HIS CONTRACT WIFE IS HIS RUIN

bout to marry doesn't

k of her heels echoes against the marble, lou

n their seats to watch her approach, but Lucien Voss just k

Seraphina's

view. Let him u

n arrangements worth more than most people make in a year, but they exist the way the rest of the furniture does: chosen by so

windows letting in February's thin, colorless light. The "guests" in rows of ivory chairs are m

the rug back in 2019. Next to him, Helena Marsh, head of Marsh Industries. Her company's merger with Voss Corp only happened because certain "social ali

picked by Lucien's stylist and delivered to her room without so much as a note), her hair (slick and severe-not the lo

like she i

the same thing as act

striking. Everyone says it right away. Tall. Dark. A jawline that spells power in every photograph. He moves like

contract, but she suspects he knows every line already. This is p

s folded, face unreadable. Lucien's lawyer stands to the right. Two witnesses sit ready at the ta

reaches

signs

ry. He finishes, caps the pen, and pushes the contract her way-still refusin

cans her the way a man reads a balance sheet,

is low, calm, the kind of voice that

s," she

d nerves in her voice. He's used to hearing that hesitation, the breathless e

tional adjustment behind those steel-grey eyes-and then

with barely a gla

ons her father handed her six weeks ago, hands shaking, eyes

ss estate, attend required events, look like the picture of a supportive spouse. She w

n's posture, in the way he owns the room: you

just a slim leather folder. Lucien takes it, fits it on her finger w

s, set in platinum. It demands attention. It's an announcement of owners

les on

follows-polished, brief, precise. The kind of applause you get in a

ning away even before the applause wraps up, already murmuring

ss as

a cool, heavy mark into her finger. Lucien, her new husband, hasn't treated

into his world, all while making it painfully clear: "wife" here is a role, not a relation

. Then she l

s, waiters fan out with champagne. Someone-a woman from Lucien's team-touches her elbow, stee

er face calm, almost delicate, the im

Seraphina remembers the list she wrote, alone at her father's old kitchen table at two a.m., contra

ing about h

gh the crowd. Lucien stands across the room, already facing away, absorbed in con

ile talking to his lawyer, how he's claimed the best spot in the room. People practical

es eve

w. He doesn't know that. He doesn't really know mu

cool and hea

ne: co