: “I Object.”

Aurora’s POV

The world is watching.

I know this because I can hear the soft, incessant clicks of camera shutters, a modern-day chorus to this grotesque pantomime. My Instagram feed is probably exploding right now: #WallStreetFairytale, #SongShenUnion, #WheelchairRomance. The algorithm loves a good tragedy dressed in silk and calla lilies.

I stand beside Dominic Shen in the solarium of the Hamptons estate his family "generously" provided for our wedding. Glass ceiling, floor-to-ceiling views of the Atlantic, three hundred of New York’s finest pretending they don’t see the elephant in the room—or rather, the wheelchair.

Dominic’s hand is cool and dry in mine. His eyes, a placid, unfocused blue, are trained somewhere over the pastor’s shoulder. The perfect picture of dignified tragedy. The heir to Shen Holdings, blinded and deafened in a tragic accident, finding love with the orphaned daughter of his father’s former rivals. The press ate it up.

*My parents would be vomiting,* I think, not for the first time. The thought is a shard of ice in my chest, a familiar, comforting pain.

"Do you, Aurora Song, take Dominic Shen to be your lawfully wedded husband?" The pastor’s voice is butter-soft.

My mouth is Sahara-dry. *This is for them. This is the only way in.* I’ve repeated the mantra for three years, since the day I knelt in the rain beside two mangled cars, my mother’s favorite pearl earring glinting in the flashing police lights. Since the day Song Capital was carved up like a holiday turkey, and I learned the word "vulture" wasn’t just for birds.

"I do," I say. The words taste like ash.

The pastor turns to Dominic, placing a Braille card in his palm. "Do you, Dominic Shen, take Aurora Song…"

He never finishes.

The massive oak doors at the back of the solarium crash open.

Not a gentle push. A violent, splintering *bang* that echoes through the stunned silence. Every head whips around. The camera clicks become a frenzied staccato.

A figure stands silhouetted against the harsh midday light. Tall, lean, moving with a predatory grace that sucks the air from the room. He steps into the light, and my heart simply stops.

*Elias.*

Four years haven’t softened him; they’ve whittled him down to something harder, sharper. His once-sun-kissed skin carries the pallor of fluorescent lights and no windows. His bespoke black suit hangs on a frame that’s all wiry muscle and tense angles, the kind of body forged in survival, not gyms. His hair is shorter, darker. But his eyes… God, his eyes. They sweep the room, a storm-gray reckoning, and land on me with the force of a physical blow.

The whispers start like a brushfire. "Isn’t that…?" "I thought he was in…" "My God, he got out?"

He walks down the aisle, not like a guest, but like a conqueror. People shrink back. He doesn’t look at them. He only looks at me.

He stops a foot away from the pastor. His voice, when it comes, is low, raspier than I remember, and it carves through the silence like a blade.

"I have an objection."

The pastor blinks. "I’m sorry, sir, you can’t just—"

"Four years ago," Elias cuts him off, his gaze pinning me to the spot, "you sent me to a federal prison, Aurora. You stood in a courtroom and swore I was a monster." He takes a step closer. The scent of him—cold air, faint ozone, and something uniquely, dangerously Elias—washes over me. "You didn’t say ‘I do’ then. Why now?"

A flashback hits me, violent and unbidden: *Elias in a cheap suit, his hands cuffed, being led out of a precinct. His eyes, shattered and pleading, finding mine across the room. My own voice, cold as the marble floor: "He raped me."* The lie that became my truth, my armor, my prison.

Then another: *Dominic finding me sobbing in the ruins of my life, his voice a gentle balm. "Let me help you, Aurora. Let me take care of you."* The beginning of the trap.

My bouquet, a cascade of white orchids, slips from my numb fingers and hits the marble floor with a soft, final thud.

Elias doesn’t look at it. He looks at my trembling hands, my surely bloodless face. A ghost of a smile, cruel and beautiful, touches his lips. He bends, picks up the flowers, and holds them out to me.

