Chapter 2: Marry Me or Lose Her

The release clerk slid Iris's belongings across the counter, and Iris pushed the plastic bag straight back at her. Inside lay the faded sweater, the worn shoes, and the cheap watch she had worn on the day of her sentencing. The clerk sighed and crossed her arms.

"Check the order again," Iris pleaded, flattening her palms on the scratched wood. "The judge gave me years in here, and I've served a fraction of them."

"I checked the Ministry's seal, the warden's signature, and the date," the clerk snapped, shoving the bag forward again. "Somebody powerful wants you gone, Whitmore, so go before they change their minds."

"Who wants me gone?" Iris demanded.

"Ask the car outside," the clerk replied, jerking her chin toward the frosted window.

Beyond the razor wire and iron gates, a black stretch Rolls-Royce idled at the curb, its tinted windows absorbing the afternoon light. A man in a tailored grey suit and an earpiece stood beside the rear door. He stepped into Iris's path the moment she cleared the gate and pulled the door open with a sharp, formal bow.

"Miss Whitmore, I'm Owen Pierce, special assistant to Mr. Sterling," he introduced himself. "Mr. Sterling is waiting for you inside."

"I'll take the bus," Iris muttered, clutching the plastic bag to her chest.

"The bus stops outside St. Clare's Hospital," Owen observed pleasantly, "but Mr. Sterling decides who walks through its doors today. Please get in."

Iris ducked into the vehicle. The heavy door thudded shut, sealing out the prison yard, and the automatic locks engaged with a heavy click.

Across the cool leather seats, in the corner farthest from the window, a man sat with his long legs crossed and a tablet balanced on his knee. He wore a charcoal suit with the shirt collar open. Black hair fell across his forehead, and his dark grey eyes scanned the screen while his thumb scrolled.

Iris edged along the seat until her shoulder hit the door.

"Sit properly, Miss Whitmore," the man ordered without looking up. "You're shedding prison dust onto my leather."

Iris’s head snapped up at the sound of his voice. Her hand flew to the side of her neck, instinctively covering the faint, faded bruises from the hotel suite, and her breathing hitched. She leaned toward him, her eyes frantically searching his profile.

"Say that again," Iris breathed.

The man lifted his eyes from the tablet at last. "Excuse me?"

"Your voice," Iris pressed, her fingers digging into the seat. "Have we met before?"

"Every woman in this city claims she met me somewhere," he drawled, setting the tablet aside. "Save the line for men who fall for it."

"I'm asking you a real question," Iris insisted, her voice trembling.

"Kieran Sterling," he announced, watching her reaction.

"The President's son," Iris whispered.

"The son the newspapers call the President's mistake," Kieran corrected, his mouth twisting into a hard line. "Your release cost me favors with a judge, the Minister of Justice, and the warden who stamped your papers this morning."

"Why would the President's son spend favors on a convict?" Iris asked, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"Because I need a wife by sunset," Kieran answered smoothly, "and the woman I'm marrying is sitting in my car."

Iris let out a high, shaky laugh. "You're insane."

"I'm efficient," Kieran countered.

"Out of every woman in the capital, why me?"

"Because I paid for you," Kieran replied, his gaze locking onto hers, "and I collect what I pay for."

"Buy a willing bride," Iris urged, twisting to face him fully. "Half this city would sign that certificate for the chance to stand beside a Sterling."

"And half this city would sell the story to a gossip rag by Friday," Kieran countered. "My grandmother's heart gave out twice this year, and her doctors give her a short run yet. She wants a granddaughter-in-law with your surname on the papers, and she wants it before winter."

"My surname," Iris repeated, her hands twisting in her lap. "Whitmore."

"Brooks," Kieran corrected, his eyes narrowing. "Your mother's name settles an old debt in my family, and my grandmother called it in from her hospital bed."

"My mother worked as a secretary her whole life," Iris protested.

"Then ask her what she did with that life before you visit her grave," Kieran shot back.

With a flick of his wrist, Kieran spun the tablet toward her. Her mother lay on the screen in a hospital room under harsh white lights, tubes taped to her arm as a nurse adjusted an IV drip. Iris lunged forward, but Kieran yanked the tablet back out of reach.

"St. Clare's runs on money from my family's foundation," Kieran reminded her, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register. "Her surgeon, her ward, and her medication all answer directly to my office."

"You'd use a sick woman as leverage to force a wedding?" Iris cried, tears burning her eyes.

"I'd delay a sick woman's medication to get a signature," Kieran stated flatly, tapping the screen. "Owen is driving us to the marriage registry now. After the clerk stamps our certificate, you see your mother. Before that, you don't move an inch from this car."

"Let me see her first," Iris begged, her voice cracking as a tear finally slipped down her cheek. "Please. She just came out of surgery."

"The wedding comes first."

Iris threw herself at the door, yanking the handle until her fingers ached, but the master locks held fast. Outside the tinted glass, the car rolled away from the gates, carrying her deeper into a trap.

Kieran crossed his arms, watching her struggle with cold indifference.

"Finished?" he inquired quietly when she slumped back against the leather, defeated.

"You're a monster," Iris spat.

"Your mother's nurse reports to me every hour, Miss Whitmore," Kieran warned, leaning in just enough for her to feel the chill in his tone. "Choose your next words carefully for her sake."

Iris pressed her lips together, biting back a sob, and dug her fingernails deep into her palms. Kieran lifted a leather-bound folder from the seat beside him and dropped it into her lap. A sleek gold pen was clipped neatly to the marriage application inside.

"Sign it," Kieran murmured, "and your mother keeps her medication. Refuse, and you can start choosing flowers for her funeral."