The sun was too bright for a woman who hadn't slept a wink.

Elara smoothed the wrinkles out of her only professional outfit-a modest, navy-blue pencil skirt and a cream-colored blouse that had belonged to her mother.

She stood in the glass-and-steel lobby of Blackwood Industries, feeling like an ant about to be stepped on by a giant.

Just get through the interview, Elara, she told herself, clutching her resume until the paper crinkled. Get the sign-on bonus, find Mia, and go home. Last night was a fever dream. It didn't happen.

But every time she closed her eyes, she felt the phantom heat of those large hands on her waist. She could still taste the whiskey and the cold, sharp wind of the balcony.

"Miss Thorne? Mr. Blackwood will see you now."

The secretary's voice snapped her back to reality. Elara nodded, her throat dry, and followed the woman toward the top floor. The higher the elevator went, the more her stomach twisted.

The double doors to the CEO's office were made of heavy, dark oak. The secretary knocked once and ushered her in.

The office was massive, overlooking the entire city. A man sat behind a desk of polished obsidian, his back turned to her as he looked out at the skyline. He was wearing a charcoal suit today, the fabric hugging shoulders that Elara knew were broad and unyielding.

"Sit," he commanded.

The voice. That low, gravelly vibration sent a violent shiver down Elara's spine. Her knees turned to jelly as she sank into the velvet chair across from him.

"Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Blackwood," she began, her voice trembling slightly. "I'm applying for the junior executive assistant position. I've managed the accounts for my family's-"

"I don't care about your accounts," he interrupted.

Slowly, the chair swiveled around.

Killian Blackwood looked even more dangerous in the light of day. His silver-grey eyes were cold, scanning her with a clinical intensity that made her feel naked. There was no sign of the hunger from the night before-only a chilling, icy composure.

He didn't speak. Instead, he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small, wooden object. He placed it on the desk and pushed it toward her with one long, elegant finger.

Elara's heart stopped. It was her grandfather's locket.

"You dropped this," he said, his voice a dangerous purr. "In my bedroom. Last night."

Elara felt the blood drain from her face. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

The "Ice King" leaned forward, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers. A dark, predatory smirk played on his lips.

"So, Elara Thorne from the countryside... Tell me. Was it your plan all along? To break into my suite, seduce me, and then show up here today playing the innocent job-seeker? It's a classic move. A bit cliché, don't you think?"

"It wasn't a plan!" Elara finally gasped out, her face burning with shame and anger. "I told you last night, it was a mistake! I was looking for my sister. I had no idea who you were!"

Killian rose from his chair, walking around the desk. He moved slowly, circling her like a shark. He stopped behind her, leaning down so his lips were inches from her ear-the same way they had been on the balcony.

"A mistake?" he whispered, his breath stirring her hair. "Then why didn't you stop me when I kissed you? You didn't taste like a woman making a mistake. You tasted like a woman who wanted to be claimed."

Elara spun her chair around to face him, her eyes flashing with defiance. "I want my locket back. And I want to leave. I clearly won't be getting the job."

"On the contrary," Killian said, straightening up and looking down at her with an unreadable expression.

"You're exactly what I need."

He walked back to his desk and tossed a thick folder toward her.

"My grandmother saw you on the security footage leaving my suite last night. She's convinced you're the 'secret lover' I've been hiding to avoid her arranged marriages. She's ecstatic. She's also the majority shareholder of this company."

Elara frowned, looking at the folder. "I don't understand."

"It's simple," Killian said, his voice turning cold again. "My grandmother's heart is failing. Her last wish is to see me married to a 'virtuous' girl. If I don't marry by the end of the month, she hands my board seat to my cousin-a man who will ruin this company."

He leaned over the desk, his eyes locking onto hers.

"Marry me, Elara. One year. We live together, we act the part in public, and in private, you stay out of my way. In exchange, I will pay off your family's debts and give you ten million dollars the day the divorce is finalized."

Elara stared at him, horrified and tempted all at once. "You want me to... to lie to an old woman? To be a fake bride?"

"I want you to be a business partner," Killian corrected.

He picked up the locket, dangling it just out of her reach. "The choice is yours. Go back to your farm and watch it burn... or sign the contract and become the most powerful woman in Oakhaven."

Elara looked at the locket, then at the man who held her future in his hands.

