Bound by a Contract

Elena pov

The emerald Valentino gown fits like a cage, beautiful and suffocating, every breath I take feels restricted as Mrs. Winters fastens the diamond necklace around my throat and it feels exactly like a noose tightening.

"You look stunning, Mrs. Harrington," she says softly, her hands gentle on my shoulders, then she adds in a whisper.

"I'm sorry for what you're going through."

I meet her eyes in the mirror and see the pity there, the same pity I've been seeing everywhere since those photos leaked.

"Thank you, Mrs. Winters."

She squeezes my shoulder once before leaving me alone with my reflection.

The woman staring back at me is a stranger, perfectly made up, hair swept into an elegant updo, diamonds dripping from my ears and throat, but her eyes are hollow, empty, like someone drained all the life out of her and left just the shell.

I descend the grand staircase slowly, each step measured, my hand trailing along the marble bannister.

Alexander is waiting in the foyer, devastatingly handsome in his custom Tom Ford tux, all sharp lines and controlled power.

He's on his phone, laughing at something, that genuine laugh he never uses with me, he doesn't even look up when I reach the bottom.

"Alexander," I say quietly, "we should go."

He holds up one finger, still typing, still smiling at whatever response he's getting, probably Victoria or Simone or whoever he's texting tonight.

Finally he pockets his phone and looks at me, his eyes sweep over me once, cold and assessing,

"The car's waiting."

That's it, no compliment, no acknowledgment that I spent two hours getting ready, nothing.

The ride to the Bennett Charity Gala is pure torture, Alexander sits across from me in the back of the Bentley, his phone out again, texting rapidly, that smirk playing at his lips.

I watch the city lights blur past my window, try to prepare myself for the performance ahead.

"Alexander, about this morning," I start, my voice barely above a whisper, "can we at least talk about"

"What about it?" he cuts me off without looking up, his thumbs still flying across the screen, "I told you it was business, we're not having this conversation again, focus on tonight, smile, don't embarrass me."

My throat tightens, "Embarrass you? The entire city saw you leaving a hotel with another woman at three in the morning"

Now he looks at me, his gray eyes are ice, "And the entire city will see us together tonight looking perfect, that's what matters, that's what they'll remember, play your part Elena."

"My part," I repeat, my voice breaking, "is that all I am to you?

A part to play?"

"Yes," he says simply, already looking back at his phone, "that's exactly what you are, now stop talking, you're giving me a headache."

I turn away, blinking rapidly against the tears threatening to ruin my makeup, I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

We arrive at The Plaza and it's an explosion of camera flashes, paparazzi screaming questions, everyone wanting to know about the photos, about our marriage, about whether we're getting divorced.

Alexander's entire demeanor changes in an instant, he becomes the charming billionaire Manhattan knows and loves, all warm smiles and easy confidence.

He steps out first, then turns to help me from the car, his hand is gentle on mine for the cameras, his smile looks genuine.

"You look beautiful tonight, darling," he says loudly enough for the nearest reporters to hear.

I paste on my own smile, the one I've perfected over four years,

"Thank you."

His hand slides to my waist, pulling me close against his side, to everyone watching it looks loving, protective, but his fingers dig into my ribs hard enough to bruise, hard enough to remind me who's in control here.

Inside The Plaza ballroom it's all marble columns and crystal chandeliers, Manhattan's elite in their finest, champagne flowing, classical music playing.

Alexander is immediately swarmed by admirers, business associates wanting to shake his hand, beautiful women in designer gowns who laugh too loudly at his jokes and touch his arm too familiarly.

One woman, a stunning redhead in a dress that barely qualifies as clothing, actually kisses his cheek.

"Alexander, darling, I haven't seen you in ages," her eyes flick to me dismissively.

"your wife looks lovely tonight."

"She does, doesn't she?"

Alexander's arm tightens around my waist, "Elena works very hard on her appearance."

Like it's a job, like I'm a doll he dresses up for show, I want to scream.

"If you'll excuse me," I manage to say, "I need the ladies' room."

Alexander's hand catches my wrist, squeezing, "Don't be long, we have photos in twenty minutes."

I nod and escape, my heels clicking on marble floors as I practically run to the bathroom.

Inside I grip the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection, trying to remember how to breathe.

The door opens and two women walk in, society wives I vaguely recognize, they're too busy talking to notice me in the stall.

