The air was thick with silence inside the bridal suite of the Volkov estate. Gilded mirrors reflected Isabella's pale face as a stylist added the final touches to her hair. Diamond pins. Pale blush. Glossed lips.
She didn't recognize the woman staring back at her.
She looked like a bride. But she felt like a prisoner.
"You're done," the stylist said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Mr. Volkov said the ceremony will start in fifteen minutes."
Isabella nodded faintly, her hands resting in her lap. Every finger was cold. Her wedding dress — custom-made, silk and lace — fit like a second skin, yet felt impossibly heavy. There was no bouquet, no bridesmaids, no music. Just a contract, a deadline, and a future she didn't choose.
The door clicked shut behind the stylist, and she was alone.
For a moment, her eyes wandered around the room — lavish but sterile. Everything in the Volkov estate was perfection, but none of it felt alive. Like Dominic himself. Polished, powerful, and emotionally dead.
She stood slowly, moving to the window.
Outside, the garden ceremony was being prepared. Rows of white chairs, elegant floral arrangements. Everything a dream wedding should have — except the dream.
A knock came at the door.
"Come in," she said automatically.
The door creaked open, and in walked an older woman in a navy blue suit. Her sharp eyes held an air of authority.
"I'm Helena," she said. "Mr. Volkov's chief of staff. I'll be handling your transition into the Volkov family."
"Transition?" Isabella echoed.
Helena nodded. "There will be media coverage. Public appearances. Dinner events. You'll be briefed on the family image and expectations. You'll wear what's chosen. Smile when told."
Isabella let out a humorless laugh. "Is there a handbook I get to memorize too?"
Helena raised a brow. "Don't be foolish. Marrying Mr. Volkov is a privilege most women would kill for."
Isabella stiffened. "Then you should've offered it to them instead."
Helena didn't answer. She simply stepped aside and gestured toward the door.
"It's time."
The garden was unnaturally quiet.
Guests — high-ranking executives, politicians, and selected press — sat with frozen smiles, whispering behind sunglasses. All of them knew this wasn't a love story. But none would dare say it aloud.
Dominic Volkov stood at the altar, perfectly composed.
His suit was jet black, his tie straight, his posture military. Beside him stood a minister. No groomsmen. No best man. Only Dominic, like a statue carved out of ice.
Isabella's steps were slow as she walked down the aisle, alone. No father to give her away. No music. Only the sound of her heels on the stone path and the weight of hundreds of eyes.
She met Dominic's gaze — unreadable, distant.
"Miss Romano," the minister began as she stepped beside him, "you come here today to unite with Mr. Volkov in the bond of marriage—"
"It's Mrs. Volkov now," Dominic cut in coldly. "Let's get on with it."
The minister blinked but continued. The ceremony was short, clinical. When it came time for vows, Dominic handed the man a folded page.
"Read this," he said.
The minister cleared his throat.
"I, Dominic Volkov, take Isabella Romano to be my wife. I vow to uphold the terms of our union, protect our public image, and provide for her needs as agreed. I offer no promises of love, nor expectations of emotion. This is a commitment of honor and obligation."
A hushed murmur spread through the crowd.
Isabella's face burned.
And yet… she said nothing.
The minister turned to her.
"Do you, Isabella Romano, take Dominic Volkov to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Her voice cracked only slightly. "I do."
"Do you, Dominic Volkov, take Isabella Romano to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
He nodded once. "I do."
"You may exchange rings."
Dominic pulled a ring from his pocket — a flawless diamond on a platinum band. He slid it onto her finger without a word, eyes never meeting hers.
She did the same with his.
It was done.
"You may now kiss—"
"No," Dominic interrupted.
The crowd froze.
"There will be no kiss," he said coolly. "The contract specifies that all intimacy is off-limits. This wedding is a legal arrangement. Nothing more."
The minister nodded awkwardly. "Very well. I now pronounce you husband and wife."
Polite applause rippled across the garden.
Isabella stood frozen, her fingers twitching at her side. A thousand cameras flashed. Reporters whispered. But all she could feel was Dominic's cold presence beside her — like standing next to a storm that hadn't hit yet.
"Smile," he murmured through his teeth.
She forced one.
The crowd began to disperse, most guests filing toward the reception area. Dominic extended his arm stiffly.
"Play your part," he said. "And we'll both get what we want."
She took it, her grip light. "You could've at least pretended. Even robots show more warmth."
He glanced down at her. "Then pretend I'm a robot."
The reception was just as lifeless as the ceremony — gourmet food, a classical quartet, perfectly calculated elegance. Dominic spoke with business associates, answering every congratulations with a curt nod.
Isabella stood near the champagne table, alone.
A few reporters tried to approach her, but Helena intercepted them with the ferocity of a trained hawk.
"You're doing well," she said to Isabella under her breath. "Just keep smiling. You're already trending."
Isabella turned to her. "Do I get a bonus for going viral?"
Helena didn't reply. She moved away, leaving Isabella to sip champagne she didn't want.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Dominic stepping out onto the stone balcony alone.
Without thinking, she followed.
The cold evening air bit at her arms. Dominic didn't turn when she approached. His gaze was locked on the horizon.
"Are you always like this?" she asked quietly. "Or do I just bring out your best?"
He gave her a sidelong glance. "You agreed to the terms, Isabella. This is not a love story. It's business."
"No," she said, stepping beside him. "It's a prison. And you're the warden."
He didn't flinch. "You think you're the only one trapped here?"
She blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He said nothing.
She studied him — the sharp cheekbones, the shadow in his eyes. He was cold, yes. But not empty.
"What's your reason?" she asked softly. "Why marry someone you don't love? You have power, money. You don't need me."
There was a long silence.
Then, finally, he said, "There's something I need to protect. The board of Volkov Enterprises requires stability. A wife. A family image. I don't trust anyone enough to give them that role permanently."
"And you trust me?"
"No," he said with a bitter smile. "I trust your desperation."
She swallowed hard. It stung — because it was true.
"I don't want your pity, Dominic."
"You won't get it."
Their eyes met. For a moment, the world fell silent. There was no crowd. No cameras. Just two broken people bound by a choice neither of them wanted to make.
"I won't make this easy for you," she said.
"I don't want easy."
A beat passed between them — like the pause before thunder.
Then he turned and walked back inside, leaving her alone in the cold.
Later that night, Isabella stood at the doorway of the master bedroom.
"Your room is down the hall," Dominic said without looking at her.
"Of course," she replied, voice laced with sarcasm. "Wouldn't want to accidentally breathe the same air while sleeping."
He didn't answer.
She turned to go — then hesitated.
"I'll play my part," she said quietly. "I'll smile, show up, and wear what you want. But you don't get to treat me like furniture. I'm not just a name on your contract."
Dominic turned slowly, something unreadable in his expression. "I never thought you were. That's why I chose you."
She stared at him for a moment longer, then walked away.
Alone in her new bedroom, Isabella sat on the edge of the bed, dress still on, hair still perfect. But inside, she felt hollow.
This was her life now.
One year.
One cold CEO.
One ironclad contract.
And somehow, against all odds, she had to survive it.
But what she didn't know — what neither of them knew — was that beneath Dominic's ice was fire. And the woman he married to keep the world away would soon be the only one who could melt him.