"And the... the kissing?" she whispered, her face heating up. "Does the contract include that?"

Killian's eyes darkened, a flash of that midnight hunger returning. "Only when we have an audience, Elara. Unless, of course... you find yourself begging for an encore."

Just as Elara reaches for the pen to sign her life away, the office door bursts open. A glamorous woman in a red dress stalks in-Vanessa, Killian's socialite ex-girlfriend.

"Killian, darling! Who is this... peasant in your office?"

The door didn't just open; it slammed against the mahogany wall with a violence that made the crystal carafe on Killian's desk rattle.

Vanessa St. Claire floated into the room like she owned the very oxygen everyone else breathed. She was a vision of artificial perfection-draped in head-to-toe Chanel, her neck adorned with pearls that cost more than Elara's family farm.

Behind her, Killian's secretary hovered, looking terrified.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Blackwood, I tried to tell her you were in a meeting-"

"Leave us," Killian commanded.

He didn't even look up. His voice was a flat, icy blade that cut through the secretary's panic instantly.

Vanessa stopped at the edge of the desk, her gaze sliding over the room until it landed on Elara. Her eyes narrowed, her nose wrinkling as if she had just stepped into a barn. She took in Elara's scuffed boots, the faded hem of her skirt, and the way she clutched her cheap plastic folder.

"Killian, darling," Vanessa purred, her voice dripping with practiced elegance. "I know your grandmother has a soft spot for 'charity cases,' but since when did the Blackwood executive suite become a soup kitchen?"

Elara felt a hot, stinging flush of humiliation creep up her neck. The sheer arrogance in the woman's voice made her feel smaller than she ever had back home. She started to stand, her country instincts telling her to retreat and avoid the storm, but a cold, heavy weight landed on her shoulder.

Killian's hand.

He kept her pinned in her seat. His fingers didn't just rest there; they squeezed slightly, a possessive, grounding pressure that forced her to stay. He finally looked up, his silver eyes devoid of warmth.

"She isn't a charity case, Vanessa," Killian said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register. "She's my fiancée."

The silence that followed was so absolute it felt heavy.

Vanessa's perfect, sculpted face contorted. For a moment, the mask of a socialite slipped, revealing the predator beneath. Then, she let out a sharp, mocking laugh that echoed off the glass walls.

"Fiancée? This... this little mouse?" Vanessa leaned over the desk, the scent of her cloying, expensive perfume filling the space.

She raked her eyes over Elara with pure, unadulterated venom. "She looks like she smells of rain and cheap soap. Is this a joke, Killian? Did you pick her up at a bus station just to give the tabloids something to laugh about?"

Elara's embarrassment began to transform. It curdled into a slow-burning spark of Thorne family pride. She might be poor, and she might be out of her element, but she wasn't a mouse.

"Actually," Elara said, her voice surprisingly steady. She looked Vanessa dead in the eye, refusing to flinch. "It's lavender. My grandfather grows it. And if I'm a joke, it's strange that a man as busy as Killian spent all night... laughing with me."

She felt Killian's grip tighten on her shoulder. A subtle shift in his posture suggested he was leaning into the lie-or perhaps he just liked the way she fought back.

Vanessa gasped, her face turning a vivid, ugly shade of red. "You little brat! Do you have any idea whose shoes you're trying to fill? I am a St. Claire. I spent three years by Killian's side while you were probably milking cows in the mud. You're nothing but a temporary distraction-a toy he's using to annoy his grandmother."

Vanessa turned to Killian, her voice shifting into a manipulative, high-society whine. "Killian, stop this charade. Grandmother is just being difficult about the inheritance. You don't need to marry this... peasant. We can find another way to handle the board of directors. We were the Golden Couple of Oakhaven. You know I'm the only one who can truly stand beside you."

Killian finally rose from his chair. He moved with a terrifying slowness, his towering height casting a long shadow over both women. He walked around the obsidian desk, stopping right beside Elara.

"The 'other way' was when you fled to Paris the moment my family's stock dipped last year, Vanessa," he said, each word hitting like a hammer on an anvil. "You chose a flight. I've chosen a foundation."

He reached down, his large hand sliding from Elara's shoulder to her jaw. He tilted her face up, forced her to look at him. His eyes weren't cold anymore-they were burning with a dark, performative fire.