"Did you see those photos from last night?" one of them says, "how does Elena Harrington tolerate it?"

"Money obviously," the other laughs, "she was nobody before Alexander, an orphan with nothing, she's not going to walk away from that lifestyle."

"I heard he has a whole apartment in Tribeca just for his mistresses," the first one adds, "takes a different woman there every week, everyone knows about it."

"Poor thing," the second one sighs but doesn't sound sympathetic at all.

"But their marriage looks perfect

They both look happy.

She is never happy didn't you see her reaction when Alexander hold her tight. She is just there for his money.

They leave still laughing and I'm left staring at the stall door, their words echoing in my head, is that what everyone thinks? That I'm just staying for the money? That I'm pathetic enough to tolerate being humiliated repeatedly?

I fix my lipstick with shaking hands and return to the ballroom, scan the crowd for Alexander,

Find him exactly where I left him, surrounded by women, one of them has her hand on his chest now, laughing at something he said, he's not moving her hand away, or creating distance, just standing there accepting her touch like it's his right.

I feel invisible, like a ghost haunting my own life.

I escape to the bar, need something stronger than champagne, "Whiskey," I tell the bartender, "neat."

"Rough night?" a warm voice says beside me.

I turn and find myself looking at a man I don't recognize, tall, maybe six feet, kind brown eyes that actually seem to see me.

Dark hair touched with silver at the temples, he's handsome in a way that's different from Alexander, less sharp edges, more approachable, his smile is genuine.

"You could say that," I manage.

He extends his hand, "Marcus Rivera, and you look like you could use a friend."

The name registers immediately, Marcus Rivera, Alexander's biggest business rival, the man he's been trying to destroy for the past two years, I should walk away, I know I should, but something about the genuine warmth in his eyes keeps me rooted.

"I'm Elena," I say, then realize how stupid that sounds, "but you already know that."

"I do," Marcus signals the bartender, "two whiskeys, the good stuff, not whatever watered-down thing they usually serve at these events."

The bartender pours and Marcus hands me a glass, our fingers brush and I feel something I haven't felt in years, seen, acknowledged, human.

"I know who you are, Mrs. Harrington," Marcus says gently, "and I think you deserve better than what you're getting."

My breath catches, "You don't know anything about my marriage."

"I know enough," his eyes are kind, understanding, "I know you run a literacy foundation that actually changes children's lives.

I know you volunteer at St. Mary's Hospital every Tuesday, I know you're brilliant and compassionate and completely wasted on a man who treats you like an accessory."

Tears prick my eyes, "Why are you being kind to me? You're Alexander's rival."

"Maybe that's exactly why,"

Marcus smiles, "maybe I see what he's too blind to appreciate, you're remarkable Elena, and someone should tell you that."

We really talk, for the first time in four years someone asks me about my foundation, about my work, about my dreams, Marcus tells me about his own charity initiatives, about growing up poor in Brooklyn before building his empire, he makes me laugh, and I feel human again.

"Have lunch with me sometime," Marcus says, "just coffee, just conversation, you deserve to remember what it feels like to be treated like a person instead of a possession."

Before I can respond a hand clamps down on my shoulder so hard I gasp, pain shooting through my arm, Alexander's voice is pure venom, "Rivera, walk away from my wife.

Marcus doesn't flinch, doesn't look intimidated at all, "I was just complimenting Mrs. Harrington's charity work, we should collaborate sometime," he pulls a business card from his pocket, hands it to me, "call me if you ever want to discuss the literacy initiative, Elena."

Alexander's fingers dig deeper into my shoulder, "She won't be calling you."

Marcus's smile is gentle, directed at me not Alexander, "Let her decide that, Harrington."

He walks away and Alexander leans down, his mouth right at my ear, to anyone watching it looks intimate, loving, but his words are poison.

If I ever see you talking to him again I will make your life a living hell, and trust me Elena it can get so much worse than it already is, now smile and walk with me, we have photos to take."

His hand slides from my shoulder to my waist, gripping tight enough to leave marks, he pulls me through the crowd, all smiles for the cameras while his fingers bruise my skin.

And I realize with crystal clarity that I'm not just trapped in a loveless marriage, I'm trapped with a man who sees me as property, as something to control and display.

Marcus Rivera's card is still clutched in my hand, hidden in the folds of my dress, and for the first time in four years.

I think maybe there's someone out there who could show me what it feels like to be treated with kindness.

Maybe there's a way out after all.