The silence in the study was suffocating. Ariana stood frozen, her gaze locked on the tall, suited figure behind the desk.
"I said," Damian's voice dropped an octave, calm and sharp like a scalpel, "you'll marry me. Tomorrow."
She flinched, as if slapped. "Are you out of your mind?"
Damian's eyes narrowed, emotionless. "No. But you will be if you think you have a choice."
Ariana clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. "Why? Why me? Out of all the women you could manipulate, why me?"
He leaned back in his chair, gaze studying her like a chess piece. "Because you owe me."
Her breath caught. "No. My father owes you. I'm not part of his debt."
Damian stood, the dim light casting shadows along his broad shoulders. "Your father's sins are your burden now, Miss Miller. He signed over the company. But the contract had one final clause."
He walked around the desk, handing her a crisp document.
Ariana's fingers trembled as she read the last line, the ink sharp against her vision:"In the event of default, Mr. Miller's daughter, Ariana Miller, shall be offered in marriage to Mr. Damian Blackwood as assurance of settlement."
Her heart pounded violently. "This is insane. You can't enforce this!"
Damian's lips curled into a cold smirk. "It's already legal. Your father signed this willingly, and the clause was notarized. I had it confirmed this morning."
Tears welled in her eyes, not from sorrow, but pure rage. "You're disgusting."
"I've been called worse."
"You're forcing a woman to marry you. That's not power, that's pathetic."
He paused, his face unreadable. "This isn't about power."
"Then what? Some twisted revenge fantasy? You ruin my father and now you want to ruin me too?"
His jaw ticked. For a brief second, something flashed in his eyes—pain? Regret? But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.
"You can walk away," he said quietly, "but if you do, your father will be in jail by next week. Fraud. Embezzlement. Misuse of investor funds."
Ariana's throat closed up. "You... you planned all this."
"I warned him. He didn't listen. And now—" he stepped closer, so near she could smell the faint, expensive cologne that clung to his suit "—you pay the price."
The walls closed in on her. Her father, reckless and naive, had dragged them into this pit, and now... she was the final bargaining chip.
She turned her back to him, breathing hard.
"I need time."
"You have twelve hours. At 9 a.m. tomorrow, I expect you at the registry office."
She spun on him. "And if I don't show?"
"I will not chase you," he said coolly. "But I will make sure your father doesn't see the outside of a courtroom for the next twenty years."
Ariana's fists unclenched slowly. She wasn't just choosing between her freedom and a marriage—she was choosing between abandoning her father or losing herself to this man.
"I hate you," she whispered.
"Good," Damian said, unbothered. "That'll make things easier."
Back at the Miller estate, the house was quiet. Too quiet.
Her father was asleep—he hadn't even noticed she was gone. She stood at the foot of the staircase, feeling like a stranger in her own home. This wasn't a life anymore—it was a sentence.
Slumping onto the couch, she stared at the floor, mind numb.
Was this what her life had come to? Becoming the wife of the man she loathed most?
And yet... somewhere deep in the chaos, she realized something chilling.Damian Blackwood wasn't doing this out of love. Or even lust.He wanted something.
But what?
The next morning.
She didn't sleep at all. At 8:45, she stood in front of the mirror wearing a simple white blouse and a pleated cream skirt. Her hair was pinned neatly, and her makeup was barely there. Her eyes, though, were bloodshot.
Ariana Miller had died last night. Today, Mrs. Blackwood would be born.
She arrived at the registry office exactly at 9:00.
Damian was already there, seated like royalty in the corner of the room, dark suit immaculate, watch gleaming with every flick of his wrist.
"You're late," he said without looking up.
"It's nine o'clock," she bit out.
He finally raised his eyes. For a second, he paused, taking her in.
She hated that look.
The ceremony was mechanical. They signed papers in silence. The registrar, sensing the tension, rushed through the vows.
"Do you, Damian Blackwood, take Ariana Miller—"
"Yes."
"And do you, Ariana Miller, take Damian Blackwood—"
She hesitated. One beat. Two.
Damian's hand slid over hers under the table, his grip firm and unrelenting.
"I do," she muttered.
"Congratulations," the clerk said, trying to smile. "You are now legally married."
The words felt like iron bars slamming shut.
Outside, Ariana yanked her hand from his. "Happy now?"
Damian didn't answer. He simply gestured to a black Rolls Royce parked nearby.
"I'm not getting in that with you."
"Would you prefer the press finds you on the curb and spins a story about a runaway bride?"
She glared. "You really are a bastard."
He opened the door. "Get in, Mrs. Blackwood."
The title struck her like a slap. She got in.
The drive was quiet. Tension laced the air like poison.
They stopped outside a towering glass building—Blackwood Tower. A penthouse suite awaited.
The elevator ride was unbearable. When the doors opened, Ariana was greeted by pristine marble floors, panoramic windows, and an overwhelming sense of emptiness.
"This is home now," Damian said.
"I'd rather sleep in a cell."
"You're free to decorate however you like. Just don't touch my office."
"Trust me, I won't."
He turned to leave but paused. "There are rules, Ariana."
She crossed her arms. "Of course there are."
"We will appear in public as a happy couple. Photos, events, anything I require. In private, you will keep out of my business."
"Anything else, Your Majesty?"
"No affairs. No secrets. No scandals. Break that, and this marriage ends in court, and your father goes down with it."
Ariana raised her chin. "And what about you? Are you allowed to screw around with whoever you want?"
His voice dropped to a low growl. "I won't need to."
Before she could answer, he walked off, leaving her in the echoing silence.
That night, Ariana lay awake in the guest room—her supposed 'personal quarters'—staring at the ceiling.
This wasn't just a forced marriage.
It was a game. A twisted war of pride and silence.
And somehow, Damian Blackwood had already won the first round.
But Ariana wasn't raised to lose.
Not without a fight.