The next morning arrived too still—too calm for Jasmine's liking. The city buzzed outside the penthouse, its rhythm steady, but inside the apartment, something had shifted. Jasmine felt it in her bones.
Lucien had been on the phone since dawn, his voice low, clipped, professional. He didn't say it aloud, but she knew—it was about the leak. Whoever had broken the walls of their private world hadn't done so randomly. This wasn't a jealous ex or a gossip columnist sniffing for scandal.
It was targeted.
Strategic.
Personal.
And Jasmine had a sinking feeling it had only just begun.
---
Later that afternoon, she found herself alone in the art studio. The room, filled with half-finished canvases and the lingering scent of oil paint, felt like a sanctuary.
She stood in front of the newest piece—something abstract, chaotic, and dark. Splashes of black and red streaked across the canvas like battle wounds.
Jasmine picked up a brush and dipped it into white paint. Slowly, she began to work a light through the center of the mess.
"I never knew you painted like this," a voice said behind her.
She turned to see Henri Leclair—Lucien's father.
He was leaning against the doorframe, sharp in a charcoal coat, eyes like chips of ice. His sudden presence made her chest tighten.
"Henri," she said cautiously. "I didn't know you were in the city."
"I flew in this morning. I like to check in when my son's name starts trending for the wrong reasons."
Jasmine crossed her arms. "If you came to accuse me, save your breath."
Henri stepped inside. "You've made quite the impression, Jasmine. Lucien's different with you."
She frowned. "That sounds almost like a compliment."
"It's not. Love is dangerous for men like him. It softens the edge."
"Maybe he doesn't need to be on the edge anymore."
Henri studied her for a long moment. "You're clever. Strong-willed. I can see why he married you."
"Is there a reason you're here?"
Henri walked to the window. "Do you know how I built Leclair Global?"
"I imagine it wasn't through kindness."
He smirked. "Correct. I built it by understanding leverage. Power. The ability to bend people's will."
Jasmine stiffened.
Henri turned. "Don't let your heart get in the way, Jasmine. This marriage, no matter how real it's starting to feel… is still a contract to the rest of the world. And contracts can be broken."
She met his gaze with steel in her eyes. "Then maybe it's time the world changed."
Henri gave a low chuckle, but something in his expression darkened. "Be careful. You're in a den full of wolves. And not all of them wear fangs on their faces."
---
That night, Lucien found her pacing in the living room.
"He came to see you, didn't he?" he asked quietly.
She stopped. "He came to remind me that this world you live in is ruled by power. That love is weakness."
Lucien sighed and sank into the couch. "That's what he believes. Always has."
"And what do you believe?"
He looked at her. "I used to believe him. But now... I'm starting to think love is the only thing that isn't a game."
She sat beside him. "He's planning something, Lucien."
"I know. That's why I need you to trust me. Things are going to move fast now. And some of them might not make sense."
"Are we in danger?"
He looked away. "Not yet. But we're getting close to something he doesn't want found."
---
The following week was a blur.
Lucien's team tracked the leak back to a familiar name—Brenna Hale. An ambitious PR agent formerly hired by Leclair Global, recently fired for insubordination. She'd sold personal photos and documents to the press. And she hadn't worked alone.
More disturbing was what she revealed in her confession: someone higher up had paid her. A name she wouldn't give. But Jasmine had a hunch.
Henri Leclair.
It was a game of shadows, and they'd just lit a match in the middle of a forest.
---
Jasmine stood on the balcony one night, staring at the city. Rain fell in light sheets, glittering in the neon haze.
Lucien joined her, placing a warm hand on the small of her back. "There's something you should know."
She turned. "What is it?"
"I wasn't honest. About how deep this goes."
She tensed.
"My father didn't just oppose our marriage. He saw it as a threat. Not to the company—but to control."
"Control of what?"
Lucien looked away. "Me. My legacy. The board. There's a clause in my grandfather's will… one that gives me full autonomy—if I marry for love and remain married for a year."
Jasmine's eyes widened. "What?"
"He buried it in legal jargon. But my father found it. That's why he panicked when we wed."
"So if we make it to a year—"
"I get the full reins. Permanently. No oversight. No board. No strings."
Jasmine felt the ground shift under her. "And if we don't?"
Lucien's jaw clenched. "He regains control. And everything we've built falls back into his hands."
She stared at him, breath caught.
"All this time... this was never just about us."
"No," Lucien said softly. "But it is now."
---
The revelation changed everything.
What had started as a contract had grown into something real—and now, it had the power to change an empire.
But it also meant they were in a race against time.
One year.
Twelve months to stay married.
Twelve months to hold the line.
Twelve months to survive the war Henri was about to unleash.
---
Two nights later, Jasmine's studio was broken into.
No artwork was stolen, but everything was torn apart. Slashed canvases. Shattered brushes. Her entire private portfolio destroyed.
Lucien's security tightened immediately. Cameras. Guards. A silent alarm.
But Jasmine didn't cry.
She stood in the wreckage, fists clenched, heart pounding.
"You're not going to scare me," she whispered into the darkness.
"You're just proving I matter."
---
And matter, she did.
Because within days, Jasmine became a public symbol—an accidental icon. The girl who'd married the stone-hearted billionaire and softened his edges.
Interviews were requested. Magazines offered covers. Brands wanted her face.
And Jasmine—poised, gracious, but fiercely private—refused them all.
She didn't want fame.
She wanted truth.
---
Lucien watched her grow stronger. More confident. He watched the fire in her sharpen. And he found himself falling—again and again—into a love that felt nothing like what he'd expected and everything like what he'd needed.
"You know," he told her one night, brushing his thumb across her cheek, "if I had to marry you all over again… I would."
She smiled. "Even if I painted on your office walls?"
He chuckled. "Even if you painted them pink."
She leaned into him. "Then hold on. Because it's only going to get harder."
"I'm not afraid of hard," he whispered. "I'm afraid of losing you."
"You won't," she promised.
"Because I'm not letting go."
---and