Crossfire Vows

The sun in morning light poured through the blinds of CrossCorp Legal like a judgment beam. Aria stood frozen outside the Executive Conference Suite, her wine-red dress ironing out beneath trembling hands. The chill in the corridor wasn't from the air—it was from her bones. From memory. From the choice she was going to sign. Her heels were soundless on marble, but her heartbeat pounded with every ticking second.

She breathed deeply, looked in the black glass, and opened the door with a decorum she could barely manage.

Inside, the conference table glowed under recessed lighting. Damien Cross sat already at the head like a king waiting for his coronation. His posture was loose, his suit molding the hard lines of his ambition. There was an untouched cup of espresso to one side of him, with an unopened leather binder to the other. His manner, as always, was calculated arrogance.

His eyes scanned upward to meet hers. Cold. Calculating. There was a flicker of something else—perhaps recognition, perhaps defiance.

"Taking your time," he said, his voice smooth, uninterested.

"Traffic," she repeated, her voice equal to his, though her nerves stretched thin under her skin.

He gestured to the chair on the other side of the room. Aria walked across the room, resolute, determined. She set her folder of papers in front of her, fingers still icy from the cold. She did not glance away from him for a single moment.

The lawyers arrived, two sets of the same hue. One for Damien, one for her. Both seasoned, sharp-eyed, with a courtly smile that didn't reach their eyes. Their greetings were short as they were here for business. This was but a transaction to them, a well-paid transaction. Either side was very familiar with their bosses. A union bound not by hearts, but by calculation. Damien wondered, How could she get this lawyer to appear here? Gaze, I don't know her at all. Aria was represented by one of the best lawyers in the country. To Damien, this was just a marriage contract. What message. What message was she passing across?

"Let us walk through the final conditions," said the older of the two, clearing his throat with a seriousness that suggested burden.

Aria remained silent, her pulse thrumming in her throat, but her face unchanging, like china.

They began.

Each clause is a new link in the chain, each sentence another nail in the coffin of who she'd been. She didn't blink. Didn't ask for clarification. But heard every word, every line.

Duration: Twelve months minimum. Extension by mutual agreement.

Residence: Joint penthouse at Cross Tower. Shared space, individual rooms negotiable.

Public appearances: Minimum of two per month, excluding Cross family events.

Intimacy: Optional. Neither expected nor prohibited. No commitment.

Financial agreement: Separate accounts. A monthly allowance was negotiated. Bonus for completion at the end of the term.

Confidentiality: Absolute discretion demanded, open-ended.

And then came the surprise—an adjustment buried in the performance clause.

Damien's lawyer looked up. "A minor revision. If either party cancels a public engagement unilaterally, a financial penalty will be incurred. Paid to Mrs. Cross."

Aria's eyebrow climbed. "Define 'mutual agreement'."

Damien elbowed past his lawyer. "It says what it means. If you pull a vanishing act, it costs you. If I do, it costs me. A leash shared."

The lawyers exchanged a glance. One coughed delicately.

Aria considered it. Her fingers curled over the edge of the table, and for a moment, a rope of tension cinched on. Then she nodded. "That's. acceptable."

Silence fell. Brief. Heavy.

And then the pens. Clicks like gunfire.

Damien signed first. Smooth. No hesitation.

Aria signed second. The scratch of the black ink on the page as she shed her past name. Aria Drevan disappeared into history. In its place came Mrs. Aria Cross, cold and clean.

She stared at the letters after she'd written them. Alien, artificial, like a tag instead of a name.

The attorney placed the signed sheets aside and closed the binder with a resounding thud, much like the door to a cell being locked behind one. Finished. Irrevocable.

Damien stared at her, expression unreadable. "You remember what I said to you, don't you?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Which?"

Regarding that lesson. Always smile for the cameras."

For an instant, their eyes crossed above the table. Something slight shifted between them. Not warmth. Not even understanding. But a flash of mutual information—two people who were used to masks, secrets, and complex calculation.

She stood up slowly. Her chair creaked almost not at all. "I haven't forgotten," she said.

"Good." He readjusted his cufflinks, as if that was the only outstanding issue.

The lawyers began packing their briefcases. Aria relaxed her fingers, trying to release the stiffness that had crept into her arms.

"We'll make the announcement tomorrow at noon," Damien said. "Press, photographs, smiles. All the pleasant things."

Aria nodded. "I'll be there."

"You'll see me first," he said, already halfway out the door.

She did not answer. Just stood there, looking around the room one last time. The air was sterile, with the overpowering scents of paper and espresso. No comfort left. No space for doubt.

When she entered the hallway, with her lawyer at her side, the wooden door softly closed behind her with a final click. Her heels clicked away from her as she left, and with each step, her new character tightened around her like silk that was going to strangle her.

She did not turn around.