ANASTASIA

"Ana, Ana. Come on, it's almost nine."

I yanked the sheets over my head to muffle Maria's persistent voice. "Jesus Christ, Maria, let me sleep,"

I yelped when the blanket was torn from my body, the cold morning air of the city taking its place.

"Give me back my blanket. It's so cold," my words were muffled against the pillow.

"Someone's here to see you ...get out of bed," maria's voice dripped with frustration. She was this close to actually hitting me out of bed.

"Tell them to leave," I muttered, half-awake.

"I raised you better than this, Ana"

"You raised me not to get enough sleep?" she pulled the curtain open, I groaned once the sunlight hit my face.

"To greet your guests and not keep them waiting" she supplied,

"Argh, who the fuck is it?"

"Ana language" she warned.

"Come on, who is it?"

Mr. Blackwood is here." That one name makes me jolt out of bed, stumbling to my feet.

"What?!"

Maria-the househelp rolled her eyes.

"He's downstairs," she shrugged, it's a common thing for a billionaire to show up in my living room by 9 in the morning.

"What? Get someone to tell him to leave." i snapped.

"Like anyone would volunteer to be murdered," Rita said, walking into the room on cue.

"What does he want?" I muttered through a yawn.

I pressed my fingers against my forehead in an attempt to calm down, and dragged my tired feet towards the door.

"Don't tell me you are going down like that?" Rita commented.

I glanced at the mirror. My hair had formed a nest, my face was puffy, and pajamas were crinkled.

"Like I'd put in effort to get ready for him. He should see me like this, know exactly what he's getting into. He's not going to get a princess walking in designer clothes, if that's what he thinks."

I walked towards the living room, my eyes immediately found him in the large room. He was leaning on my couch, in a gray suit and a checkered tie. I look like the servant in my own apartment. His expression didn't shift. His gaze flickered to my hair.

"Read the documents and sign them," he said, glancing at his watch. My gaze drops to the documents on the table.

"You could have just emailed it," his gaze shifts to me.

"It's faster if we read it together. Do you have yours prepared?"

I nod. On cue, Rita handed the documents to him. He glanced at me before flipping through them.

"They are unnecessary," he added, still reading the papers.

"They are my conditions." I continued reading his papers.

"There's not going to be a wedding. It's too much hassle. It's the same thing, name on paper, that's all," I added. I couldn't imagine myself walking down the aisle with Dominic. He would probably still have a cold expression, even when exchanging vows in front of a million guests.

"Intimacy is permitted in public or in front of a third person only if both parties consent."

"So I can say no?" I asked, my eyes fixed on him, His jaw tightened.

"Yes," he said, like the word tastes bad.

"Good" I muttered and continued reading his papers.

"We can live together after marriage."

"Under the same roof, there's no way we are sharing a bed though" I added, scribbling my signature on the document. He does the same.

Well, that was it. I'm officially married.

Except there were no vows, no 'I choose you', no 'till the end of the world', just marriage on paper.

To Dominic Blackwood.

I reached up to loosen my shirt when it became difficult to breathe.

His assistant stepped forward, and dropped two matching rings on the table. It looks stunning. The stone sitting on the band was unmistakably a diamond.

"You're not about to put the ring on my finger?" I asked, my voice dripped with sarcasm. He didn't look up.

He picked up the ring, and slipped it on his finger. I did the same, pausing to look at my finger. It feels heavy against my ring finger, heavier than it was supposed to be.

"Keep your end of the contract," I added.

"I will send someone to pick you up tonight. It'd be preferable if you don't bring anything," he said, standing tall in front of me, his eyes lingering on my outfit.

"Did my sense of fashion hit a nerve?"

"Everything you do affects the Blackwood name, dream like the title you will carry" he explained. I rolled my eyes.

"I will be on my best behavior then, I couldn't possibly be seen with a scandalous outfit," his eyes dropped to my pajamas, but only for a second, then he adjusted his cuff.

"My assistant will have a copy printed for you." he said, walking towards the door.

It's undeniable, we are married. It's definitely not a bad dream.

"The marriage is only for a year," i said more to myself than to him. He didn't reply, just kept walking.

"Everything's in the contract," he added. Once he was gone, the room felt empty without the weight of his presence.

"I wonder how you talk to him," Rita muttered, releasing the breath I'm sure she had been holding.

"He is an asshole," my eyes glued to where he had been. He hadn't changed much from when we were seven. He still left the room empty once he was gone.

***

Immediately after i get to the confines of my room, and I dropped onto the bed. A sigh escaped me as I scroll through my phone. I paused, my finger hovering over the screen, over a picture on the screen of the same man who had once gotten down on one knee, confessing his undying love for me, but with his arms around another woman, staring at her like only she existed.

My grip tightened around the phone.

My supposed fiancé,

the man my father had trusted everything with. The photo felt like a slap from reality.

I switched to my messages, scrolled through the thousands of unread messages from my mother flooding the screen. Each one a thousand reason why I should crawl back to the man who walked into another woman's arms.