"Miss me, sweetheart?" he murmurs, the endearment a poison-tipped dart.

I can’t speak. My carefully constructed world is cracking at the seams.

He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. The cameras go wild. "You took three years of my life," he whispers, the heat of his breath a brand. "I think it’s only fair I take the rest of it."

Before I can react, before Dominic can even pretend to sense the disturbance, Elias’s hand cups my jaw. His thumb strokes my cheekbone, a mockery of tenderness. Then his mouth crashes down on mine.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a takeover. A reclamation. It’s hard, possessive, and blazing with four years of pent-up fury and something else I refuse to name. My body betrays me, a spark of familiar heat flaring to life before my mind douses it with horror. The solarium erupts in gasps and shouts.

He pulls back, leaving me breathless and publicly ruined. His stormy eyes hold mine, promising a world of pain.

As the chaos swells around us, as security finally starts to move, I find my voice. It’s a thin, venomous thread, meant for his ears only.

"I’ll destroy you," I hiss, the tremor in it belying the threat. "A second time."

He just smiles, wiping a trace of my lipstick from his mouth with his thumb. A slow, deliberate gesture for the cameras.

"Looking forward to it, Aurora."

---

: The Deal

Elias’s POV

The back room of the estate is all muted golds and rich mahogany, a stark contrast to the cold, echoing concrete of Danbury. It smells of old money and fresh-cut hydrangeas. I hate it.

Aurora stands by the fireplace, her back ramrod straight, still in that ridiculous cloud of a wedding dress. She looks like a ghost who’s forgotten how to fade away. The sight of her, even in panic, even hating me, does something treacherous to my insides. *Old habits. Old wounds.* I crush the feeling under the heel of four years of bitterness.

She turns as I close the door, cutting off the distant hum of scandalized guests. Her eyes are huge, dark pools in a pale face. Fear, yes. But also a fierce, glittering anger. *There she is.*

"Get out," she says, her voice surprisingly steady.

"We need to talk." I toss a manila folder onto the Chippendale desk between us. It lands with a solid *thwap*.

"We have nothing to talk about. Security will be here any second."

"I paid them off. And the pastor. And the string quartet." I shrug out of my suit jacket, the fabric scratching at scars she doesn’t know exist. "You’d be surprised what a few million in back-wages and hush money can do."

Her gaze flicks to the folder. "What is that?"

"Open it."

Suspicion wars with her innate curiosity—the same curiosity that used to have her prying into my trading algorithms at MIT. She steps forward, her movements elegant even now, and flips the folder open. Her breath hitches.

It’s all there. The legal transfer documents for a twenty percent stake in Song Capital. My signature is already at the bottom. The holding company is a shell, but the assets are real. What’s left of them.

"This… this was my parents’," she whispers, her fingers tracing the embossed letterhead. "How did you get it?"

"Bought it from the vultures at forty cents on the dollar." I lean against the desk, watching her. "Samuel and Dominic were too busy carving up the main carcass to notice the scraps. Or they thought it was worthless."

Her head snaps up. "Why would you do that?"

"It’s not a gift, Aurora. It’s a transaction." I keep my voice flat, clinical. *Show no weakness. No need.* "Look at clause 4.B."

Her eyes, sharp and analytical—the mind that aced advanced econometrics—scan the dense legalese. I see the exact moment she finds it. Her lips part. "This… this stipulates joint control. Both signatures required for any major asset sale or transfer."

"Smart girl. Always were." The old endearment slips out. I clench my jaw. "It means the stake is frozen. Useless to me alone. And currently, useless to you."

"What do you want?" Her voice is low, dangerous.

"I want what’s mine. My mother’s company. Shen Holdings." I push off the desk, closing the distance between us. She doesn’t retreat, just lifts her chin. A spark of admiration I don’t want flickers in my chest. "Dominic and Samuel stole it. They framed me to get me out of the way. You helped."

