Celeste

I can't breathe.

The room is spinning—or maybe I'm spinning and the room is standing still. I can't tell anymore. Everything that just happened feels like it happened to someone else, like I'm watching a movie of my own life and the actress playing me is doing a terrible job because she's just standing here frozen like an idiot while the world implodes around her.

My wife will be Celeste Brown.

The words echo in my head in that voice—Ares Hawthorne's voice, low and cold and absolutely certain, like he was announcing a stock merger instead of deciding my entire future without asking me a single fucking question.

The crowd is chaos now. Voices overlapping, people shouting questions, the sharp sound of heels on marble as someone—probably Elara—runs from the room. I should move. Should do something. But my feet are rooted to this spot on the carpet I was scrubbing five minutes ago when my biggest problem was getting wine stains out of antique silk.

Now my biggest problem is that I apparently just got engaged to a man I've never spoken to.

A man who looked at me like I was something he was considering buying at an auction.

A man whose eyes are the exact color of the sky right before a blizzard hits.

"Celeste." My father's voice cuts through the noise, sharp and furious, and I flinch before I can stop myself. "Come with me. Now."

He doesn't wait for an answer. His hand clamps down on my upper arm—too tight, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise—and he's dragging me through the crowd before I can protest. People are staring. Of course they're staring. I just got publicly claimed by Ares Hawthorne in front of half of Manhattan's elite.

I'm wearing a cardigan with a hole in the elbow and jeans I bought at a thrift store three years ago.

I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor.

And he looked at me like... like...

I don't know what that look meant. I don't want to know.

My father pulls me down the corridor, his grip never loosening, his breath coming in sharp bursts that tell me he's either furious or terrified or both. We pass servers who press themselves against the walls to let us by, pass paintings of ancestors we don't actually have, pass closed doors that hide rooms I've never been allowed to enter.

He stops at the door to his study and practically throws me inside.

The room reeks of cigars and expensive alcohol, the smell so thick I can taste it. The marriage contract is still spread across my father's desk, and standing beside it, looking completely unbothered by the nuclear explosion that just detonated in the main hall: Ambrose Hawthorne.

He's ancient. That's my first thought. Not old—ancient. Like he's been alive since the city was founded and has just been watching empires rise and fall with that same calm, unreadable expression he's wearing now.

"Celeste." He says my name like he's testing the weight of it. "Please, sit down."

"She'll stand," my father snaps, finally releasing my arm. I resist the urge to rub the spot where his fingers were, resist the urge to run, resist every instinct screaming at me to get out of this room.

"Actually," a new voice says from behind me, "she'll do whatever the fuck she wants."

I spin around, and Ares Hawthorne is standing in the doorway.

Up close—actually close, not across-a-crowded-room close—he's terrifying. Tall. Maybe six-two or six-three, with shoulders broad enough that he fills the doorframe. His suit probably costs more than my father pays the entire household staff in a year, cut to fit a body that's all controlled violence and zero softness.

And his eyes. God, his eyes. Ice-blue and completely empty, like looking into the depths of something that stopped being human a long time ago.

He steps into the room, and my father actually backs up. Not a lot—just a half-step—but it's enough to tell me everything I need to know about the power dynamics in play here.

"We need to discuss terms," my father says, trying to salvage some authority. "Celeste is... she's not prepared for this kind of arrangement. She hasn't been trained—"

"Trained?" The word comes out of my mouth before I can stop it, sharp and bitter. "Trained for what? To be sold off like fucking livestock?"

The slap comes so fast I don't see it coming. My father's palm connects with my cheek, the crack of impact unnaturally loud in the confined space. My head snaps to the side, pain blooming hot and bright across my face.

For a second, nobody moves.

Then Ares is across the room in three strides, his hand wrapped around my father's wrist before Arthur can even lower his arm.

"Touch her again," Ares says, his voice so quiet it's almost a whisper, "and I'll break every bone in your hand. Slowly. While you watch."

My father goes pale. "I was just—she was being disrespectful—"

"I don't care." Ares releases his wrist with a force that makes Arthur stumble backward. "She's a Hawthorne now. That means she's under my protection. You don't touch her. You don't discipline her. You don't even look at her without my permission. Are we clear?"

It should make me feel safer. It doesn't. Because the way Ares is looking at my father—like he's something that needs to be crushed under a heel—is the same way he looked at me in the main hall.

