He didn’t believe in love. Damien Blackwood believed in power—measured in numbers, silence, and control. Relationships? Unnecessary. Marriage? A calculated move for public image.

And you? You were the one person he’d never imagined tying himself to. The two of you couldn’t be in the same room without throwing daggers—verbal or otherwise. Arrogant. Difficult. Infuriating. He hated your defiance. You hated his cold superiority.

But you needed the marriage for your inheritance. And he needed the illusion of stability to shut up the board and silence the press. So, here you both stood—bound by contract, repelled by everything else. You hated him but he hated you more.

It was business. Nothing more. Nothing less. A contract sealed with rings, disdain, and a countdown to freedom.

The ceremony was perfect—of course it was. The dress, the rings, the cameras. And now, the photos.

He stood beside you like a sculpture in a tailored suit, hand on your waist only because it was expected. To the world, you were the picture of devotion. At the photo shoot, his hand landed on your waist like it burned him. Your smile was a grimace painted in lipstick. The camera clicked.

He leaned in, voice low enough for only you to hear, words like ice against your skin.

“Smile wider.” he sneered, his voice low and venom-laced.

“The hatred’s mutual, princess. Now smile like you mean it.”