Wife To My Father's Enemy

If someone had told me I'd be marrying a man twice my age to save my father's crumbling empire, I would have laughed. Not because it was impossible-but because it sounded like something out of one of those overly dramatic European soap operas my mother used to watch. The ones where the women cried pretty and the men stared blankly out of windows with wine glasses in their hands.

But here I was, sitting across from Damien Volkov, the man my father called the devil himself, about to become his wife.

I didn't cry prettily. And Damien didn't bother with a wine glass. He just signed the contract with a Montblanc pen, as if he were buying out another company-not a girl who hadn't even finished her second year of college.

"You don't have to look so scared," he said without looking up. His voice was low, almost bored.

I flinched.

His accent was British with something darker beneath-Russian, maybe. Cold, clipped syllables that didn't quite match the way he stared at me earlier during the negotiations: like I was something to be assessed, used, then shelved away.

"I'm not scared," I said, even though my hands trembled in my lap.

He finally looked up. Grey eyes. Ice and steel.

"You should be," he replied simply, then passed the pen across the table.

It paused right in front of me.

Everything inside me screamed. But when I turned to my father, Jean Moreau, he wouldn't even meet my eyes. He was too busy watching Damien, as if still trying to calculate if he could back out. As if there was any other option left.

"Sign, Elena," my father muttered, rubbing his forehead. "Let's get this over with."

My throat closed up, and I could barely hold the pen steady. My name looked foreign as I scrawled it across the bottom of the agreement:

Elena Genevieve Moreau.

Daughter of a fallen tycoon.

Now property of Damien Volkov.

---

48 Hours Earlier

I was in Milan, sipping overpriced espresso and flirting with Luca Bellamy, my best friend since we were kids. He was the kind of man my father would have approved of-charming, age-appropriate, and loaded with fake promises and real smiles.

"Elena, you're avoiding my question," Luca said, leaning forward. "Why haven't you come back to Paris?"

"Because Paris reminds me of everything I'm trying to forget," I said flatly. "And besides, fashion week in Milan is less... suffocating."

Luca smiled, but there was something heavy in his eyes. "You mean your father's bankruptcy? Or the man suing him for everything he owns?"

I went quiet.

He sighed. "I'm worried about you."

"You don't need to be," I lied.

But I should've known something was wrong when my father called that night and told me to come home immediately. He didn't explain, and I didn't ask.

---

Back to Present

After the contract was signed, the lawyer left. My father mumbled something about needing a drink and disappeared too.

It was just me and Damien now. Silence hovered like fog in the private lounge of the Geneva penthouse where the papers were finalized. The windows looked out over the city like glass eyes. Cold. Detached. Beautiful.

"So," I said, trying to break the silence, "do I move in tonight, or is there a grace period before I become Mrs. Volkov?"

His lips twitched. Not quite a smile-more like a warning.

"We're flying to Monaco in the morning. My estate has more privacy."

"Privacy for what?" I asked, my voice sharp.

Damien didn't flinch. "For everything you'll hate, Elena."

A shiver passed down my spine.

---

Monaco

The Volkov estate in Monaco was exactly what I expected: cold marble, expensive art, and staff who looked at me like I'd invaded their temple.

Damien didn't walk beside me. He walked ahead, already on a call, discussing stocks and losses and hostile takeovers.

I was shown to a separate bedroom-opulent but impersonal. Like a suite in a five-star hotel that never truly belonged to anyone.

That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept staring at the wedding band on my finger. Platinum. Custom-cut. Probably worth more than my college tuition.

At midnight, I heard a knock.

It wasn't Damien. It was Anastasia Volkov, his mother.

Tall. Blonde. Cold.

She walked in like she owned the air I was breathing. "You're prettier than I expected," she said in a clipped tone, her Russian accent more pronounced than her son's. "Too bad that won't matter."

I stood, unsure whether to greet her or defend myself.

"I know why you're here, Elena," she said, circling the room like a wolf. "You think if you play your role well enough, you'll win his heart. Let me spare you the humiliation-Damien has no heart left."

"I'm not here to win anything," I replied. "I didn't ask for this."

Anastasia's eyes narrowed. "Then leave before you ruin what's left of him."

She walked out without waiting for a response.

---

Day Two of the Marriage

Damien didn't show up for breakfast.

At lunch, I sat alone at a long table that could seat twenty. I asked the butler-an old man named Marcel-if Damien was avoiding me.

He smiled politely. "Mr. Volkov is often busy. You will get used to his routine."

By dinner, I was pacing. Furious. Confused.

And then-finally-he showed up.

Wearing a charcoal suit, tie undone, sleeves rolled up. He looked like sin dressed in designer threads.

"Nice of you to visit your wife," I said dryly.

He ignored me, pouring himself a drink. "You'll find this arrangement works better when we stay out of each other's way."

I marched over. "No. That's not how this is going to go."

He raised a brow. "No?"

"I'm not some contract you filed away. I'm a human being. If I'm going to be stuck here, you're going to treat me like one."

Damien stepped closer. Close enough that I could see the shadows under his eyes. "You have no idea what you've signed up for, Elena."

"Then tell me."

His jaw clenched. "You don't want to know."