Like I'm property.

Just his property now instead of Arthur's.

"Crystal clear," my father manages, rubbing his wrist.

Ares turns to me, and I force myself not to flinch when his hand comes up toward my face. But he doesn't hit me. His fingers are gentle—shockingly gentle—as they brush against the spot where my father's handprint is probably already forming.

"Does it hurt?" he asks.

I yank my head back, out of his reach. "What do you think?"

His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn't pursue the contact. Instead, he turns to Ambrose. "The contracts?"

The old man gestures to the papers on the desk. "All prepared. Arthur has already signed. You and Celeste simply need to add your signatures, and the arrangement is legally binding."

"I'm not signing anything." The words burst out of me before I can think them through. "You can't just—you can't make me marry you. This is insane!"

Ares looks at me with something that might be amusement if his face was capable of expressing anything other than cold calculation. "Can't I?"

"No! This is—" I'm gesturing wildly now, my voice rising. "This is illegal! You can't force someone into marriage, this isn't the fucking Middle Ages—"

"You're right," Ambrose interrupts smoothly. "We can't force you. But we can make you an offer you're unlikely to refuse."

I laugh, and it sounds a little unhinged even to my own ears. "What offer? What could you possibly offer me that would make me want to marry him?"

"Freedom," Ares says simply.

I blink. "What?"

"Sign the contract, marry me, and you'll never have to set foot in this house again. You'll never have to scrub another floor, serve another drink, bow to another person who treats you like you're invisible." He pauses. "You'll be a Hawthorne. And Hawthornes don't bow to anyone."

It's manipulation. I know it's manipulation. Dangling the one thing I've wanted for as long as I can remember—escape from this house, from my father's cruelty, from Elara's casual viciousness—and wrapping it in a contract that will bind me to something potentially worse.

But God, it's tempting.

"And if I refuse?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

Ares shrugs, the movement elegant and unconcerned. "Then I walk away from this deal. Your father loses the Hawthorne alliance, and you..." He trails off, letting me fill in the blanks.

And I stay here. Stay invisible. Stay on my knees scrubbing up messes for people who will never see me as anything more than staff.

"That's not a choice," I say, my throat tight. "That's coercion."

"Call it whatever you want." Ares picks up the contract, holding it out to me. "But make a decision. I don't have all night."

My hands are shaking as I take the papers. The words blur together—legal jargon about assets and obligations and terms that require a law degree to fully understand. But the core of it is simple: I marry Ares Hawthorne. I become part of the Hawthorne family. And in exchange...

In exchange, I give up any claim to my old life.

Not that I had much of a life to begin with.

"I need—" My voice cracks. "I need a minute. I need to think."

"No." Ares's voice is final. "You don't get to think. You get to choose. Now."

The unfairness of it all crashes over me like a wave. The fact that I'm standing here in my father's study being forced to decide my entire future in a matter of minutes. The fact that nobody asked me what I wanted. The fact that my father hit me and Ares threatened him but neither of them seem to think I should have any say in what happens next.

I look down at the damp cleaning rag still clutched in my other hand—evidence of what I was doing before my life exploded. Evidence of what I'll go back to if I refuse.

And I make my choice.

I grab the pen off my father's desk and sign my name at the bottom of the contract. My handwriting looks childish next to the formal print, messy and desperate.

Just like me.

"There." I throw the pen down, and it skitters across the mahogany surface. "Happy now?"

Ares takes the contract, his expression unchanged. "Thrilled."

He signs his own name with quick, efficient strokes, then slides the papers to Ambrose, who witnesses both signatures with an expression that might be satisfaction.

"Excellent," the old man says. "I'll have my lawyers file this first thing tomorrow morning. Congratulations to you both."

Congratulations. Like we just got engaged instead of signing a business contract.

I feel sick.

"Pack your things," Ares says, already heading for the door. "We're leaving tonight."

"What?" I chase after him, my canvas shoes squeaking on the polished floor. "I can't just—I need time to—"

He stops so abruptly I almost crash into his back. When he turns to face me, he's close—so close I have to tilt my head back to see his face.

"Let me be very clear about something, Celeste." His voice is low, intimate in a way that makes my skin crawl. "You signed that contract. That means you're mine now. And what's mine doesn't stay in Arthur Brown's house a second longer than necessary."

