Chapter 4
Ava’s Pov
I lay awake my first night in the Blackwood estate, staring at the ceiling of the massive guest room I’d been shown to. The bed was too soft, the sheets too fine, and the silence too heavy.
I had grown used to the constant hum of my tiny city apartment, the neighbors’ TV blaring, pipes clanking, the occasional siren screaming down the street. Here, there was nothing. Nothing except the weight of the contract I had signed and the echo of Damien Blackwood’s words.
“From this moment on, you belong to me.”
A chill rippled through me. I had agreed to ninety-nine days, but what exactly had I agreed to?
The next morning, Elizabeth appeared at my door at seven sharp, dressed in her immaculate navy suit.
“Mr. Blackwood wants to see you in the study,” she said, her tone brisk. “Be prompt.”
I threw on a blouse and skirt, ran a brush through my hair, and followed her down the sweeping hallways. The mansion was like a labyrinth, endless rooms with locked doors, corridors that seemed to stretch forever. It was beautiful, yes, but also suffocating.
The study was all dark wood and leather, lined with shelves of books that smelled faintly of old paper. Damien was already there, seated behind a wide desk. He wore a black shirt today, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the cut of his forearms. The wheelchair did nothing to soften his presence. If anything, it amplified it, commanding the room without effort.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chair opposite.
I sat, my spine stiff, my fingers twisting in my lap.
Damien slid a folder across the desk. “Your schedule.”
I opened it. Inside was a meticulous written schedule of activities . Breakfasts, charity luncheons, board meetings, dinners, galas. Each event had notes beside it—what I would wear, how I would be introduced, what topics I should avoid.
“This is insane,” I murmured, scanning the list. “You’ve planned my every hour.”
“Of course.” His tone was calm, almost bored. “We don’t have the luxury of mistakes. Every detail matters. Every second counts.”
“And if I don’t follow it exactly?”
His gaze locked on mine, sharp and unyielding. “Then you’ll regret it.”
I swallowed hard, forcing myself not to look away. “So, what—this is my life now? A puppet on your string?”
His lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “Call it what you want. I call it control.”
For a moment, silence stretched between us, heavy with tension. Then Damien leaned forward, his voice dropping. “There are rules, Miss Morgan. Break them, and the contract is void.”
My chest tightened. “Rules?”
“Rule one: In public, you will act the part. You will hold my hand, smile, look at me as though I am the only man who matters. Doubt me for even a second, and they’ll smell weakness.”
My pulse quickened. “And in private?”
“In private, you will respect my space. No wandering the estate without permission. No touching me. No prying into things that do not concern you.” His eyes darkened. “And they are many.”
My jaw clenched. “Sounds more like a prison than an arrangement.”
“Perhaps. But it’s one you chose.”
I opened my mouth to retort, but his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, then back at me. “Tonight, we attend a dinner with the Mayor. You’ll wear the dress Elizabeth left in your room. Be ready by seven.”
And just like that, I was dismissed.
The dress was stunning, emerald silk that clung to my curves and made my eyes gleam like jewels. Too stunning. Too much. I stared at my reflection, cheeks flushed, and muttered, “This is not me.”
But when I descended the grand staircase that evening, Damien’s gaze flicked up, and for the first time, his expression faltered.
He said nothing, but the way his eyes lingered spoke volumes.
Elizabeth drove us to the dinner in a sleek black car. The ride was silent, except for the hum of the engine. I smoothed my dress, nerves buzzing beneath my skin.
When we arrived, photographers swarmed the entrance, cameras flashing like lightning. I froze.
Damien extended his hand. “Take it.”
I hesitated, then slipped my fingers into his. His grip was firm, grounding, even as my pulse raced. Together, we faced the cameras.
“Mr. Blackwood! Miss Morgan!” voices shouted. “Is this the new power couple?”
Damien didn’t flinch. He pulled me closer, his lips brushing my ear as he whispered, “Smile, Ava.”
So I did.
And in that moment, wrapped in the spectacle of lights and flashing cameras, I almost believed it herself.
The dinner was a blur of introductions, handshakes, and champagne flutes. I played my part, laughing at the right moments, leaning into Damien as if he were my anchor. He was cold, controlled, but every so often, his hand would tighten on mine, reminding me that this performance was as much survival for him as it was for me.
But beneath the glamour, tension simmered. I caught snippets of whispers, “gold-digger”
“desperate”
“poor girl doesn’t know what she’s in for.”
At one point, Vanessa appeared. The woman was breathtaking, tall, blonde, elegant in a red gown that screamed danger. She slid up to Damien with a smile that didn’t reach her icy eyes.
“Damien,” she purred. “And who is this?”
“Ava Morgan,” Damien said smoothly, his arm tightening around my waist. “My fiancée.”
The word hit me like a slap.
Vanessa’s smile widened, sharp as a knife. “How…charming. Congratulations. I do hope you’ll last longer than the others.”
The others.
My blood went cold, but before I could ask, Damien steered her away, his grip firm.
“Don’t listen to her,” he said under his breath.
But the question clawed at my mind all night. “The others?”
When we returned to the estate, I slipped out of the car, my heart still pounding. I was about to retreat to my room when Damien’s voice stopped me.
“Miss Morgan.”
I turned. He sat in his chair, shadows cutting sharp across his face.
“You did well tonight.”
It almost sounded like praise, but his tone was too guarded, too clipped.
“Thank you,” I said softly.
For a moment, something flickered in his gaze, something vulnerable, something almost human. But then it was gone, replaced by the same steel as before.
“Get some rest. Tomorrow will be worse.”
And with that, he wheeled himself into the study, the door closing firmly behind him.
I stood there, the weight of his words pressing on my chest. Worse? What could be worse than this?
My phone buzzed in my purse.
I pulled it out and froze.
Another message. From the same unknown number.
[Ninety-nine days won’t save you. He’s not what you think. And if you stay, you won’t survive him.]
My hands trembled.
My eyes lifted to the closed study door, where Damien’s shadow flickered against the light.
And for the first time, I wondered if the contract wasn’t just dangerous for my heart, but for my life.