Chapter 3: The Arranged Marriage

The café is closing when Father tells me about Damien Wolfe.

I'm wiping down the last table, my back aching from a twelve-hour shift, when Father appears in the doorway. He never comes to the café after hours. The fact that he's here at all makes my stomach knot with anxiety.

"We need to talk," he says, not bothering with pleasantries. "About your future."

I set down the dishrag, trying to read his expression. Six years of working here—six years since he pulled me from school—and I still can't predict what he wants from me. "What about it?"

"There's a man. Damien Wolfe. Very successful—owns a commercial real estate development company. He's looking for a wife."

The words don't register at first. I stare at him, waiting for the punchline. "I'm sorry, what?"

"His father and I have been in discussions. It's a good match. Very good for the family."

"A match?" My voice sounds distant, like it's coming from someone else. "You're... arranging a marriage? This isn't the nineteenth century, Father."

His jaw tightens. "Don't be dramatic. It's a practical arrangement. He needs a wife for his business image. We need—" He stops himself, but I can fill in the blank. Money. They always need money.

"No." The word comes out smaller than I intended. "No, I'm not—"

"You're twenty-two years old. You work in a café. You have no education, no prospects. When are you planning to do better than this?"

The unfairness of it steals my breath. I have no education because he took it from me. I work in a café because he forced me to. And now he's using my lack of options—options he destroyed—as justification for selling me to a stranger.

"I could go back to school," I say desperately. "I've been saving—"

"Your savings won't cover a semester, and you know it." He crosses his arms. "This is an opportunity. Damien Wolfe is wealthy, established. Handsome, from what I understand. You should be grateful."

There it is. The phrase that poisons everything.

"I don't want to marry a stranger," I whisper.

"What you want is irrelevant. This marriage will secure Elena's future. The money from the arrangement will fund her art gallery, give her the start she deserves." He says it like it's obvious, like my life is naturally worth less than my sister's dreams. "Besides, you'll be taken care of. Live in a nice house, have financial security. What more could you want?"

To be loved, I think. To be asked. To matter.

But I don't say any of this. I've learned that expressing my wants only leads to lectures about selfishness.

"When do I meet him?" My voice sounds dead even to my own ears.

"Tomorrow. Lunch at Marcella's. Don't be late, and for God's sake, try to look presentable." He turns to leave, then pauses. "And smile. Men don't like women who look miserable."

---

I meet Damien Wolfe at Marcella's at precisely noon.

He's already seated when I arrive, and I spot him immediately—tall, dark-haired, wearing a suit that probably costs more than I make in three months. Handsome, just as Father promised, but in a severe way. Sharp jawline, intense dark eyes, the kind of face that belongs on magazine covers or corporate boardrooms.

He doesn't stand when I approach. Doesn't smile. Just watches me with an expression I can't read.

"You're Claire Reid." Not a question. A statement.

"Yes." I slide into the chair across from him, acutely aware of my cheap dress, my café-roughened hands. "And you're Damien Wolfe."

"Let's skip the pleasantries." He leans back, studying me like I'm a business proposal he's considering. "I assume your father explained the situation."

"He said you need a wife."

"I need the appearance of stability. My father's firm is merging with a family-oriented investment group. Being married improves my image, makes me look settled. Trustworthy." He says it clinically, like he's describing a marketing strategy. "In exchange, your family receives a substantial financial settlement. Your sister's art gallery will be fully funded, I understand."

Of course. Elena's gallery. Always Elena.

"And what do I receive?" The question escapes before I can stop it.

His eyebrow raises slightly. "Financial security. My name. Access to social circles you'd never reach otherwise. A lifestyle most women would envy."

But not love, I notice. Not partnership. Not even basic companionship.

"I see." I fold my hands in my lap to hide their trembling. "And if I say no?"

"Your father indicated that wouldn't be an issue." Something flickers in his eyes—not quite pity, but close. "But if you did refuse, I'd simply find someone else. Your father's debts, however, would remain your family's problem."

The threat is unspoken but clear. Father's café has been struggling for years. Elena's expenses are endless. Mother's "medical issues" are expensive. They need this money. And I'm the currency they're spending to get it.

"How long would this arrangement last?" I ask quietly.

"The contract specifies a minimum of five years. After that, we can revisit terms." He signals the waiter, orders wine without asking my preference. "I'm not looking for romance, if that's what you're worried about. I need a wife for social functions, charity events, business dinners. Someone presentable who understands discretion."

"Discretion?" My stomach turns. "You mean you'll have other—"

"I mean I value my privacy. What happens outside of public appearances is not your concern." He meets my eyes directly. "I won't interfere in your life, and I expect the same courtesy. We'll maintain separate bedrooms, separate schedules. Think of it as a business partnership with shared real estate."

The wine arrives. I don't touch mine.

"Don't expect romance," Damien continues, his tone matter-of-fact. "Don't expect emotional support or companionship beyond what's necessary for appearances. I'm offering financial stability and social status in exchange for your cooperation at events. That's the extent of our relationship."

I should walk out. Should tell Father to solve his own problems, to leave me out of his schemes. But where would I go? I have $3,000 in savings, no degree, no prospects beyond serving coffee for minimum wage. And if I refuse, who knows what Father will do? Kick me out? Cut me off entirely? Use my guilt over Elena's lost opportunities to make my life even more miserable?

I'm trapped, and Damien Wolfe knows it.

"I'd like to think about it," I say finally.

"You have until Friday. The contract needs to be signed by the end of the month if we want to proceed with the timeline." He checks his watch—expensive, probably Swiss. "I have a meeting at two. Was there anything else?"

Yes, I want to scream. Everything else. What about love? What about partnership? What about building a life together instead of performing one?

But I swallow the questions and shake my head. "No. Nothing else."

He stands, drops cash on the table for a lunch I barely touched. "Your father has my contact information. Let him know your decision."

And then he's gone, leaving me alone with an untouched glass of wine and the sinking realization that my life is about to become a transaction.