"Elara is everything you aren't," he murmured, loud enough for Vanessa to hear every syllable. "She's loyal. She's real. And she belongs to me."

Before Elara could breathe, he leaned down and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to her forehead. It was a branding.

Vanessa looked like she was about to explode. "He'll tire of you in a week, peasant! And when he throws you back into the dirt where you belong, I'll make sure you never find work in this city again. I'll ruin you!"

Elara didn't look at Vanessa. She looked at the thick, leather-bound contract on Killian's desk and the heavy gold pen sitting beside it.

"Killian?" Elara asked, her voice sweet but sharp as a diamond.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

The "sweetheart" sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

"Is the offer still ten million dollars? And the debt for the farm... you'll clear it today?"

Killian's lips tilted into a ghost of a smirk. "The wire transfer is already drafted."

"Then give me the pen," Elara said firmly.

She stood up, walked to the desk, and signed her name in bold, flowing letters. Elara Thorne. With those two words, she sold her soul, but she bought her family's future.

She turned back to Vanessa, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. "I might be a peasant, Miss St. Claire. But I'm about to be the woman who signs your settlement checks. Now, if you'll excuse us... my fiancé has a grandmother to introduce me to."

Vanessa looked like she wanted to strike her, but the look in Killian's eyes-the sheer, icy warning-made her stumble back. She turned on her heel and stormed out, her heels clicking a desperate, defeated rhythm.

The moment the doors slammed shut, Elara collapsed back into the chair, her heart thundering so hard she felt dizzy.

"I'm going to be sick," she whispered, covering her face with her hands.

Killian didn't offer a hug. He didn't offer a kind word. He stood there, adjusting his platinum cufflinks, the "Ice King" persona clicking back into place instantly.

"You did well. A bit dramatic with the 'boss' line, but effective," he said coolly. "But don't get comfortable. Vanessa is a snake, but my grandmother is the dragon. If she catches a single hint that this is a business arrangement... she'll strip me of my title and send you back to your farm with nothing but the clothes on your back."

He walked toward the door, stopping only to look back at her.

"From this moment on, the girl who walked into this office is dead. You are the future Mrs. Blackwood. You will eat, breathe, and sleep for me. Do you understand?"

Elara looked at the man who was now her owner, her savior, and her greatest enemy. "I understand, Killian."

"Good," he said, his gaze lingering on her lips for a second too long. "Then let's go. The dragon is waiting for her lunch."

As they pull up to the Blackwood Estate-a castle-like mansion-Killian stops the car. He turns to Elara and says: "One more thing. My grandmother believes we've been sleeping together for months. If she asks why you aren't pregnant yet... let me do the talking."

The Blackwood Estate was less of a home and more of a monument to cold, unyielding ego. As the black Rolls Royce glided up the winding driveway, Elara felt as though she were being driven toward a gilded cage. Tall, wrought-iron gates, embossed with a silver 'B', hissed open to reveal sprawling manicured gardens. There were no wildflowers here, no messy life-only perfectly trimmed hedges and stone statues that looked like they were judging her for every breath she took.

​Killian killed the engine, but he didn't move to get out. The silence in the car was heavy, charged with the electricity of the lie they were about to tell.

​"My grandmother, Madam Beatrice, doesn't just read people she dissects them," he warned, his voice low and tight. He turned to look at her, his silver eyes scanning her face. "She'll look at your hair, the dirt under your nails, and the way you hold your fork. But most of all, she'll look at me. If she thinks for one second that I'm not obsessed with you, she'll cut off the funding to your farm before the sun sets."

​"Obsessed?" Elara swallowed hard, her throat feeling like it was lined with sandpaper. "Killian, I'm a terrible liar. I've never even had a serious boyfriend, let alone a... a fiancé like you."

​"Then don't lie," he interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. He leaned across the center console, his sudden proximity making the air in the car vanish. His hand moved fast, his thumb brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on the sensitive skin of her neck, his touch searingly hot against her cold skin. "Just remember the way you felt on the balcony last night. The way your heart raced when I touched you. Use that."

​Before she could gasp, he was out of the car. He opened her door and didn't just offer a hand, he pulled her flush against his side. His arm locked firmly around her waist, his thumb hooked into the belt of her skirt, a silent claim that left her breathless.

