HIS CONTRACT WIFE IS HIS RUIN

The man Seraphina's about to marry doesn't spare her a glance.

Not when she walks in. Not even when the click of her heels echoes against the marble, loud in the hush, as if announcing her privately.

 Two hundred of the country's most powerful people swivel in their seats to watch her approach, but Lucien Voss just keeps reading the papers in front of him, pen already poised.

And honestly? Seraphina's fine with that.

Let him miss the view. Let him underestimate her.

This so-called wedding isn't a wedding. There are plenty of flowers-thousands, actually. White orchids pour from the ceiling in arrangements worth more than most people make in a year, but they exist the way the rest of the furniture does: chosen by someone's assistant to project exactly the right image, for exactly the right audience. They're cold. Nobody here loves orchids.

The grand hall at the Voss Estate stretches forty feet above her, all pale marble and gold trim, windows letting in February's thin, colorless light. The "guests" in rows of ivory chairs are more like official witnesses. Their presence is documentation: everyone here can say this happened.

Seraphina knows most of their faces; she's studied them. There's Senator Hargrove in row three-he owes the Vosses two elections and a scandal swept under the rug back in 2019. Next to him, Helena Marsh, head of Marsh Industries. Her company's merger with Voss Corp only happened because certain "social alignments" fell into place. The Delacroix twins sit near the back-old money, older alliances, silent and watchful. Ceremonies like this aren't new to them.

They watch her with the same careful dissection. She can almost feel it: cataloging her dress (ivory silk, high neck, picked by Lucien's stylist and delivered to her room without so much as a note), her hair (slick and severe-not the look the stylist intended, but the one Seraphina made herself at dawn, locked door, trembling hands), the way she walks.

She walks like she isn't afraid.

And that's not quite the same thing as actually being unafraid.

Lucien Voss is thirty-four, sole heir to a vast fortune-nine countries, two continents-and there's no denying he's striking. Everyone says it right away. Tall. Dark. A jawline that spells power in every photograph. He moves like a man who treats his body the way he treats everything else: a resource, kept at peak efficiency, never indulged.

He still doesn't look up as she nears. He's pretending to read the contract, but she suspects he knows every line already. This is part of the show-a signal that she's an interruption, not a priority.

The officiant-a judge, not a priest, and an old friend of Lucien's father-waits to the left, hands folded, face unreadable. Lucien's lawyer stands to the right. Two witnesses sit ready at the table. The whole scene feels like a board meeting someone decorated with entirely too many orchids.

Seraphina reaches the table.

Lucien signs first.

The pen makes that crisp, expensive scratch across the paper.