I rise to a sky brushed with gentle grays. This morning, the city is unusually quiet, as if it senses a change is imminent. I perch on the brink of my bed, gazing at the faded floorboards under my feet. My hands are trembling. I convince myself it’s the chill. However, I realize it isn't.

Today, I will be seeing Damian Wolfe.

I've searched for him on Google more times than I can remember in the last twenty-four hours. Each image depicts identical featurestall, sharp, cold. Eyes that lack a smile. A mouth that hardly ever moves. A man who created Wolfe Global from scratch is now valued at billions. Whispers suggest he has no faith in love. That he has no trust in anyone. That if you betray him, you won't receive a second opportunity.

And now, for some reason, he seeks something from me.

I put on my clothes gradually. Dark trousers, a beige top, no cosmetics. Simply lip balm and a braid cascading down my back. I desire to appear composed. Expert. Similar to the girl I once was before life took a toll on me. Yet as I ascend in the elevator to the highest level of Wolfe Tower, my stomach churns.

The receptionist welcomes me with no friendliness. "You're anticipated," she remarks, not bothering to inquire about my name.

She guides me through a lengthy corridor with glass walls, and the air has a scent of wealth. Then, without any warning, she swings open a large door and leaves me facing him.

Damian Wolfe.

He’s positioned behind a stylish desk, standing rather than sitting, as though he has been anticipating my arrival. He’s dressed in a gray suit that appears as though it was sewn by silence. His gaze rises gradually. They arrive at my location. They do not blink.

“Arielle Monroe,” he states, his voice low and coarse. Not harsh, but not gentle either. "You arrived."

“I don’t have a lot of time,” I say, despite having nowhere else to go.

“Alright,” he responds. “Me neither.”

He motions to the chair in front of him. I take a seat. He does not.

"You aren't familiar with me," he states. “However, I was familiar with your father.”

That causes a feeling of pain in my chest. "Everyone claims that."

"Yet I did," he asserts. “He guided me.” Provided me with my initial significant investment. “I am indebted to him for everything.”

I blink, perplexed. My dad never spoke of Damian Wolfe. However, my father also never shared many things with me. Particularly close to the conclusion.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Damian says gently. He was a decent person. The final honorable individual in this industry.

I examine him closely. "What is it that you seek from me?"

He doesn’t waver. “Retribution.”

I choke on my breath.

He circles the desk and positions himself directly in front of me. "Liam and Vivian defeated you." They took your business. They altered the spelling of your name. "And now, they're targeting what belongs to me."

I gulp down. "Why is this important to me?"

He leans in just close enough for me to sense his warmth. "Because if they succeed in taking me down, they will possess everything your father created including you."

I gaze at him, my heart racing. I wish to leave. I feel like yelling that I'm finished with everything. Yet there's something in his voice, that unrefined quality of honesty, that holds me in my place.

“What do you mean?” I murmur.

He retreats and adjusts his suit. “A legal agreement.” Twelve months. You and Itogether in marriage.”

The words drop like rocks.

“What did you say?” I can't breathe.

He does not blink. Liam's recent action is personal. He aims to target the board of Wolfe Global. The sole method to maintain my position is to demonstrate stability. Clan. Heritage. “And the sole name that holds enough power to resist his”

“Is Monroe,” I conclude, my voice almost gone.

He gestures affirmatively. "Marry me." In a public manner. In writing. You regain access. Your title. Your place at the table. I obtain what I require. “And once the year concludes, we leave.”

I feel as though I cannot breathe.

"I whisper, 'You're crazy.'"

He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "Perhaps." However, I am presenting you with strength. "I am giving you your voice again."

I gaze at him. “Why am I the one?” "Why not another person?”

"Since you understand the sensation of betrayal," he says gently. "And that renders you perilous." “That makes you valuable.”

I shut my eyes. Pictures appear my dad's casket, Liam’s mouth on Vivian’s neck, the chilling stillness of my flat, the anxiety of perpetually feeling insignificant.

“What do you truly gain from this?” I inquired about him.

He angles his head. “You’d rather not know.”

And for some reason, I trust him.

He opens a drawer and pushes a folder in my direction. "The conditions are present." Lack of closeness. No commitments. Only looks. Occasions. Eve meals. Several pictures. "I've tidied it up."

I leave the folder untouched.

"You will be safe," he concludes. “And you will be noticed.”

I chuckle ruefully. "I am indifferent to being noticed."

“Deceiver,” he pronounces gently.

My eyes hurt.

He leans closer again. “You walked in here with a fire in your chest. I see it. You want to hurt them. So do I.”

I look at the folder. My name is on the front. My real name. Not Monroe-Hart, like they tried to make me. Just Arielle Monroe.

A part of me wants to run. But another part, a deeper part, whispers: This is your chance.

“If I sign this,” I say slowly, “I want control. Over my own name. Over how I’m presented. I don’t want to be your arm candy.”

He smirks. “Trust me, you’re not my type.”

That stings more than it should. But I nod. “Fine.”

He holds out a pen.

My fingers tremble as I take it.

I signed.

And just like that, I sell my heart to the devil.

Damian’s hand brushes mine as he takes the folder back. The touch is brief, cold. But it sends something strange through me. A jolt. A warning. Or maybe a promise.

He closes the folder. “Our engagement is announced tomorrow. The wedding is in two weeks. I’ll send the ring by morning.”

I rise slowly. “Is there anything else I should know?”

He watches me. Eyes sharp. Mouth unreadable.

“Yes,” he says.

“What?”

He leans in, voice low. “In this world, appearances are everything. So you’ll need to pretend you love me.”

I meet his eyes. “And if I can’t?”

“Then fake it,” he replies. “You’ve done it before.”

I leave his office with my heart thudding in my chest. The elevator closes. I press my back to the wall. My fingers still tingle from where they touched him. My mind spins. I just agreed to marry a man I barely know. For power. For revenge. For something deeper I can’t even name.

And yet, for the first time in years, I feel alive.

Maybe this is how it begins. Not with flowers. Not with love. But with broken people reaching for something they lost.

Maybe sometimes, the only way out is through the fire.