"I'm not—" I start, but he's already walking again, and I'm left standing in the corridor feeling like I just sold my soul and got a receipt I can't return.

My father appears in the doorway of his study, looking smaller than I've ever seen him. "Celeste, you don't have to—"

"Yes, she does." Ares doesn't even look back. "She signed the contract. The deal is done."

I should feel something. Triumph, maybe, that I'm finally getting out of this house. Or fear about what I'm walking into. But all I feel is numb.

Ares stops at the base of the grand staircase, turning to look at me with those ice-blue eyes that see too much and feel too little. "Your room. Where is it?"

"Third floor," I hear myself say. "End of the hall."

"You have ten minutes to pack whatever you want to bring. Anything you leave behind, you leave behind permanently. Understood?"

I nod, because my voice has apparently stopped working.

"Good. Move."

I move.

The stairs feel like they go on forever. I pass Elara's room—door closed, angry music blasting from inside—and keep going until I reach the third floor, where the servants' quarters are. My room is barely bigger than a closet, with a twin bed, a battered dresser, and a window that overlooks the service entrance.

It's been my entire world for twenty-three years.

I grab the duffel bag from under my bed—the same one I used to fantasize about packing when I imagined running away—and start throwing things inside. Clothes, mostly. The oversized cardigans and baggy jeans that Elara mocks but I refuse to give up. A few books. The locket my mother left me before she died, the only thing I have of hers.

I'm zipping the bag when I hear footsteps behind me.

I turn, expecting Ares, but it's my father.

He looks old. Tired. Like the last hour aged him a decade.

"Celeste, I—" He stops, searching for words he's never bothered to say before. "This wasn't how it was supposed to happen."

I laugh, bitter and sharp. "How was it supposed to happen, Dad? You were going to sell Elara to the highest bidder, and I was going to keep scrubbing your floors until I died? That was the plan?"

"You don't understand the pressure I'm under. The business, the debts—"

"I don't care." And I mean it. I don't care about his pressure or his debts or any of the excuses he's used to justify treating me like I'm less than human for most of my life. "You signed that contract. You made this happen. So don't stand there and pretend you're the victim."

He flinches like I hit him. Good.

"He's dangerous, Celeste. Ares Hawthorne—he's not like other men. He doesn't have limits. If you cross him—"

"Then I guess I shouldn't cross him." I shoulder my bag, pushing past him toward the door. "Don't worry, Dad. I'm sure you'll be too busy spending Hawthorne money to miss me."

I'm halfway down the stairs when I hear him call after me.

"Celeste!"

I don't stop. Don't look back.

By the time I reach the main hall, most of the guests have left—probably fleeing the social disaster—and Ares is waiting by the entrance, his phone to his ear, having a conversation that sounds like it involves crushing someone's company into dust.

He ends the call when he sees me. "That's all you're bringing?"

I look down at my single duffel bag. "I don't have much."

Something flickers in his eyes—I don't know what, and I'm not sure I want to—before his expression goes flat again. "The car is waiting."

He doesn't offer to carry my bag. Doesn't hold the door. Just walks out into the night, and I follow because apparently that's my life now: following Ares Hawthorne into whatever nightmare he's planned.

The Maybach is idling at the curb, sleek and black and obscenely expensive. A driver—Marcus, I think I heard someone call him—opens the back door, and Ares gestures for me to get in.

I hesitate.

This is it. The point of no return. Once I get in that car, I'm leaving behind everything I've ever known—as awful as it was—for something completely unknown.

"Having second thoughts?" Ares asks, and there's a challenge in his voice.

I square my shoulders, grip my duffel bag tighter, and slide into the back seat.

The leather is soft. Expensive. The kind of thing I've cleaned but never touched with anything other than a rag and polish.

Ares gets in beside me, and the door closes with a solid, final thunk.

We pull away from the Brown estate, and I watch through the tinted window as the only home I've ever known disappears into the darkness.

I should feel relieved. Free.

Instead, I feel like I just traded one cage for another.

The car is silent except for the smooth hum of the engine. Ares is on his phone again, typing something with quick, efficient movements. He hasn't looked at me since we got in the car, hasn't acknowledged my presence at all.

It's better than him staring at me like he did in the main hall. Better than that look that made me feel like a specimen under glass.