​They were met at the towering oak doors by a butler who looked like he had been carved from the same stone as the statues. He led them through a hallway lined with priceless oil paintings into a dining room that felt like a cathedral of mahogany and gold leaf.

​At the head of the table sat Madam Beatrice Blackwood. She wore a high-collared silk dress the color of midnight, her white hair styled into an intimidating crown. She didn't look like a grandmother; she looked like an empress.

​"So," Beatrice said, her voice a sophisticated rasp that echoed in the vast room. "This is the girl who caused a security breach at my hotel."

​"Grandmother," Killian said, his voice unusually soft-a velvet mask over his steel nature. "This is Elara. My fiancée."

​Beatrice didn't offer a smile. "Come closer, child. The light is terrible in this tomb."

​Elara stepped forward, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Beatrice reached out, her fingers thin and cold as she grabbed Elara's hand. She didn't shake it; she turned it over, inspecting the small callouses on Elara's palm, the marks of years spent pruning lavender and hauling crates at her grandfather's shop.

​"A worker," Beatrice mused, her sharp eyes flicking up to Elara's face. "Vanessa St. Claire has hands like silk because she's never touched anything heavier than a diamond. But you... you have the hands of someone who knows the earth. Killian always did prefer things that were... 'unrefined.'"

​"I prefer things that are real, Grandmother," Killian countered. He slid his hand down Elara's arm, interlacing their fingers so tightly it was almost painful. It was a visual anchor, telling the old woman that Elara was his territory.

​The lunch was a minefield. Course after course of food Elara couldn't name arrived. She felt Beatrice's eyes on her every time she lifted her crystal water glass.

​"Tell me, Elara," Beatrice said, setting down her silver fork with a deliberate clink. "If you love my grandson so much, why is it that I've never heard your name until this morning? And why did the security footage show you fleeing his suite like a thief in the night?"

​The air in the room turned to ice. Elara felt a bead of sweat gather at the small of her back. She looked at Killian, but his face was a mask of indifference. She realized he was testing her, too.

​"I ran because I was overwhelmed, Madam," Elara said, her voice trembling but clear. She decided to use the only weapon she had: the truth. "Your grandson isn't exactly a gentle man. He's intense. He's the kind of man who takes what he wants without asking, and for a girl like me, that was terrifying."

​Killian's grip on her hand tightened until his knuckles turned white.

​Beatrice tilted her head, a glimmer of interest in her flinty eyes. "Intense? Killian is a stone. He hasn't shown 'intensity' for anything but a hostile takeover in a decade."

​"Then you haven't seen him behind closed doors," Killian growled.

​He didn't give Beatrice time to respond. He stood up, pulling Elara up with him. He grabbed her chin, his fingers firm, and tilted her head back. In front of the butler and the portraits of five generations of Blackwoods, he crushed his lips to hers.

​This wasn't the dark, desperate kiss of the balcony. This was a public claim, slow, possessive, and deep. He tasted of mint and cold, dangerous ambition. His hand slid from her waist to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her into him until her breasts were crushed against his chest. Elara's eyes drifted shut, her hands clutching his lapels as the world outside the two of them faded into a blur of heat.

​When he finally pulled away, he lingered, his lips brushing hers as he spoke to his grandmother. "Does that look like a business arrangement to you, Beatrice? Or shall I take her upstairs and prove it further?"

​The old woman watched them for a long, agonizing minute. Finally, a small, wicked smile touched her lips, the smile of a predator who had found a worthy opponent.

​"It looks like trouble," Beatrice said, picking up her wine glass. "Which is exactly what this family needs. But don't think a kiss proves you can survive the Blackwood name. We're having a gala this weekend to announce the engagement. If you can survive the press and the St. Claire's... then I'll believe she's a Blackwood."

​Beatrice looked directly at Elara, her gaze chilling. "And Elara, dear? If you're going to be his wife, you'll need to lose the lavender scent. Blackwoods smell like power, not flowers."

​As they walked back to the car, the "Ice King" persona snapped back into place instantly. Killian dropped her hand as if it had burned him.

​"Pack your things," he said, his voice cold again. "You're moving into my private wing tonight. We have three days to turn you into a queen... and that starts with us sharing a bed. My grandmother has spies everywhere."