The Contract Bride of Westwood

The sun filtered through the tall windows of Westwood Manor, bathing the sitting room in golden light. Melanie sat on the edge of a velvet chaise, her fingers curled around a teacup she hadn't touched. The manor was peaceful. Too peaceful. Almost unreal.

She'd been here for just a day, but it felt like another world entirely.

No whispers behind her back.

No Adrian.

No Rose.

She still wasn't used to the silence.

The day before had passed in a blur — Leo's parents arriving with warm smiles and unexpected kindness, the staff treating her with care and respect, and finally being shown to the master bedroom she would now share with Leonard Westwood.

That part still made her stomach twist.

Even now, she wasn't sure what he was thinking. Leo was… distant. But not unkind. Gentle in moments, then unreadable the next. It was like watching waves crash and recede, unsure when the calm would turn to storm.

He hadn't spoken to her much since the incident with the photo in his wardrobe. He hadn't yelled. He hadn't accused. But his sharp, "Don't touch what's mine," echoed in her mind like thunder. She hadn't asked questions. She hadn't dared.

She was a guest in his world. A wife on paper. Nothing more.

But today, she wanted to speak. She needed to.

Melanie stood and walked through the marble hallway until she reached the study. The door was slightly ajar, and she could see Leo inside — seated behind an imposing desk, dark hair slightly tousled, sleeves rolled up, fingers typing briskly on his laptop.

He looked like the man the tabloids called a shark. Cold. Calculating. Brilliant.

Yet something about the curve of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, made her pause. She wondered what he looked like when he wasn't carrying the weight of empires on his back.

She knocked softly.

He looked up. His eyes briefly softened, then turned unreadable again. "Yes?"

Melanie stepped in. "Can we talk?"

He leaned back in his chair, closing the laptop. "You don't need to ask permission to speak."

"I know," she said quietly, walking closer. "But I wasn't sure if you were busy."

"I always am," he said. "But go on."

She hesitated. "There's something I want to do. Something I stopped doing a long time ago."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I used to study fashion design," she said, her voice firmer than she expected. "Before… everything. I gave it up when Rose started too. Our parents said there was only room for one 'designer' in the family. So I let it go."

Leo's expression didn't change.

Melanie's fingers twisted together. "I want to go back to it," she continued. "It's something I love. Not for business. Not for money. Just for me."

For a moment, he didn't respond. He stood and walked to the tall window, hands in his pockets, back to her.

Then he asked, "Do you always give up what you want for other people?"

The question cut deeper than she expected. Melanie looked down at her hands.

"I did," she said after a pause. "I was taught to. That being good meant being quiet. That letting go was the same as being strong."

She looked up, her eyes shining just a little. "But I'm tired of shrinking."

He turned toward her again, something unreadable in his eyes.

"Then stop doing that."

She blinked.

"If you want to design, do it," Leo said. "I didn't marry a puppet. I married you."

Melanie's heart skipped. The way he said you held weight she didn't understand.

Still, her voice shook slightly. "You're… okay with it?"

He stepped closer. "I didn't bring you here to trap you, Melanie. You're free to live. As long as you follow the contract."

There was the chill again. Warmth, then cold.

Melanie stood slowly, facing him. "I don't want special favors."

"I'm not offering any," he said.

But he was. She could feel it. In the way he looked at her. In the silence that stretched between them, thick with something unnamed.

Leo took a step back, as if remembering himself. "If you need a recommendation, I can have someone call Harrington's Institute."

Melanie's eyes widened. "That's the best fashion school in the country."

"I know."

Her throat tightened. "You'd do that for me?"

He looked away. "Don't read into it."

But she already had.

Melanie left the study feeling lighter… and heavier. Her heart beat too fast, her thoughts scattered.

She didn't understand this man. One moment he seemed to see her. Really see her. The next, he shut her out with ice.

As she walked back to the bedroom — their bedroom — a memory surfaced. She remembered sneaking a sketchbook under her covers as a teenager, drawing long after midnight. Once, she'd drawn a wedding gown with feathered sleeves and lace roses stitched into the hem. She had wanted to wear it on her big day.

Now, she was married. But the gown had never been hers. The dream had never been real.

She paused at the door. That picture… the one she'd nearly seen. A flash of Leo smiling with a woman. She hadn't been sure, but something inside her whispered it mattered.

Was that woman the reason he was so guarded?

And why did she feel like the woman in the photo looked… familiar?

Melanie shook the thought off and stepped into the room. This was her life now. Her second chance. Her quiet rebellion against the world that had tried to break her.

She would take it one step at a time.

Back in her room, she opened her old sketchbook and flipped through faded designs. Her fingers paused over the one she used to call The Dream Dress. It was rough and unfinished. But so was she.

Her lips curved slightly as she traced the lines with her thumb.

Maybe… it was time to finish it.

But somewhere — far from Westwood Manor — a pair of eyes narrowed at a glowing screen, watching the news headline:

LEONARD WESTWOOD MARRIES UNKNOWN WOMAN IN SECRET CEREMONY.

The mug in the figure's hand shattered against the floor. A twisted smile curled.

"She thinks she's won," a voice whispered. "Let's see how long she lasts."

Hatred curled in the shadows.

Unaware, Melanie folded her sketchbook to her chest and stared out the window, feeling hope stir inside her.

Unaware of the storm quietly building just beyond her world.