I pull my cardigan tighter around myself, suddenly cold despite the climate-controlled interior.

"Where are we going?" My voice sounds small in the enclosed space.

"My penthouse." Ares doesn't look up from his phone. "It's in Tribeca. You'll have your own room. Your own space. Within limits."

"What limits?"

Now he looks at me, and I wish he hadn't.

"The limit is that you don't leave the penthouse without my permission. You don't speak to anyone without my approval. You don't make any decisions about your own life without consulting me first." He pauses. "You're a Hawthorne now. That means you're a target. And I protect what's mine."

"I'm not yours," I say, even though I just signed a contract that says otherwise.

His eyes drop to my mouth, then lower, dragging slowly down my body in a way that makes my skin feel too hot and too tight.

"Yes," he says softly, "you are."

And then we're pulling up to a building that's all glass and steel and money, and a doorman is rushing to open my door, and Ares is already out of the car moving toward the entrance like he owns the building.

He probably does.

I grab my duffel and scramble after him, my canvas shoes squeaking on the polished lobby floor. We're in an elevator before I can fully process the journey, and then we're rising—fifty floors, sixty, higher and higher until my ears pop and I feel like we've left the earth entirely.

The elevator opens directly into his penthouse.

I step out and nearly stumble.

It's... it's not what I expected. I don't know what I expected, exactly—maybe something ostentatious and overwhelming, a display of wealth designed to intimidate.

But this is different. The space is massive, yes, but it's also minimalist. Clean lines, neutral colors, floor-to-ceiling windows that show the entire city spread out like a kingdom. Everything is precise, controlled, perfect.

Just like him.

"Your room is down that hall, second door on the left." Ares is already walking toward a different part of the penthouse, pulling off his suit jacket and tossing it over a chair that probably costs more than a car. "Bathroom is attached. If you need anything, there's an intercom system. Don't wander."

And then he's gone, disappearing into what I assume is his bedroom and closing the door with a soft click.

I'm left standing in the middle of his penthouse, clutching my thrift-store duffel bag, wondering what the hell I just agreed to.

The room he assigned me is... nice. Too nice. A king-size bed with sheets that look like they cost more than my entire wardrobe. A walk-in closet that's currently empty except for a few hangers. Windows that overlook a slice of the city skyline.

It's beautiful.

It's terrifying.

I drop my duffel on the bed and sink down beside it, my hands shaking.

What did I do? What the hell did I just do?

I signed a contract. I agreed to marry a man I don't know, a man who looked at me like I was something to be owned and controlled and used.

I should run. Should grab my bag and find a way out of this building and disappear into the city.

But where would I go? Back to my father's house? Back to scrubbing floors and being invisible?

At least here, I have a door I can close. A room that's mine.

Even if the price is my freedom.

I'm still sitting there, trying to process everything, when there's a knock on my door.

I freeze.

"Come in," I manage.

The door opens, and Ares is standing there, shirtless.

My brain short-circuits.

He's... God, he's built like a weapon. All muscle and scars and controlled violence carved into flesh. His abs are ridiculous, the kind of thing you see in magazines and assume is Photoshopped.

He's real. And he's standing in my doorway looking at me like...

Like what?

"We need to discuss rules," he says, his voice flat and businesslike, like he's not standing there half-naked.

"Rules," I repeat, because my brain is not functioning properly.

"You're a Hawthorne now. That comes with expectations. Responsibilities. Consequences if you fail to meet either."

He steps into the room, and I stand up automatically, my back hitting the wall beside the bed.

"First rule: You don't leave this penthouse without me or someone I designate to accompany you. Manhattan is full of people who would love to hurt me by hurting what's mine."

"I'm not—"

"Second rule," he continues like I didn't speak, "you don't speak to the media. You don't post on social media. You don't communicate with anyone from your old life without my explicit permission."

"You can't just—"

"Third rule: You wear what I tell you to wear when we appear in public. The Hawthorne name has an image to maintain, and you will maintain it."

That one makes me laugh, sharp and bitter. "You chose me specifically because I'm not Elara. Because I'm the maid in the baggy jeans and messy hair. You made that very clear in front of everyone. So don't stand there and tell me you're going to turn me into her."

Something flashes in his eyes. "I chose you because you're not a liability. That doesn't mean you get to embarrass me."

