His name was the last thing I expected to see on a marriage contract.
Black Mirf.
The ink seemed to shimmer against the page like it was mocking me. Bold. Sharp. Final.
My pulse hammered behind my eyes, and I blinked twice, forcing the storm in my chest to stay hidden behind a neutral face. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Not today.
"Black Mirf?" I spat his name like venom, glaring at the lawyer sitting across from me.
The man didn't flinch. Neither did Black.
He sat at the far end of the grand marble hall like he owned the world—and maybe he did. That infuriating calm, that expensive suit hugging his broad frame, that smug glint in his silver eyes.
He looked untouched. Unbothered. Unscarred by the chaos he'd just thrown me into.
Like that night had never happened.
Like he hadn't broken me.
He rose slowly, with all the grace of a man who'd already won. And maybe he had. He adjusted his cufflink and then walked toward me like a predator, savoring the distance between him and his prey.
When he finally stood just inches away, his voice dropped to that smooth, low timbre that had once haunted my dreams.
"Sign it, Rose."
I didn't move.
He leaned in slightly, the scent of expensive cologne and wicked intentions wrapping around me like chains.
"The game has begun."
I wanted to scream. To rip the paper to shreds. To throw the pen at his perfect, infuriating face.
But I couldn't.
Because this wasn't about pride. Not anymore. It was about Daniel. About survival. About keeping what little I had left.
So I signed.
My name scratched across the page in trembling ink, sealing my fate.
Rose Carter.
Married. To Black Mirf.
The room was silent, save for the slow exhale he gave as I handed the contract back.
He studied it for a beat too long, then looked up, eyes glittering.
"You always had beautiful handwriting. Shame it's wasted on legal documents."
I didn't answer. My jaw clenched.
He smirked.
"Cheer up, wife. We're going to make headlines."
I met his gaze, fire in mine.
"If I make it out of this alive, I swear—"
He cut me off with a raised brow. "You'll what? Expose me? Again?"
"No." I stepped closer. "I'll bury you."
His smile deepened, dark and slow. "That's the spirit."
He turned, signaling to the lawyer who began collecting the documents.
As Black walked away, I stared at his back, burning with rage and something else I couldn't name.
But I knew one thing.
If I was going down, I was dragging him with me.
---
The grand doors of the hall opened, and a flood of flashes met us. Reporters, cameras, and voices calling our names. The media circus was already in full swing.
I froze.
The lights were too bright. The questions too loud. I wasn't ready for this. Not as his wife.
I instinctively moved a step back, but his hand wrapped firmly around mine, tugging me forward.
"Smile, Rose," he whispered without looking at me. "They're watching."
"I can't—"
Too late.
He turned to me, cupped my jaw, and kissed me.
Right there. In front of everyone.
My entire body went rigid. My eyes wide. My breath caught in my throat.
He pulled back slightly, enough to see my shock. My flushed cheeks.
But the cameras were still clicking. People are still staring.
Before I could process anything, he leaned in again, grabbing my face and...
Another kiss.
Slower this time. Firmer. His lips moved with maddening confidence.
I didn't respond. I couldn't. My mind was screaming. I wanted to shove him away.
Then I felt it.
The faint pressure of his teeth on my lower lip.
A warning.
He bit down—gently but firmly—then pulled away just enough to murmur in my ear:
"Smile... or the next time, it won't be so gentle."
His tone was a dagger wrapped in silk. Cold. Commanding.
He stepped back, his arm wrapping around my waist with theatrical ease, flashing the cameras a perfect, polished grin.
"Doesn't she look stunning?" he said to the crowd.
Then, without missing a beat, he leaned in and whispered, "You better get used to this... my wife."
---
The ride to his estate was suffocatingly silent.
Black sat beside me like a statue, eyes forward, jaw locked, his presence heavy enough to drain the air from the car.
I sat frozen, hands clasped in my lap, mind racing.
Would he hurt me? Force himself on me? Did this contract give him that, right?
My breath caught when I remembered the clause I'd skimmed in panic earlier:
"The bride shall not be permitted to bear a child during the period of the contract."
No pregnancy. But that didn't mean no intimacy.
The blood drained from my face.
As the car slowed before the looming gates of his estate—his mansion—I swallowed hard.
Cold stone walls. Iron gates. A palace or a prison?
He led me inside with quiet confidence, not sparing me a glance as the staff bowed and disappeared. Then we were alone.
Just the two of us.
In his home.
In his control.
As I gathered the courage to speak—to demand clarification, to object, to scream—he lifted a hand.
A single motion silenced me.
His gaze remained indifferent, his tone curt:
"Do not leave the estate's perimeter. Ever."
He took a step toward the door, then paused.
Turned.
Those silver eyes of his locked onto mine—still, cold, unreadable.
"Should I ever see you crossing that line..." his voice dropped to a dangerous hush, "you will lose more than your freedom."
He let that threat linger like poison in the air.
Then came the final blow—a low, deliberate whisper:
"Don't make me take your legs, my wife."
His eyes darkened with meaning, with something primal and unspoken, and for the first time, I saw it:
Desire.
Dark. Calculated. Twisted. Desire.
And entirely focused on me.
Like he wants to eat me.