She flinches as if struck. Good.

"You want me to help you take it back?" Her laugh is brittle. "You’re insane."

"I want you to be my wife."

The words hang in the perfumed air. She stares at me, utterly still.

"In name only," I clarify, though the thought is a physical ache. "A public facade. The tragic ex-lovers, reconciled. The perfect power couple to challenge the fragile, disabled heir and his ailing father. The press will devour it. The board will question Dominic’s stability. It creates… leverage."

"You want me to pretend to be in love with you." It’s not a question.

"I want you to pretend to have chosen me. Again." I let the barb sink in. "For as long as it takes for me to untangle their mess and regain control."

"And my compensation?"

I nod at the folder. "When I have my company, you get the Song Capital stake. Fully. No strings. You can rebuild, sell it, burn it for all I care."

Her mind is working, I can see it. Weighing the humiliation against the reward. The hatred against the opportunity. Her parents’ legacy, sitting right there.

"How long?" she asks finally.

"Until I get my mother’s company back."

"That’s not an answer."

"It’s the only one I have."

We’re close now. I can see the faint pulse at the base of her throat. I can smell her perfume—something light and floral, wrong for the woman of steel and grief I know she is. An old impulse, a demon I thought I’d buried, makes me reach out. My fingers brush the inside of her wrist, where her frantic pulse beats a rabbit-quick rhythm.

A jolt goes through us both. Electric, instantaneous. Her eyes fly to mine, wide with shock and a mirrored, unwelcome awareness. My own traitorous body remembers every curve, every sigh, every midnight confession. *Damn it.*

I snatch my hand back as if burned.

She wraps her fingers around her wrist, as if to erase the contact. Her jaw is set. "You’ll have the paperwork drawn up? A real contract? Notarized?"

"Already done." I gesture to the folder. "Bottom page."

She looks down, then back at me. The war in her eyes is almost painful to witness. Finally, she gives one tight, sharp nod. "Fine."

The word is a surrender and a declaration of war all at once.

"Fine," I echo.

Behind her, the heavy door is slightly ajar. A shadow shifts in the crack. Just for a second. Then it’s gone.

Dominic.

Aurora doesn’t see it. She’s too busy selling her soul to the devil she once created.

---

: The First Night

Aurora’s POV

The master bedroom of the Hamptons "honeymoon suite" is a study in coastal chic and oppressive silence. White linen, driftwood accents, the relentless sigh of the ocean through the open balcony doors. It’s a prison with a five-star view.

Elias hasn’t spoken since we were "ushered" here by a smirking valet. He prowls the perimeter like a caged panther, examining abstract paintings and running a finger along dust-free shelves. He’s shed his suit jacket and tie. The white dress shirt stretches across his shoulders, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. My eyes, against my will, are drawn to the corded strength of his forearms, to the faint, pale lines that crisscross his skin. New scars. A topography of pain I wasn’t there for.

*Stop it.*

I pour a glass of the absurdly expensive Burgundy left for us, my hands shaking so badly the bottle neck clinks against the crystal. I need the oblivion, or at least the pretence of calm.

"Celebrating?" His voice is a dry rasp from behind me.

I don’t turn. "Drowning my regrets. I’d offer you some, but…"

"But I’m the primary regret?" He’s closer now. I can feel the heat of him at my back.

I down the glass in one go, the wine burning a path to my hollow stomach. "Top three, at least."

A low chuckle. Then his fingers are at the nape of my neck, moving my heavy, upswept hair aside. I freeze. His touch is shockingly gentle. His breath is warm on my bared skin.

"You kept it," he murmurs.

*Oh, God.* I know what he’s seen. The tiny, delicate script tattooed just below my hairline, hidden by my hair. E.S. A stupid, sentimental secret from a girl who believed in forever.

Humiliation, hot and acidic, floods me. I spin, slapping his hand away. "Don’t."

