Chapter 1 Forced to Sign, A Sweet Trap
# Chapter 1: Forced to Sign, A Sweet Trap
The weight of two hundred pages felt like a death sentence in my hands. I flipped through the contract for the fifth time, each page more suffocating than the last. My family's company—three generations of hard work—would collapse by morning unless I signed my life away to the man sitting across from me.
Gilbert Blackwood. Thirty-two years old. CEO of Blackwood Industries. Currently watching me with the emotional range of a glacier.
"You've read it enough, Kate," he said, his voice as crisp as his perfectly tailored suit. "The terms are non-negotiable."
I looked up from the mammoth contract. "Three years of marriage to save my family's company? Seems like overkill even for you, Gilbert."
His steel-gray eyes didn't even blink. "Your father accumulated debts he couldn't pay. I'm offering a solution that benefits us both. My company needs the stability of a marriage alliance, and yours needs to not disappear overnight." He pushed a pen toward me. "Unless you'd prefer bankruptcy?"
The fluorescent lights of the conference room at midnight made everything feel surreal. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sparkled like it was mocking my predicament. Twenty-seven years old, and here I was, selling myself into a corporate marriage.
"Don't worry," Gilbert added with a coldness that made me shiver, "I have no romantic delusions about this arrangement, and I suggest you don't either. This is business, nothing more."
I signed my name on the final page, feeling like I was writing my own eulogy.
Gilbert immediately collected the contract, his expression unchanging. "The wedding is on Saturday. My assistant will send you the details. You'll move into my penthouse tomorrow."
"That's in two days!"
"Is that a problem?" His eyebrow arched slightly—the most emotion he'd shown all evening.
I squared my shoulders. "No. No problem at all."
---
My new "home" was exactly what I'd expected: cold, minimalist, and devoid of any personality. Much like its owner. The penthouse occupied the top two floors of one of the city's most exclusive buildings, with views that would make most people weep with joy. I just felt like weeping.
Gilbert had disappeared into his home office the moment we arrived, leaving his housekeeper to show me around. I was given the master bedroom—apparently, Gilbert would be using the guest suite on the other side of the penthouse. Small mercies.
It was nearly midnight when I finally unpacked the last of my things. Sleep eluded me, so I decided to take another look at the contract I'd signed. Gilbert had given me a copy—all 200 pages of it—bound in leather with "Blackwood-Parkinson Agreement" embossed on the cover.
I poured myself a glass of wine from the kitchen (the one room that actually felt somewhat lived-in) and settled into the living room sofa with the contract.
For the next hour, I read clause after clause of what I could and couldn't do as Mrs. Gilbert Blackwood. No public scandals. Attend all company functions. Present a united front. Separate bedrooms. No romantic entanglements with others during the contract period.
Then, on page 57, something caught my eye.
Clause 12: The husband shall provide the wife with a goodnight kiss every evening before retirement.
I blinked, then read it again. What the hell? I flipped forward.
Clause 45: Should the wife express displeasure or unhappiness through facial expressions (specifically frowning), the husband is obligated to immediately provide high-quality chocolate as a mood enhancer.
I nearly spilled my wine. This had to be some kind of joke. I flipped through more pages, finding more bizarre clauses hidden among the standard legalese:
Clause 59: The husband shall compliment the wife no fewer than three times daily.
Clause 67: The wife reserves the right to reorganize any space within the shared residence without prior approval.
Who had written these? Certainly not the ice man who'd barely looked at me during our contract signing.
I was so engrossed that I didn't hear footsteps approaching until a shadow fell across the pages.
"You're still up." Gilbert's voice startled me.
I looked up to find him standing there in silk pajama pants and a fitted t-shirt—a far cry from his usual armor of designer suits. His hair was slightly mussed, and he looked almost... human.
"I'm reading our contract," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "There are some... interesting clauses in here."
A flicker of something crossed his face. "You're reading too slowly." He moved closer, leaning down until his face was inches from mine. His fingers gently gripped my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. "Clause 100 is the one you should be concerned with."
My heart pounded as he reached over and flipped forward in the document, his hand obscuring the text as he found the page he wanted. The scent of his cologne—something woody and expensive—wrapped around me.
"What does it say?" I whispered.
His lips curved into the barest hint of a smile. "You'll have to read faster to find out." Then he straightened up and walked away, leaving me breathless and confused.
---
The next morning, I decided to test one of the bizarre clauses. I deliberately frowned over my coffee when Gilbert entered the kitchen.
He paused, observing me with those unreadable gray eyes. Without a word, he disappeared. Ten minutes later, as I was finishing my toast, the doorbell rang.
Gilbert reappeared carrying an enormous tower of chocolates. Not just any chocolates—Belgian truffles arranged in an architectural masterpiece that must have cost a fortune.
"Clause 45," he said simply, placing it before me.
I stared at the chocolate tower, then at him. "You can't be serious."
"I never joke about contractual obligations, Kate." His face was impassive, but I could swear there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "You frowned. I provided chocolate."
"I can't eat all this," I protested.
He leaned forward, placing his hands on the table. For the first time, I noticed how long his eyelashes were, casting shadows on his cheekbones.
"Then I'll have to resort to the sub-clause," he said quietly.
"What sub-clause?"
His voice dropped to a whisper. "If the chocolate fails to induce a smile, alternative methods must be employed."
I raised an eyebrow. "Which are?"
"Kisses," he said simply. "Until you smile."
My heart stuttered. "That's not in the contract."
"Page 58, paragraph 3, line 7." He straightened up. "I suggest you eat your chocolate, Mrs. Blackwood. Unless you'd prefer the alternative?"
The way he said it sent a shiver down my spine—not unpleasant, but definitely unexpected. I picked up a chocolate and bit into it, the rich flavor exploding on my tongue.
Gilbert watched me with that same unreadable expression, then nodded once. "I'll see you this evening. We have a charity gala to attend."
As he walked away, I couldn't help but wonder: Who was this man I'd married, and what game was he playing?
The contract sat on the table beside me, its mysteries still largely unexplored. Somewhere in those pages, Clause 100 waited for me to discover it. And something told me that whatever it contained would change everything.