"Then you shouldn't have married the help." I cross my arms over my chest, trying to create some barrier between us. "Those are your rules? Your expectations?"

"Yes."

"Fine. Here are mine."

He raises an eyebrow, and I swear there's the ghost of amusement on his face.

"You don't hit me. Ever. You don't touch me without my permission. And you don't get to control every aspect of my life just because I signed a piece of paper."

"Those aren't rules," Ares says softly, moving closer. "Those are fantasies."

He's right in front of me now, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.

"I already told your father he doesn't get to touch you anymore. That's a privilege I've reserved exclusively for myself."

"Privilege?" My voice comes out breathier than I want. "You think touching me is a privilege?"

"I know it is."

His hand comes up, and I flinch, but he doesn't hit me. Instead, his fingers curl around my chin, tilting my face up with a grip that's gentle but absolutely firm.

"You're afraid of me," he observes, his thumb brushing across my lower lip. "Good. Fear keeps you careful. Keeps you from doing something stupid."

"I'm not afraid of you." It's a lie, and we both know it.

His eyes drop to my mouth, and I see something shift in his expression. Something hungry and dark and wrong.

"Liar," he says, and then his other hand is on my waist, pulling me against him.

I can feel him. All of him. The hard planes of his chest, the solid strength of his arms, and—

Oh God.

He's hard. I can feel the thick length of him pressing against my stomach through his trousers, and my entire body goes rigid with shock and something that absolutely is not arousal because I refuse to be turned on by a man who just bought me like livestock.

"Let me go," I manage, trying to push against his chest.

He doesn't budge. Doesn't even seem to notice my hands against his skin.

"You signed a contract, Celeste. That makes you mine. My wife. My property. My responsibility." His grip on my chin tightens, his thumb pressing into my skin just enough to remind me how easily he could hurt me if he wanted to. "And right now, that fire in your eyes? That defiance? It's making me want things I really shouldn't want on our first night."

His hips shift, pressing himself more firmly against me, and I feel him throb.

"Careful, Wife," he murmurs, his voice dropping to something dark and velvet-smooth. "That fire in your eyes is making me want to bend you over this bed right now and fuck the defiance out of your tight little cunt until you're dripping my cum down your thighs."

I can't breathe. Can't think. My cheeks are burning, and I can feel my pulse hammering against his thumb where it's pressed to my jaw.

"You're disgusting," I whisper, but even I can hear the tremor in my voice.

"I'm honest." His lips are so close to mine now I can feel his breath. "I could do it, you know. You signed a contract. You're legally mine. I could strip off these baggy jeans and that oversized cardigan and take exactly what I want."

"You wouldn't." But I'm not sure. I'm not sure of anything anymore.

"No," he agrees, and something like disappointment flickers in his eyes. "I wouldn't. Not tonight. Not when you're still terrified and confused and trying to figure out how to survive this."

He releases me abruptly, stepping back, and I stumble slightly without his support.

"But make no mistake, Celeste. That's not chivalry. That's strategy. When I finally have you—and I will have you—it's going to be because you came to me. Because you begged for it. Because you couldn't stand another second of wanting something you think you shouldn't want."

He moves toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle.

"Pack your things properly tomorrow. We're going to need to establish some ground rules about your wardrobe, your schedule, your entire existence as my wife." He looks back at me, and his eyes are cold again, empty. "Get some sleep. You're going to need it."

The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I'm alone.

I sink onto the bed, my legs shaking, my entire body trembling with adrenaline and fear and something else I refuse to name.

My hand goes to my jaw, where I can still feel the pressure of his thumb.

What have I done?

What the hell have I done?

Outside the windows, the city glitters like broken glass, beautiful and dangerous and utterly indifferent to the girl who just sold herself to save herself.

I curl up on the bed, still wearing my cardigan and jeans, still clutching the duffel bag like it's the only thing tethering me to reality.

And I try not to think about the way my body responded when he pressed against me.

Try not to think about the dark heat in his eyes when he talked about taking me.

Try not to think about how a part of me—a part I'm too terrified to acknowledge—wanted to pull him closer instead of pushing him away.

I fail.

Sleep doesn't come for a long time.

And when it does, I dream of ice-blue eyes and hands that could crush or caress with equal precision, and I wake up gasping, unsure if it was a nightmare or something infinitely worse.