My eyes drifted to the ring sitting on my ring finger, the diamond reflected a faint glow under the lighting of the room.

It sat there, mocking me.

ANASTASIA

I stare up at the mansion in front of me, it's huge, the building standing tall, representing power and everything the owner stands for. The air carries the faint smell of rain, old money, and fresh roses from the garden surrounding the mansion. The building reminds me of him: tall, big, and distant, the obvious lack of color around the building except for the roses at the side.

Parked at the side is Dominic's sleek black Bentley.

I drag my suitcase toward the building, typing a reply to Rita's thousands of texts.

I press the doorbell, tapping my fingers impatiently at my side. No reply. I raise my hand to press it again, but the door swings open before my finger lands.

Dominic stands near the doorway, except he doesn't look like the cold, distant man in a suit I married.

Standing near the doorway, fresh from the shower, the faint scent of his body wash in the air, droplets of water drip down the wet strands of his hair, down his chest, sliding lower, a towel draped around his neck.

What catches my attention is the dark ink on his skin-tattoos trailing down his arms...

"Come in," his cold voice breaks through my thoughts, forcing my eyes to look anywhere but at his chest.

"Took you long enough," I comment, my voice coming out softer than intended.

He pulls the door open wide enough for me to walk past him, my shoulder brushing against his chest.

The inside is bigger than I expected. My eyes immediately fall on a 6-year-old photo of him, his gray eyes looking at me through the portrait, cold and distant.

"Follow me," he adds, walking up the stairs. I drag my suitcase after him, the wheels hitting against the tiles of the stairs as I struggle to drag it further up. He simply glances at me, walks back, and carries it from me, his biceps flexing as he carries it up the stairs with more ease than I imagined.

His shoulders broader than they look in a suit. His hair is longer than it looks when it's styled back. My cheeks heat up when I realize what I'm doing.

I walk closer behind him, keeping my eyes glued on the stairs rather than on his back.

"Show her to her room," he says to a girl in a black maid's uniform. She keeps her head down, but I notice the familiar redness on her cheeks, she's surely been looking at him, at those biceps and ridiculously big muscles. For someone who sits behind a desk all day. It stirs something bitter in me.

The girl glances at me, her expression shifting into a subtle frown, which flashes by like it was never there. She keeps her head lowered instead.

He shifts his gaze to me, as if silently telling me to follow her instead, he walks away without a word.

The girl drags the suitcase in front, and I quietly follow behind her. She's pretty, with bright blue eyes and long blonde hair tied neatly in a ponytail, definitely the type of girl a billionaire marries in novels and TV shows. Too bad the man she has a crush on is a robot.

I don't try to start conversations with her, I'm only here for a year. Then she can go back to looking at her boss with dreamy eyes and blush-stained cheeks.

She continues walking, leading me deeper until we reach the bedroom. She pushes the door open. The room is enormous, with a massive bed, the walls painted a dark shade of gray, cold and distant. Of course they are. Everything around him screams distance and emptiness.

She leaves the room quietly, the door clicking softly after her. I let out a tired sigh, my mind drifting to Dominic, a little too easily.

He is my only option.

The only escape I can choose, rather than my own family. A staged marriage with him, the man I am supposed to hate.

"My life feels like a fucking TV show," I muse, letting out dry laughter.

I pull myself up, walking toward the window. The view over it is beautiful: the sun reflecting on the mansion, giving it a golden ambiance, the roses resembling small red dots. I easily spot Dominic by the mansion. He has a shirt on, but it still doesn't help hide the outline of his muscles. He's holding a file, talking intently with his assistant. If there's one thing I'd give him credit for, it's building his whole life around work.

**

That night. At dinner.

The sound of cutlery against the plate cuts through the room. I glance around, but there's no staff in sight, just the two of us. Dominic sits at the head of the table.

I stab my fork into the lettuce on my plate. Every bite tastes blander than the last.

"Matteo's party is Saturday," he says, dabbing the napkin against his lips and leaning back in the chair, his eyes boring into mine.

Matteo is one of the big names in the industry. There's no doubt my so-called fiancé will be there, and so will his mistress.

"I'm not going."

"You are," he cuts in.

I set my fork down, too loudly for my own liking. My hands curl around the tablecloth.

"You don't get to decide that for me," I say through my teeth.

"I do when your absence becomes my problem," he leans forward, his elbows on the table. He continues, "From now on, what you do affects the Blackwood name."

"So this is damage control."

"This is strategy," he adds.

"It's unnecessary."

"It is."

"Congratulations, but my image isn't exactly redeemable," I taunt.

"Hiding won't make it better," he says. I lean forward.

"And why should I do what you say?" His lips twitch slightly.

"You will," he stands, chair scraping against the floor. "Because you don't want to be seen as the heiress who couldn't keep anything." His words strike harder.

I don't answer. My fists harden.

"Don't be late," he adds. "The address will be sent to you."

He walks away, leaving his plate half-finished.

The silence envelopes me, my fingers still gripping the tablecloth.