. "And what do you want?"
His lips barely changed. "Control."
A chill ran through me. Not because I was surprised, but because I knew he already had it.
The song ended, applause erupted, and just like that, the show was over.
The night raced by, and soon, Damian was leading me to the car.
Not home.
Not to his penthouse.
To a hotel.
The car stopped outside an upscale hotel, the kind of place where only the rich stayed, where privacy was guaranteed, and money could fix anything.
A doorman opened my door. I stepped out, my dress flowing around me like silk.
Damian stayed inside.
"I'll pick you up tomorrow morning," he said casually, as if we weren't just married.
I turned to him, gripping the door frame. "That's it? No wedding night? No… whatever this is supposed to be?"
His face didn't change. "You'll move into the penthouse tomorrow. For now, just get some rest."
Before I could say anything else, the door closed.
The car drove off, leaving me standing there alone.
I should've felt relieved. No forced closeness. No pretending when no one else was watching.
But instead, I felt something else.
Like I had stepped into a game I didn't know how to play.
And Damian Blackwood was the one calling the shots.