HIS PAST: HIS BRIDE

“Do you, Annabella Alex, take Derek Addams as your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, till death do you part?” the reverend asked, his voice echoing softly through the chapel.

“Yes, I do,” I whispered.

That single reply sealed my fate.

“I’ll make the payment for your surgery tomorrow, so they can schedule you for next week,” I say, stirring my mom’s tea carefully until the faint smell of ginger fills the air.

Her lips curve into a weak smile. “Oh my, how did you raise that much money so quickly?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

From the tone of our conversation, anyone can tell where we are; the hospital and we’ve been here for seven long months. Seven months of staring at fading white paint, listening to the rusty squeak of the old metal bed each time she shifts, breathing in that constant blend of antiseptic and something I’ve come to recognize as quiet despair.

She was diagnosed too late. Breast cancer, the kind that gives no warning and leaves no mercy and surgery is her only chance now.

And when my father found out, he did what he does best, he ran. Just one month into her treatment and he packed up and left, only to reappear occasionally when he needs money. Each time, he feeds her soft lies until she feels guilty enough to help him.

But I can’t afford to hate him right now. I can only focus on Mom.

Looking at her, her frail frame, her sharp collarbones pressing against thin skin, the hollow space beneath her cheekbones and I feel something inside me twist. The woman lying in that bed barely resembles the mother who once danced around our small kitchen, humming to the radio while making pancakes every Sunday.

I help her sit up and pass her the cup. Her hands tremble as she takes it, and the sight hurts more than I can admit.

“Have you seen your dad recently?” she asks suddenly, her eyes searching mine.

I swallow hard and lie. “Yes. He comes home often.”

She nods slowly, pretending to believe me, though her eyes say otherwise.

“And food?” she continues. “How are you managing with all those late nights at work?”

“Oh, I just order in,” I answer quickly, forcing a small smile.

The truth? I can’t even remember the last decent meal I had. I work overtime to pay bills, skip lunch breaks, and stretch every cent I earn and most nights, I come home too tired to eat anything more than dry biscuits.

Before I can get lost in my thoughts again, my phone buzzes on the side table. The name flashing on the screen sends a jolt of panic through me.

Mr. Addams.

My boss.

My heart jumps to my throat as I pick up the call.

“Hello?”

“Miss Alex,” his deep, commanding voice fills my ear, calm but sharp. “Where is the Rek’s proposal file I asked you to drop on my desk this morning?”

“I…I dropped it beside the Dryage proposal, sir, on the right-hand side of your desk,” I reply quickly.

A pause.

Then, in that unnervingly steady tone he uses when he’s about to explode, he says, “Your visiting hour is over. You’ll attend the Rek’s meeting with me. Be here in fifteen minutes.”

“Sir, I”

“Your time starts now.”

The line goes dead.

My pulse thunders. I turn to Mom and force a small smile. “I have to go.”

She sighs softly. “Work again?”

I nod. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

“Be careful, sweetheart.”

I squeeze her hand, kiss her forehead, and rush out before the tears forming in my eyes have a chance to fall.

Outside, the afternoon sun is blazing, and the air is heavy with dust and car exhaust. A bus would take at least twenty minutes, maybe more with traffic before it get here and I can’t risk it. Not with him. So I run.

I run through the busy streets, dodging people, my heartbeat thudding in my ears and by the time I reach the office building, sweat clings to my back, my chest heaving. I check the time.. sixteen minutes.

I barely step through the glass doors before his voice cuts across the room.

“Miss Alex, my office. Now.”

Every head in the open office turns. My coworkers exchange quick, sympathetic glances before pretending to return to their screens. They know exactly what that tone means.

I smooth my wrinkled blouse, inhale deeply, and step into his office.

The first thing that hits me is the scent of rich pine and something darkly expensive and the room is sleek, minimal, and intimidatingly perfect. Every surface gleams and the paintings on the wall are probably worth more than my entire life savings.

He sits behind his desk, his back straight and eyes glued to his laptop. His dark suit is crisp, his hair perfectly styled, his expression unreadable.

“Take a seat, Annabella,” he says finally, his voice low and deliberate.

I freeze for a second. He’s never called me that before, It’s always Miss Alex.

Something about the way my full name sounds in his voice makes my stomach twist.

I sit down slowly, clutching my bag on my lap.

He closes his laptop and looks up and finally our eyes meet, his, cold and gray, and mine is probably wide with panic.

The silence stretches for what feels like forever. Then, he says it.

“Marry me.”

The words hit me so hard I forget how to breathe.

For a second, I’m sure I heard wrong.

“I’m… sorry, what?” I manage to whisper.

He doesn’t blink and just repeats it

Just like that. Calm and collected, simple and very terrifying.

My brain stops working. The world around me goes quiet, the sound of my own heartbeat loud in my ears.

Did my arrogant, perfection-obsessed boss, the same man who criticizes how I arrange his files, just propose marriage to me?

He stares at me, waiting for a response. But I have none.

Because at that moment, all I can do is sit there, my mouth slightly open, staring at the man who just turned my entire life upside down with two words.

“I'm sorry sir but what do you mean marry me?”I ask, brows slightly folded

'I need a wife and you fit the bill’ he replies arrogantly.

‘I'm sorry sir but…’