The envelope was thick. Cream-colored. Embossed with gold.
Olivia Blake stared at it like it might explode. And maybe it would—just not with fire. With a single signature, it would blow apart everything she believed in.
Her father sat across from her in the study, one hand on the armrest of his antique chair, the other clutching a glass of whiskey like it was a lifeline. His face was hard. Weathered. And worn down by the years of losing everything—because of him.
"You'll sign it, Olivia."
"No," she said flatly.
"You will."
Her fingers clenched around the edge of the table. "You're selling me off like property."
"This isn't a sale. It's survival."
She scoffed. "Funny. I didn't realize 'survival' came with a wedding dress and vows to a sociopath."
His jaw flexed. "Damon Cross isn't a sociopath."
Olivia's laugh was bitter. "He's the man who bankrupted your company. Who destroyed our name. And now you want me to marry him?"
"Exactly because he destroyed us." Her father's eyes met hers. "This is the only way to restore what we've lost."
"No," Olivia snapped, shoving back from the table. "There's always another way. This? This is cowardice."
She stormed toward the door. Her heart was racing, skin prickling with rage. But before her fingers could wrap around the brass handle, a cold, smooth voice echoed from behind her.
"I didn't realize I was so unwanted."
Her entire body went rigid.
The door swung open before her fingers could turn the knob.
And there he was.
Damon Cross. Six-foot-two of cold power and tailored Armani. Jet black hair. Eyes like obsidian—beautiful and brutal. The man had the face of a god and the soul of a devil.
He walked in like he owned the house. Hell, he probably did. Damon didn't knock. He didn't ask. He commanded.
"Hello, Olivia," he said with a faint smile.
She swallowed the acid in her throat. "How long have you been eavesdropping?"
"Long enough to know this marriage is going to be fun."
She took a step toward him, ignoring the heat curling low in her stomach. "I'd rather jump off a cliff than marry you."
His smile widened, all arrogance and danger. "Careful. I own the cliffs now too."
Her father cleared his throat. "Sit down, both of you."
Olivia didn't move.
Damon did.
He took the seat across from her, legs crossing like he had all the time in the world to destroy her—again.
Her father opened the envelope and pulled out the contract. "The terms are simple. You'll be married for one year. You'll play the perfect wife in public. No scandal. No divorce. At the end of the term, we dissolve the marriage quietly. Damon's merger goes through. Our family's debt is forgiven."
"And what do I get?" Olivia asked, voice razor-sharp.
Damon answered before her father could. "You get a chance to rebuild your life. To save your father. And," he added, eyes locking onto hers, "to play the martyr in a dress instead of a prison jumpsuit."
Her jaw tightened. "Is that a threat?"
"It's a reminder," he said coolly. "Your father committed fraud trying to save your company. I had the chance to bury him, and I didn't. This is mercy, Olivia. Just not the kind you like."
She turned to her father. "You let him blackmail us into this?"
"He's offering us a way out."
"No," Olivia whispered. "He's offering you a leash."
Silence fell like a guillotine in the room.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
She looked at Damon. Looked at the contract. Then slowly—deliberately—she walked over, picked up the pen beside it, and signed her name.
But before her signature dried, she looked him dead in the eyes.
"You might own my name now," she said, "but you'll never own me."
He leaned in, voice like velvet over steel.
"We'll see, Mrs. Cross."