บท 1: 1
Elizabeth
The first thing he did was glare. Not a casual glance, not a curious once-over—no, this was a full-on, head-to-toe assessment that made me want to shrink into my coat. If rudeness had a face, it was his. And God, he was gorgeous, which somehow made it worse.
"I'm sorry, but who are you?" he snapped, his sharp voice slicing through the icy afternoon air.
For a man confined to a wheelchair, he had a way of towering over people. His presence filled the room, suffocating and cold. The living room was equally frigid—spacious but lifeless, with gleaming marble floors and dark, heavy furniture that screamed money but no warmth.
"I'm Elizabeth," I said, my voice smaller than I intended. "We're… supposed to meet today." I tried for a polite smile, but it wavered under his hard stare.
Alexander Blackwood wasn't what I expected. The stories didn't do him justice. Sure, I'd heard the rumors about his injury, his bitterness, the infamous temper that sent people running. But nothing prepared me for the man in front of me. His chiseled jaw and sharp cheekbones belonged on a magazine cover, not here in this mansion where the air felt heavier with every passing second. And his eyes—those storm-gray eyes—watched me like I was an unwelcome guest in his carefully guarded world.
"I know why you're here," he said, cutting off my attempt to explain. "Let's get one thing straight. I didn't agree to this. My family did. So if you're expecting me to roll out the red carpet, you're in for a disappointment."
I stiffened, clutching the strap of my purse like it could shield me from his hostility. "I didn't agree to this, either," I shot back, surprising myself with the sharpness of my tone. "But here we are."
His brow lifted, the faintest trace of amusement flickering across his face before vanishing. "Bold. I'll give you that."
I didn't respond. My pulse was pounding in my ears, and every nerve in my body screamed at me to leave. But walking out wasn't an option. Not when my future depended on this meeting.
Alexander wheeled himself closer, his movements smooth and deliberate. The sound of the chair's wheels against the floor made my skin prickle. When he stopped just a few feet away, I resisted the urge to step back.
"You're younger than I thought," he said, his tone dismissive. "How old are you? Nineteen? Twenty?"
"I'm twenty-three," I replied, bristling at the condescension in his voice. "And I'm not some naïve child, if that's what you're implying."
His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "No? Then why are you here, Elizabeth? Surely you're not thrilled about marrying a man you've never met."
"I'm here because—" I stopped, swallowing the words that threatened to spill out. Because my parents pushed me into this. Because I'm disposable to them, a pawn in their endless games of power and profit. Instead, I forced a steady breath and said, "Because I don't have a choice."
His gaze lingered on me, sharp and calculating, like he was trying to unravel every secret I carried. It was unnerving, the way he saw through me so easily, but I refused to look away.
"No choice," he echoed softly. "That's what they all say."
I didn't know how to respond to that, so I stayed silent, my hands curling into fists at my sides.
He leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "Fine," he said after a long pause. "You want to play house? Be my guest. But don't expect anything from me. No affection, no companionship, and certainly no love. This is a business transaction, nothing more."
Something inside me twisted at his words. I hadn't expected kindness, but the bluntness of his rejection stung all the same.
"Understood," I said quietly.
He watched me for a moment longer, then turned his chair abruptly and wheeled toward the fireplace, leaving me standing awkwardly in the middle of his life.
For a moment, I wondered if I should leave, but before I could decide, a soft voice broke the silence.
"Don't mind him, dear. He's always like this."
I turned to see a woman entering the room, her heels clicking softly against the floor. She was elegant, with dark hair swept into a neat chignon and a tailored dress that matched the somber tones of the house. Her smile was warm but tinged with exhaustion, like she'd spent years smoothing over Alexander's rough edges.
"I'm Eleanor, Alexander's mother," she said, extending a hand. "I apologize for his behavior. He's… adjusting."
Adjusting? That was one way to put it.
"It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Blackwood," I said, shaking her hand.
"Please, call me Eleanor," she insisted, her smile widening. "And thank you for coming. I know this arrangement isn't ideal, but I hope we can all make the best of it."
I nodded, unsure of what to say. Her kindness was a huge contrast to Alexander's icy demeanor, but it only made me feel more out of place.
Eleanor glanced toward the fireplace, where Alexander sat staring into the flames. "He's not always like this, you know," she said softly. "There was a time when he was…" She trailed off, her expression clouding with sadness. "Well, things change."
I followed her gaze, my eyes lingering on Alexander's rigid form. It was hard to imagine him as anything other than the cold, guarded man I'd just met. But there was something in his eyes—a flicker of pain, buried deep beneath the anger—that made me wonder if there was more to him than he let on.
"I'll leave you two to talk," Eleanor said, giving my arm a reassuring squeeze before leaving the room.
Talk? That seemed unlikely. Alexander hadn't so much as glanced at me since our exchange, and the tension in the room was suffocating. But I wasn't ready to give up just yet.
"Do you really hate this idea that much?" I asked, breaking the silence.
He didn't respond at first, his gaze fixed on the fire. Then, without looking at me, he said, "Hate doesn't even begin to cover it."
His words were like a punch to the gut, but I refused to let them break me. Instead, I took a step closer, my voice steady as I said, "Then maybe you should take it up with the people who put us in this situation. Because I didn't ask for this any more than you did."
That finally got his attention. He turned his head, his eyes locking onto mine with a mixture of surprise and something else I couldn't quite place. Whatever it was, it was gone in an instant, replaced by the same cold mask he wore so well.
"I like your guts," he said, his tone almost grudging.
It wasn't much, but it was a start. And as I stood there, facing the man who would soon become my husband, I realized that this was only the beginning.
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