DAMIAN
The elevator hisses closed as Mila steps forward. She looks the same as she did that first night, only in green this time. Her hair still flows down her shoulders. My gaze narrows on the necklace around her neck, silver. Inconspicuous. I catch the gentle sway of her hips before my gaze drifts back to her face as she makes her way forward. She grips her purse with both hands. Her shoulders are squared. A smirk crosses my face. Leave it to Ms Thorne to always act tough. Never giving her fear away.
I extend a hand once she's close.
She frowns mildly, staring at my hand as if it's laced with bullets. Good. At least she knows I'm no gentleman.
Her frown softens. Ever so slowly, she slips her hand into mine and offers a succinct polite nod. I enclose her palm in mine. So soft. Hers against mine reminds me of cotton between rock slabs.
"I didn't think you'd call," I lie, just to break the silence between us.
"I didn't think I would either," she says.
"What changed?"
She meets my eyes, then looks away, saying nothing.
Her non-answer pleases me. Ms Thorne, as I've come to learn, was not herself if she trusted me enough to reveal details of her life without a fight. Her father wants to marry her off to Eric Humphrey. Ex-boyfriend. Heir to Humphrey Industries. All part of Arthur's strategic plan to hide his sins. Mila isn't aware I know this. She's been my prey for months now. I know things about her I have no business knowing.
"Smart," I remark, leading her across the room.
Something flickers across her face. Relief? Resignation? It's gone before I can name it.
I take her to a small round table where a navy leather folder sits waiting. The contract. Ms Thorne clears her throat, the sight of it clearly unsettling her.
"Have you eaten?" I ask. I'm not a patient man, but a little humouring won't hurt. I read somewhere that chickens are sweeter when slaughtered calm than when slaughtered in fear. Ms Thorne is a nervous wreck. An angel who knows she's walked into a slaughterhouse. Give her a reason to stay calm, and she won't bolt. Not yet.
The question catches her off guard. "What?" she asks.
"Dinner. Have you eaten?"
"I… no. Not really."
I nod once, then pull out my phone and send a quick text to Martha, head of domestic staff. "I'll have something brought up. You'll need your strength for what comes next."
"What comes next?" Her voice remains firm.
I pick up the folder. "You sign. Then we discuss the rules."
"Rules?"
"You'll be living here starting tonight. There are expectations."
"Of course there are," she says under her breath, eyeing the contract. But it's clear enough for me to hear.
I gesture toward the conference room. "Shall we?"
She doesn't protest. Only our footsteps echo as we walk into the same room where this all started. Everything remains in its rightful place. The white marble table. The chairs at opposite ends. The floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. I cast a glance at Ms Thorne. She catches her breath.
Good. At least the room still unsettles her like the first time.
I gesture for her to sit. She does. Her eyes widen slightly when I pull out the chair beside hers rather than sitting at the far end like the first time. I open the folder and slide it in front of her. Pages and pages of legalese. Terms. Conditions. Clauses. All in my favor. She keeps staring.
The fake contract.
Castillo would handle the transfer of her signature to the real one later.
"Read it," I say. "All of it. I won't have you claiming later that you didn't understand what you were agreeing to." My voice is icy, though not enough to scare her away. That would defeat the point of all this.
She starts reading, her eyes seeming to blur over the words. I watch as she flips through each page. Medical care for Elena Thorne. Riverside Medical Center. Six months. Public appearances. Separate bedrooms. At the bottom of the last page: a signature line.
"Do you have questions?" I ask.
"Conditions," she says, looking quietly fierce.
What could she possibly want to say?
"Spill." I lean forward, fingers entwined on the table.
"L'Étoile Noir," she starts. My brows lift slightly. The last thing I expected her to say. "You have to keep to your word. Partner with us like you'd wanted to."
Wanted to? Oh, Mila. I never wanted to do that.
Her boss is a damn bastard. Funny that she'd even think to please him despite everything.
"And if I don't?" Which I'm perfectly capable of. I hold the power here, not her. She'd be foolish to refuse to sign simply because of a job that pays her peanuts.
"You can't be the only one making the rules." She frowns.
I raise a brow, staring intently at her. "Fair point, Ms Thorne. Anything else?"
"My freedom."
Shit.
"Regardless of being your wife, I would still do the things I want and live the way I've lived without interference from you," she says.
I grind my teeth. That's not a problem, as long as she carries herself in a manner befitting of a Visconti's wife.
"Anything else?"
Her lips part, as if she's trying to say more. In the end, she says nothing.
"The pen." I gesture to one beside the contract. Mila stares at the signature line, her breathing slowly picking up.
She picks up the pen.
"Once you sign," I say quietly, "there's no going back. You understand that?"
She hesitates. "I understand."
Something tightens in my chest as I watch her press the pen to the line. Not satisfaction. Not yet. Something older than that. Bitter, like the aftertaste of scotch drunk too fast. Every decision I made, every company I built, every alliance I forged or destroyed, it all narrowed to this. A woman in a green gown, signing her name beside mine. She doesn't know what she's really signed. She doesn't know who I am. The ink is still wet when I pull the folder toward me and add my own signature below hers.
Damian Visconti.
I close the folder.
"Your mother will be moved immediately to Riverside Medical Center. You've made the right choice, Mila."
"Thank you," she says.
I nod once. If only she knew what my intentions were.
"When do we…" She can't finish the question.
"The wedding? Two weeks."
"Two weeks?"
"I don't see the point in waiting. Do you?"
She does not answer, lost in thought.
The marriage is only for formality's sake. A court wedding would be too suspicious. I plan on shutting down any rumors from the outside of our marriage being based on a contract, not love. It will also be held behind closed doors. Only Castillo and Marcus will be present to serve as my witnesses. Marcus will arrange two others to serve as Mila's. The contract is just to keep her from changing her mind before that day. I don't imagine she would anyway, the fine is too costly for a disowned heiress like Mila to risk.
I stand. "Come. I'll show you to your room."
She follows me without protest, which surprises me more than it should. I have studied Mila Thorne long enough to know she doesn't surrender quietly. Whatever happened at her father's house tonight broke something loose in her. I file that away.
Her room is at the far end of the east wing. Separate from mine by design and by intention. I open the door and step aside. She walks in slowly, taking in the space, the high ceilings, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the bed dressed in white linen. It is impersonal. Deliberately so. This is not a room for a wife. It is a room for a transaction.
Martha appears at the end of the hall, tray in hand.
"Set it inside," I say.
"Yes, Mr Visconti." Martha enters, places the tray on the side table, and leaves without a word. She has worked for me long enough to know when not to linger.
Mila stands at the window, her back to me, looking out at the city below. Her reflection stares back from the glass. She looks smaller than she did downstairs. Or perhaps just more honest.
"You'll find everything you need in the closet," I say from the doorway. "We'll deal with the rest tomorrow."
She doesn't turn around. "Goodnight, Mr Visconti."
Mr Visconti. Still that. Good. Familiarity would only complicate things.
"Goodnight, Ms Thorne." I pull the door shut behind me.
In a few weeks she'll stand beside me and answer to a different name entirely. Then, thirty days after that, I'll take it back.
She'll get used to it. Then I'll strip the Visconti name from her like a title she was never meant to keep.
I walk back down the hall and don't look back.