Part 1

The heavy oak doors of the Blackwood mansion slammed shut behind Elara, the sound echoing through the marble foyer like a gunshot. She flinched instinctively, fingers tightening around the strap of her handbag, her heart doing that familiar, painful little flip it always did when Vincent was home. It had been three years since she signed her name on that crisp, cold sheet of paper—the contract marriage that bound her legally to Vincent Blackwood, the most powerful, wealthy, and devastatingly handsome man in the city—and three years since she had given him every piece of her heart, only for him to trample it under his expensive leather shoes without a second glance.

Vincent was leaning against the grand staircase, one hand tucked into the pocket of his tailored black suit, the other swirling a glass of amber whiskey. His silver‑streaked black hair was perfectly styled, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass, his dark eyes cold and empty as they swept over her. To the rest of the world, he was a god among men: CEO of Blackwood Industries, a billionaire before thirty, a face that graced every magazine cover, a name spoken only in reverence and fear. To Elara, he was her husband in name only—and the only man she had ever loved, with a fierceness that scared even her sometimes.

“You’re late,” he said, his voice low, smooth, and utterly devoid of warmth. It was not a question. It was an accusation, the same way everything he said to her always was.

“I had to pick up some things for the house, and—”

“I don’t care for your excuses.” He pushed off the stairs and walked toward her, long strides eating up the distance, and Elara’s breath hitched. Even now, even after every cruel word, every cold shoulder, every night he had used her body like it was nothing more than a release for his anger and frustration, her body still reacted to him. Her pulse raced, her cheeks warmed, her knees turned weak with a love that was as much a curse as it was a blessing. He stopped inches from her, the scent of expensive sandalwood and tobacco wrapping around her, and he tilted her chin up with one finger, his touch rough, possessive, never tender. “You belong to me, Elara. Your time is mine. Your body is mine. Every breath you take is under my terms. Do I make myself clear?”

She looked up into those beautiful, soulless eyes, and smiled sadly. “Yes, Vincent. Perfectly clear.”

That was how it always was. The contract had been his grandfather’s dying wish: marry Elara Vance, the quiet, gentle girl from a respectable but modest family, and secure the bloodline and the business alliances. Vincent had agreed only to appease the old man, and from day one he made sure Elara knew exactly where she stood: a placeholder, a convenience, a warm body he could come home to when it suited him. He never asked about her day, never said a kind word, never touched her with anything that resembled affection. In public, he played the part of the doting husband well enough to fool high society, his arm resting casually at her waist, his smile charming and practiced. But the second the doors closed, the mask fell away, and she was left alone with the stranger she had married.

Worst of all were the nights. When he was angry—about a deal gone wrong, about a board member who dared defy him, about anything at all—he would come to their shared bedroom, his eyes dark and stormy, and he would take her with a roughness that left her bruised, breathless, and crying silently into the pillows. He would grip her wrists so hard his fingerprints stayed for days, he would mark her neck and shoulders like she was property, he would move inside her with a punishing pace that made her body ache for hours afterward, and never once did he whisper her name, never once did he kiss her with anything but hunger and contempt, never once did he ask if she was okay. Afterwards he would roll over, his back to her, and fall asleep within minutes, while she lay awake beside him, tears soaking the silk sheets, her heart breaking all over again—and still, she loved him. Still she would trace the line of his shoulder in the dark, still she would press a soft, secret kiss to his skin, still she would pray that one day, just one day, he might look at her and see her. Not the contract. Not the obligation. Just Elara. The girl who had loved him since she was sixteen years old and saw him for the first time at a charity gala, long before anyone ever spoke of marriage between them.

The only shadow darker than Vincent’s coldness was Clara.

Clara was the girl everyone called Elara’s younger sister. Same last name, raised in the same house, grew up side by side—everyone assumed they shared the same blood. Only Elara and her late parents had ever known the truth: Clara had been adopted when she was a baby, brought into the family after her own parents died in a car crash. They had never told anyone, not even Clara herself, wanting her to feel fully loved and fully theirs. But somewhere along the way, love had curdled into envy in Clara’s heart. She was beautiful in her own right, sharp and outgoing and ambitious, and for years she had chased Vincent Blackwood with everything she had. She had flirted, she had schemed, she had thrown herself at him at every event—and Vincent, who cared for no one and nothing, had never even spared her a second glance. Then came the announcement: Elara, the quiet, plain, unassuming older sister, was to be his wife.

Clara’s jealousy had turned poisonous overnight. To Elara’s face she was sweetness itself, hugging her, calling her “big sister,” gushing about how lucky she was. Behind her back she whispered lies to friends, dropped hints to Vincent that Elara was only after his money, did everything she could to drive a wedge deeper between a husband and wife who were already worlds apart. And Vincent, who already thought so little of Elara, believed every word. He would come home furious, repeating Clara’s lies back to her, punishing her again and again in the dark, while Clara watched from the sidelines, smiling like an angel.

Elara knew. She saw it all. But she said nothing. She loved Clara like a real sister, and she loved Vincent more than her own life, so she swallowed the pain and kept her silence. She thought that if she loved enough, endured enough, gave enough, eventually something would change.

She had no idea how high the price of that love would go.

Continuing...

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***