Chapter 3 - The proposal.

A L Y S S A

“W-What?” I whisper, my throat dry as dust.

“You heard correctly,” Mr Valentino says, leaning back, eyes never leaving mine. “This is not a job interview, Miss Hart. It’s a proposal.”

A proposal.

It feels like some twisted joke. Like, there are cameras hidden in the walls, and someone’s going to jump out and yell "Gotcha!" any second now.

“Why?” It’s all I can manage to say, because none of this makes sense.

Mrs Valentino’s lips curve into too calculated to be a smile. “Because you need money. And we need a wife for our son.”

The chill that runs down my spine is like ice water. “But... you don’t even know me.”

“We know enough,” Mr Valentino replies, his tone calm, factual. Like this is math, not madness. “Your mother is sick. The bills are overwhelming. You’ve exhausted every option. But you haven’t given up. That makes you... suitable.”

My fingers curl against the armrests of my chair, digging in hard just to keep myself steady. Suitable. Like I’m being measured for parts.

“This isn’t real,” I whisper, barely hearing myself over the pounding in my ears.

“It’s very real,” Mrs Valentino says. Her voice doesn’t waver. “We’ll pay off all your mother’s medical expenses. In return, you will marry our son, Stephano.”

Stephano.

When I was researching them, I didn't even think to look into them having any children.

I wasn’t expecting this. I wasn’t expecting any of this. My head feels too full, my chest too tight.

Do they really want me to marry their son?

I force myself to speak, even though my voice shakes. “And... what happens after?”

Mr Valentino doesn’t hesitate. Not even a second. “The contract lasts two years. You provide an heir. After that, you’re free.”

An heir.

Not a wife. Not a partner. Just a vessel.

My heart thunders. I should get up. I should walk out. Laugh in their faces and slam the door behind me.

But I don’t.

Because Mom is dying, and every other door is locked shut.

My voice cracks when I finally manage, “I... I need time. To process... to think...”

“You have until 4 PM this afternoon to decide if you don't decide now.” Mrs Valentino says, her words clipped, final. “After that, the offer expires.”

This afternoon. Meaning I have hours to decide if I’ll sell myself to the Valentinos...

After that, she places an envelope on the table and slowly slides it across to me. The folder sits on the table between us like a loaded gun; thick, dark, ominous, and I don’t touch it. Not yet.

I can feel their eyes on me. Mrs Valentino looks at me with calm detachment, like she already knows how this ends, while Mr Valentino leans back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, curiosity and focus clear on his face.

“There are, of course, conditions,” Mrs Valentino says.

Of course there are. There’s always a catch.

I lean back slightly, bracing myself for whatever comes next, remaining silent as I wait for her to go on.

“You will be married to our son, Stephano Valentino, by the end of this week. The ceremony will be private. Legal. No press.”

My head spins. This week? Married? I blink at her, trying to process the words. “This week?”

Mrs Valentino doesn’t flinch. “There’s no time to waste. He will agree to the terms. You don’t need to concern yourself with his opinion.”

His opinion. As if it’s irrelevant. As if the man I’m supposed to marry doesn’t even get a say. I can’t tell if that makes me more insulted or more terrified.

“You will live with him in the Valentino estate in Eastcliff,” Mr Valentino continues, unfazed. Her tone is smooth, businesslike. “Your sole purpose for the duration of the two-year contract is to produce an heir or two. Preferably a male heir. Once that’s accomplished, your obligations will be considered fulfilled.”

My voice scrapes up from somewhere dry and small. “And then what?”

“You’ll be released from the contract with a full financial settlement,” Mr Valentino answers. His voice is softer this time, but it doesn’t make the words any less heavy. “We’ll also set up a trust to cover your mother’s lifelong care, regardless of whether she recovers.”

My throat is tight, and my mouth is dry. “And if I can’t… have a child? Or if I due, and it's not a male...? And what will happen to the child afterwards?”

Mrs Valentino exhales deeply, her eyes deeply focused on me. “Stephano is twenty-seven. Young, healthy. The assumption is that the issue would not lie with him. As long as you produce a child for him, the deal will still stand. The child will become a Valentino. And so he will remain with his father. Whether or not you would like to leave or stay.”

The implication stings, sharp and humiliating.

Mr Valentino cuts in, gentler. “We won’t force artificial means. But if two years pass and no child is conceived, the contract ends. No penalty. However, the trust for your mother would not be renewed.”

I swallow hard, trying to process that. “So it’s a baby or nothing.”

“Precisely.” He answers, and the words sit like lead in my chest.

I look down at the folder again, but still don’t open it. My thoughts are racing, overlapping, tangling together. None of this feels real.

Mrs Valentino closes her own copy of the file and folds her hands neatly. “You’re being offered a clean escape from drowning, Miss Hart. We are not asking for your love. We’re asking for your cooperation.”

“And compliance,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

A flash of amusement passes over Mr Valentino’s face. “You’ll find we’re not as controlling as our reputation suggests. So long as you hold up your end, your freedom within our home is your own.”

Home. As if I’ll ever feel at home in a place like that.

“As for tonight,” Mrs Valentino says, standing, “a car will be sent to pick you up at six. Someone will come to help with your hair, your makeup-...”

“That won’t be necessary,” I interrupt.

The room goes quiet. My words seem to echo against the glass walls.

Mrs Valentino raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t need a stylist,” I say, more firmly this time. “If I’m going to meet your son... this man I’m apparently marrying, I’d rather he meet me, not some polished version of me your staff puts together,” I answer, my voice shaky, but still I don’t look away.

Mr Valentino considers me carefully. “He will judge you regardless.”

“Let him,” I say, surprising even myself.

The Valentinos exchange a look.

Curiosity passes between them, then Mrs Valentino gives the smallest of nods. “Very well. No stylist. But the car still comes at six.”

“I don’t even know what he’s like,” I mutter, my curiosity getting the best of me.

“He’s... complicated, our boy,” Mr Valentino says, matter-of-fact. “He doesn’t want this. But he knows the cost of disobedience.”

“And what does that mean?” I ask slowly.

“It means,” Mrs Valentino says, “you are not his prisoner. But you are not his partner either. This arrangement is not romantic, and knowing Stephani, it most likely never will be.”

I look down again. This time, my fingers brush the folder.

None of this feels real.

It feels like a dream I’m going to wake up from. Or a nightmare.

"Open the envelope." Mr Valentino then instructs, then I look down at the table and slowly pick it up from the desk. It's a small envelope, rectangular, and feels somewhat heavy. I slowly open it, my eyes widening as soon as I see what's inside.

Money.

"That's $5,000. Cash." Mrs Valentino informs me, and I look back at them with nothing but disbelief...