His eyes are dark, unreadable pools. "Sentimental, Aurora? For the man you framed?" The mockery is back, edged with something raw.

"It’s a brand," I spit out, the lie tasting bitter. "A reminder of what happens when you trust a monster."

Something flashes in his eyes—a fracture in the icy facade. Hurt? Anger? It’s gone too fast to tell. "A monster," he repeats softly. Then he barks a laugh, sharp and ugly. "You have no idea what monsters look like."

He reaches for the wine bottle. I act on pure, venomous instinct. I snatch my half-full glass and throw the remaining wine in his face.

Deep red liquid splashes across his cheek, drips from his jaw onto his pristine white shirt. He goes utterly still. For a terrifying second, I think I’ve finally pushed him over an edge I can’t see.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifts a hand and wipes the wine from his cheek. Then he brings his fingers to his lips and licks them clean, his eyes locked on mine. The gesture is indecent, primal.

"Just as fiery as I remember," he says, his voice a low thrum. "Pity the passion is only for revenge now."

Something inside me snaps. The weight of the day—the public shame, the impossible deal, the ghost of my parents in this gilded cage, the terrifying, persistent pull of his presence—comes crashing down. A sob tears from my throat, harsh and ugly. I clap a hand over my mouth, but it’s too late. The tears come, hot and silent, carving paths through my carefully applied makeup.

I hate crying in front of him most of all. It’s the ultimate vulnerability.

The mockery drains from his face. He stares at me, bewildered, as if my tears are a weapon he doesn’t know how to counter. The ruthless ex-con, the master manipulator, looks… young. Lost.

"Aurora…" He takes a half-step forward, hand hesitantly outstretched.

"Don’t touch me!" I stagger back, wrapping my arms around myself. "Just… don’t."

He drops his hand, fist clenching at his side. The silence stretches, broken only by my ragged breathing and the distant ocean.

"Why didn’t you believe me?" The question leaves his lips quietly, stripped of all armor. It’s the voice of the man I once knew, the one who looked at me like I hung the stars. The one I betrayed.

The question hangs there, a guillotine blade over every lie I’ve told myself for four years. *Because I heard you. Because the evidence was there. Because my world ended and you were part of the wreckage.*

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. What truth could I possibly offer?

My phone, discarded on the bed, vibrates. The screen lights up. A text message. In Braille transcription software.

DOMINIC: *Everything alright in there, my love? Do you need assistance?*

A cold dread, deeper than my fear of Elias, slithers down my spine. He’s listening. Or guessing. Or just playing his part with psychotic precision.

Elias follows my gaze. He sees the message. His expression shutters, the moment of vulnerability gone, replaced by a cold, calculating mask. He gives a sharp, disgusted shake of his head, as if clearing the last of the wine—or the weakness—from his system.

"Get some sleep," he says, his voice once again flat and impersonal. "The performance starts early tomorrow."

He grabs a pillow and a blanket from the oversized bed and throws them onto the plush sofa by the window. He lies down, turning his back to me and the vast, empty bed.

I stand there, shaking, tears drying on my face, feeling more alone than I ever did in my cramped studio apartment. The man on the sofa is a stranger. The man I’m married to is a monster in the shadows. And I am trapped between them.

Hours later, a sliver of pre-dawn light paints the room gray. I haven’t slept. I slip out of bed, my silk nightgown whispering against my skin, and creep toward the balcony for air.

Elias is already there. Leaning on the railing, shirtless, staring at the dark, churning ocean. The wind ruffles his hair. And in the faint light, I see it clearly: on the pale skin of his forearm, fresh amid the older scars, are three parallel, angry red lines.

Fresh cuts.

My breath catches. He hears it. He doesn’t turn, but his posture goes rigid.

"Go back to bed, Aurora," he says, his voice rough with sleeplessness and something else. Something that sounds like despair.

I do. But the image of him, bleeding silently into the Hamptons night, is seared behind my eyelids.

---