Chapter 1

I signed the marriage contract in my own father's blood—not literally, but close enough, since he'd coughed it onto the paper while begging me to save his life.

"The Blackwell family needs a bride for their eldest son," my stepmother had announced that morning, smiling like she'd won the lottery. "Congratulations, Iris. You've finally become useful."

I thought I was marrying Easton Blackwell—golden boy, magazine cover, every woman's fantasy.

I was wrong.

The cathedral doors opened, and two hundred guests turned to stare. My secondhand dress scratched against my skin as I walked the longest aisle of my life, each step echoing off stone walls older than this city. At the altar stood not Easton, but a man in a wheelchair, his face half-hidden by shadows, a scar cutting from his temple to his jaw like God had tried to cross him out.

Roman Blackwell. The brother no one talked about. The one the tabloids called "The Blackwell Curse."

My stepmother's smile from the front pew told me everything—she'd known. She'd always known.

"You may kiss the bride," the officiant said.

Roman didn't move. Didn't reach for me. His dark eyes, cold as river stones, swept over my face with absolute indifference.

"That won't be necessary," he said.

Scattered laughter rippled through the guests. Someone whispered, "Poor thing—she can't even get the cripple to want her."

My fingers trembled around the bouquet as heat climbed my neck. Don't cry. Don't you dare cry.

The reception was held in the Blackwell estate's grand ballroom, a cathedral of crystal and old money. I sat alone at the head table while Roman's chair remained empty. He'd wheeled himself out before the first toast.

"Don't take it personally," said a voice smooth as aged whiskey.

I looked up into the face I'd expected at the altar. Easton Blackwell leaned against the table edge, his tuxedo perfectly tailored, his smile perfectly practiced. He was devastating—blue eyes, sharp jaw, the kind of beauty that made women forget their own names.

"He's like that with everyone," Easton continued, handing me a champagne flute. "My brother doesn't do... people."

"Then why did he agree to this marriage?"

Easton's smile flickered. "Family obligation. Our grandfather's will requires all Blackwell heirs to marry before thirty or forfeit their inheritance. Roman turns thirty in six days." He clinked his glass against mine. "You're a business transaction, sweetheart. Nothing more."

The champagne tasted like acid.

"But I want you to know," Easton leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear, "if you ever need anything—company, conversation, comfort—my door is always open."

His hand brushed my bare shoulder, lingering one second too long.

From across the ballroom, through the crowd of laughing guests and swirling gowns, I felt eyes on me. Roman sat in the far corner, half-swallowed by shadow, watching his brother's hand on my skin with an expression I couldn't read.

Then he turned his wheelchair and disappeared through a side door.

That night, I stood outside the master bedroom of the east wing—my assigned quarters, according to the housekeeper. The hallway stretched endlessly in both directions, lined with portraits of Blackwell ancestors who all seemed to be judging me.

I knocked once. No answer.

I pushed the door open and found the room empty. The bed was untouched, the curtains drawn. On the nightstand sat a single piece of paper with handwriting so precise it looked machine-printed:

"Rules: 1. Don't enter my study. 2. Don't speak to me unless spoken to. 3. This marriage ends in twelve months. Sincerely, Roman Blackwell."

Three rules. Twelve months. A husband who couldn't even deliver his rejection in person.

I folded the note carefully, placed it back on the nightstand, and whispered to the empty room:

"You don't know me yet, Roman Blackwell. But you will."