Married to the man who ruined me.

Blackwood House didn't feel like a home.

It felt like a statement.

Ariella realized that the moment the car gates closed behind them, sealing her inside an estate too vast and too quiet to be comforting. The gravel drive stretched endlessly, flanked by sculpted hedges and stone fountains that whispered money and permanence. Nothing here was accidental. Everything had been designed to impress, intimidate, and endure.

She sat stiffly in the backseat, hands folded in her lap, watching the reflection of the estate lights slide across the window glass.

Lucien hadn't spoken since they left the tower.

He sat across from her, calm and composed, scrolling through his phone as though he hadn't just altered the course of her life. His silence was deliberate. Controlled. It pressed against her nerves worse than any argument could have.

The car finally stopped.

"Welcome home," the driver said politely, opening Ariella's door.

Home.

She stepped out slowly.

Blackwood House rose before her like something out of another world-stone walls, tall windows glowing faintly from within, the structure elegant yet severe. No warmth. No softness. Just power carved into architecture.

Lucien exited the car and moved to her side. "Inside."

Not please. Not if you'd like.

Just inside.

The doors opened before she reached them.

A line of staff stood waiting in the entry hall-silent, composed, eyes carefully lowered. A woman stepped forward, older, sharp-eyed, and impeccably dressed.

"Mrs. Blackwood," she said smoothly.

The title struck Ariella like a slap.

"This is Helena," Lucien said. "She manages the house."

Helena inclined her head. "Your rooms are prepared."

Your rooms.

Plural.

Ariella glanced at Lucien. He didn't elaborate.

Helena gestured down a long corridor. "If you'll follow me."

They walked in silence, the sound of their footsteps echoing softly against marble floors. Ariella felt exposed, studied, even though no one spoke. Every inch of the house screamed observation.

They stopped outside a set of doors at the end of the hall.

"This is your room," Helena said to Ariella, opening one door. "And Mr. Blackwood's is across the corridor."

Ariella blinked. "Across?"

Lucien answered calmly. "You'll have your own space."

That surprised her more than the contract itself had.

"You don't need to pretend," she said quietly.

"I'm not pretending," he replied. "I'm setting boundaries."

Helena waited a moment, then excused herself.

Ariella stepped into the room slowly.

It was large, elegant, and entirely impersonal. Neutral colors. Minimal decoration. It looked like a hotel suite-luxurious but temporary. As though no one expected her to stay long enough to matter.

She turned back to Lucien. "So this is it."

"For tonight."

"And tomorrow?"

Lucien checked his watch. "Tomorrow, you become public."

Her chest tightened. "Meaning?"

"There's a press announcement scheduled for eleven a.m."

She stared at him. "You're joking."

"I don't joke about timing."

"You didn't tell me this."

"You didn't ask."

Anger flared hot and sudden. "You're parading me."

"I'm protecting you."

"By turning me into a headline?"

"Yes."

She shook her head. "You don't get to decide how I'm seen."

Lucien met her gaze evenly. "That decision was made the moment you signed."

The words hurt because they were true.

She turned away, moving deeper into the room, trying to regain control. Her suitcase sat neatly on the bed, already unpacked.

"That was fast," she muttered.

"Security handled it."

Of course they did.

She ran a hand through her hair. "What exactly are you telling them?"

Lucien followed her inside, stopping a careful distance away. "That we married privately. That we value discretion. That we are united."

"And that's it?"

"For now."

She laughed bitterly. "You talk like this is a campaign."

"It is."

She faced him again. "And what am I supposed to do?"

"You stand beside me," he said. "You smile when required. You don't contradict me in public."

"And in private?"

His gaze held hers. "In private, you're free to hate me."

That caught her off guard.

She studied him, searching for mockery. There was none.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked quietly.

Lucien's jaw tightened. "Because walking away isn't an option."

"Why?"

"For the same reason I married you."

He didn't elaborate.

Sleep didn't come easily that night.

Ariella lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the unfamiliar quiet of a house too large to feel safe. Every sound felt amplified. Every shadow seemed to move.

She wondered if Lucien slept as easily as he pretended to live.

By morning, Blackwood House was already alive.

Stylists arrived before breakfast. Assistants followed. Helena moved through it all like a general overseeing a battlefield.

Ariella sat before a mirror as someone adjusted her hair, another her makeup. She barely recognized herself-polished, composed, carefully curated.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered.

"It's necessary," Helena replied.

The dress they chose was elegant but restrained. No extravagance. No vulnerability. Something a billionaire's wife would wear without inviting speculation.

Lucien entered just as they finished.

He paused when he saw her.

Just for a moment.

Something unreadable crossed his expression.

"You'll do," he said.

She shot him a look. "High praise."

They rode down together, the car windows tinted dark. Ariella's stomach churned as the building came into view-cameras already set up, reporters gathering like vultures.

"Remember," Lucien said quietly. "Stay close."

"Like a prop?"

"Like a partner."

She snorted softly. "That's a stretch."

The car stopped.

The door opened.

Noise exploded.

Cameras flashed. Voices called out questions she couldn't distinguish. Lucien's hand settled at the small of her back, firm and steady.

The touch startled her.

Not because it was intimate-but because it was grounding.

She straightened, lifting her chin as they stepped forward together.

Lucien spoke briefly. Calm. Controlled. He confirmed the marriage without elaboration. No details. No vulnerability.

Then he turned to her.

Ariella froze for half a second.

He leaned closer, his voice low enough only she could hear. "Smile."

She did.

The cameras ate it up.

"Mrs. Blackwood," a reporter called out. "When did you meet?"

Ariella felt Lucien's grip tighten slightly.

"Privately," Lucien answered.

"And why the secrecy?"

Lucien glanced at Ariella. "Because not everything needs an audience."

She met his gaze, holding it longer than necessary.

That was when she noticed it.

Across the street.

A man standing too still. Watching too intently.

Their eyes met.

A chill slid down her spine.

Before she could react, Lucien shifted, blocking her view.

"Time," he said, guiding her back toward the car.

As the doors closed and the noise faded, Ariella's heart pounded.

"Someone was watching," she said.

Lucien's expression darkened. "I know."

Her breath caught. "You knew?"

"Yes."

"And you still brought me out there?"

"Yes."

"You said this would protect me!"

"It did," he replied. "It confirmed something."

She stared at him. "Confirmed what?"

Lucien looked at her then-not as a strategist, not as a billionaire-but as a man carrying weight he hadn't shared.

"That they've noticed you," he said quietly.

Her blood ran cold.

"And what happens now?" she whispered.

Lucien's jaw tightened.

"Now," he said, "we find out how far they're willing to go."

The car pulled away.

And Ariella realized the truth far too late-

Being Mrs. Blackwood didn't make her untouchable.

It made her bait.