Married to the One I Mocked

The ink hadn't dried, but her freedom already felt like it had.

Lena Whitmore sat across from the man she once called the Iceman of Mayfair. Now? He was her husband.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she dropped the fountain pen, the sound a soft, damning click against the glass table. The legal documents between them glared up like ghosts-cold, glossy, unforgiving. No frills. No romance. Just signatures, deadlines, and one clause that made her stomach churn:

> "This marriage shall remain legally binding for a duration of twelve months."

Damon Kingsley didn't blink. Not once. The tailored navy suit he wore looked like it was stitched into his DNA-precise, commanding, perfect. His jawline was sharp, but not as sharp as his silence. His expression? A polished weapon of indifference.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Kingsley," he finally said, his voice like chilled whiskey. "You just sold your surname."

She stared back at him, refusing to flinch. "And you just bought a wife."

He raised a glass of champagne that had been poured before she even arrived. His version of romance, apparently. "Let's toast to transactional love."

She didn't lift hers. She couldn't stomach the bubbles. Not when the weight of the contract sat heavier than the diamond on her left hand.

Twelve months. One roof. No emotions. No mess.

Simple. Sterile. Safe.

Except nothing about Damon Kingsley was simple.

---

Three weeks ago, she'd laughed at him-right in front of half of London's elite.

It was a gallery opening. He'd been standing next to an abstract sculpture worth six figures, talking about structure and power like he breathed the language. She'd called him the human equivalent of an iced espresso-expensive, bitter, and very British.

He didn't respond. He simply looked at her with the same expression he wore today: unreadable, untouched, unbothered.

She'd assumed she would never see him again.

Now? She wore his ring.

Because legacy required it.

Because her father's company was drowning.

Because Damon needed a wife who wouldn't fall for him.

Because London's elite didn't care about love-they cared about headlines.

This entire arrangement had been Damon's idea. But Lena? She'd been the one to walk into it with her chin up and spine straight. She could handle twelve months.

Her friends called her reckless. Her therapist said she was deflecting.

Her pride? It told her she could outplay a Kingsley.

But as Damon stood and buttoned his jacket, the reality hit with a harder chill than the February air outside.

"You'll be moving into the Grosvenor Penthouse tonight," he said coolly. "I trust you packed light."

She blinked. "Wait-you want me to move in tonight?"

He didn't stop walking. "Time is money, Mrs. Kingsley. And you've cost me enough of both."

---

The Grosvenor Penthouse looked like it had been ripped from the pages of an architectural digest. Marble floors stretched beneath her heels, each step echoing like a warning. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed London in all its glittering, guarded glory. Crystal light fixtures hung like frozen stars.

She walked through the space in silence, resisting the urge to touch anything. It all felt curated, like an exhibit. Even the air was scented-something musky and expensive.

Their bedroom was worse.

Not in design. That was flawless.

But in implication.

One bed. Two people. No escape.

"This side's yours," Damon said, pointing toward the left. His side was already occupied-organized drawers, a tray of cufflinks, an expensive cologne bottle labeled Kingsley & Co.

Her side? Bare. Except for a single red folder.

She opened it slowly.

> RULES

> 1. No public scandals.

> 2. No physical contact unless required for image.

> 3. No falling in love.

She snorted. Arrogant bastard.

"Who said anything about love?" she muttered under her breath.

Damon's voice drifted in from the hallway. "Keep mocking me, Lena. You'll find rule four very unpleasant."

She turned sharply. "Is that a threat, husband?"

He leaned against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world, arms folded, eyes unreadable.

"A promise."

---

That night, Lena lay on top of the silk sheets, fully clothed, her eyes trained on the ornate ceiling. She couldn't sleep. The room was too quiet, too cold. Even her heartbeat felt out of place here.

She glanced at the man beside her.

Not beside-across.

He'd chosen the guest suite.

Of course he had.

Part of her was relieved.

Part of her wondered why that disappointed her.

The clock ticked. Somewhere in the penthouse, the staff had already begun their silent rotation. Cleaners. Security. Image managers. Damon's world was airtight, impenetrable.

She rolled onto her side and stared at the red folder again.

> No falling in love.

She should've laughed.

But something about the way he said a promise... made her pulse skip.

Because somewhere beneath that cold surface, she'd seen something today.

A flicker. A crack.

Something dangerous.

And she knew, without doubt, this marriage wasn't going to stay on paper.

Not for long.

Because Lena Whitmore didn't just mock the Iceman.

She melted him.

---