Marry me: The Billionaire's contract

ANASTASIA

I stare up at the mansion in front of me, it's huge, the building standing tall, representing power and everything the owner stands for. The air carries the faint smell of rain, old money, and fresh roses from the garden surrounding the mansion. The building reminds me of him: tall, big, and distant, the obvious lack of color around the building except for the roses at the side.

Parked at the side is Dominic's sleek black Bentley.

I drag my suitcase toward the building, typing a reply to Rita's thousands of texts.

I press the doorbell, tapping my fingers impatiently at my side. No reply. I raise my hand to press it again, but the door swings open before my finger lands.

Dominic stands near the doorway, except he doesn't look like the cold, distant man in a suit I married.

Standing near the doorway, fresh from the shower, the faint scent of his body wash in the air, droplets of water drip down the wet strands of his hair, down his chest, sliding lower, a towel draped around his neck.

What catches my attention is the dark ink on his skin-tattoos trailing down his arms...

"Come in," his cold voice breaks through my thoughts, forcing my eyes to look anywhere but at his chest.

"Took you long enough," I comment, my voice coming out softer than intended.

He pulls the door open wide enough for me to walk past him, my shoulder brushing against his chest.

The inside is bigger than I expected. My eyes immediately fall on a 6-year-old photo of him, his gray eyes looking at me through the portrait, cold and distant.

"Follow me," he adds, walking up the stairs. I drag my suitcase after him, the wheels hitting against the tiles of the stairs as I struggle to drag it further up. He simply glances at me, walks back, and carries it from me, his biceps flexing as he carries it up the stairs with more ease than I imagined.

His shoulders broader than they look in a suit. His hair is longer than it looks when it's styled back. My cheeks heat up when I realize what I'm doing.

I walk closer behind him, keeping my eyes glued on the stairs rather than on his back.

"Show her to her room," he says to a girl in a black maid's uniform. She keeps her head down, but I notice the familiar redness on her cheeks, she's surely been looking at him, at those biceps and ridiculously big muscles. For someone who sits behind a desk all day. It stirs something bitter in me.

The girl glances at me, her expression shifting into a subtle frown, which flashes by like it was never there. She keeps her head lowered instead.

He shifts his gaze to me, as if silently telling me to follow her instead, he walks away without a word.

The girl drags the suitcase in front, and I quietly follow behind her. She's pretty, with bright blue eyes and long blonde hair tied neatly in a ponytail, definitely the type of girl a billionaire marries in novels and TV shows. Too bad the man she has a crush on is a robot.

I don't try to start conversations with her, I'm only here for a year. Then she can go back to looking at her boss with dreamy eyes and blush-stained cheeks.

She continues walking, leading me deeper until we reach the bedroom. She pushes the door open. The room is enormous, with a massive bed, the walls painted a dark shade of gray, cold and distant. Of course they are. Everything around him screams distance and emptiness.

She leaves the room quietly, the door clicking softly after her. I let out a tired sigh, my mind drifting to Dominic, a little too easily.

He is my only option.

The only escape I can choose, rather than my own family. A staged marriage with him, the man I am supposed to hate.

"My life feels like a fucking TV show," I muse, letting out dry laughter.

I pull myself up, walking toward the window. The view over it is beautiful: the sun reflecting on the mansion, giving it a golden ambiance, the roses resembling small red dots. I easily spot Dominic by the mansion. He has a shirt on, but it still doesn't help hide the outline of his muscles. He's holding a file, talking intently with his assistant. If there's one thing I'd give him credit for, it's building his whole life around work.

**

That night. At dinner.

The sound of cutlery against the plate cuts through the room. I glance around, but there's no staff in sight, just the two of us. Dominic sits at the head of the table.

I stab my fork into the lettuce on my plate. Every bite tastes blander than the last.

"Matteo's party is Saturday," he says, dabbing the napkin against his lips and leaning back in the chair, his eyes boring into mine.

Matteo is one of the big names in the industry. There's no doubt my so-called fiancé will be there, and so will his mistress.

"I'm not going."

"You are," he cuts in.

I set my fork down, too loudly for my own liking. My hands curl around the tablecloth.

"You don't get to decide that for me," I say through my teeth.

"I do when your absence becomes my problem," he leans forward, his elbows on the table. He continues, "From now on, what you do affects the Blackwood name."

"So this is damage control."

"This is strategy," he adds.

"It's unnecessary."

"It is."

"Congratulations, but my image isn't exactly redeemable," I taunt.

"Hiding won't make it better," he says. I lean forward.

"And why should I do what you say?" His lips twitch slightly.

"You will," he stands, chair scraping against the floor. "Because you don't want to be seen as the heiress who couldn't keep anything." His words strike harder.

I don't answer. My fists harden.

"Don't be late," he adds. "The address will be sent to you."

He walks away, leaving his plate half-finished.

The silence envelopes me, my fingers still gripping the tablecloth.