Chapter 2

When Sylvie finally made it back to her tiny rental in the old quarter, it was already late at night.

She stopped in the narrow entryway, staring down at the pair of gray men's indoor slippers by her feet. They were Joe's, and they were so worn they'd lost their shape. The soles still had faint marks from when she'd mopped the floor that afternoon.

By the sink, two plastic cups—one blue, one pink—sat side by side, holding their toothbrushes. On the nightstand was the electric shaver she'd scrimped and saved to buy for him. On the clothes rack hung his jacket, washed so many times it had faded…

Every single thing in that cramped room reminded her that a man named Joe had once lived here. But she and Joe would never go back to how things were.

Sylvie's phone suddenly buzzed. Moving on autopilot, she pulled it out and saw a new message from Jonah.

"I've gotta entertain an important client tonight, and I might not make it back. Go to bed first. I'll explain everything tomorrow."

Entertain a client, huh? Or did he have to entertain Michelle? Or maybe it was the Sutton heiress he was about to get engaged to.

Sylvie couldn't believe he still had the nerve to keep feeding her the same lies after she'd already seen through his act. She rubbed at her burning eyes and typed out a short reply.

"We're over."

…

The next morning, Sylvie headed out to work like usual. Unfortunately, reality slapped her in the face even faster and harder than she'd imagined.

That morning, the owner of the herbal store stopped her at the door and told her not to come back. At noon, the owner of the food stall she helped out at settled up her pay and told her to go look elsewhere.

In the afternoon, when she rushed over to the office building where she worked as a janitor, the cleaning supervisor, Marge Lane, took her straight off the schedule.

In a single day, she lost all three of her part-time jobs.

Sylvie couldn't help herself. She grabbed Marge's arm and said, "Ms. Lane, be straight with me. Is someone out to get me?"

Marge glanced around, then lowered her voice. "Syl, my hands are tied. Word came down from the higher-ups. They said you ticked off Mr. Emerson last night, and everyone's talking about it. Anyone who hires you is basically making an enemy out of the Emersons. A tiny company like ours can't afford to take that risk."

She hurried off the moment she finished, as if she were afraid just standing near Sylvie would get her in trouble.

Sylvie stood outside the office building, chilled to the bone. Jonah had lied to her and cheated on her. Now, he wouldn't even leave her a way to survive.

She hadn't even had time to cool off from her anger when her phone started ringing off the hook. The caller ID showed the community clinic from back in her hometown. Her heart lurched, and she hurried to pick up.

"Syl, the residual toxins in your mom's system flared up again. She's been in pain all night, and she's almost dehydrated." A nurse Sylvie knew well sounded frantic on the other end. "The doctor says she needs the antitoxin immediately. If the poison hits her heart tonight, she might not make it."

Sylvie's throat tightened. "I'll buy it right now! Please, keep my mom stable for me!"

Years ago, her grandfather, Robert Hart, had run for president of the local traditional medicine association. The other candidate couldn't beat him fair and square, so he'd poisoned their family's well instead.

Robert had died with that grudge in his heart, and her father had held on for three more years before passing too.

Only Esther was left. She'd gotten the smallest dose, but it had still wrecked her health. All these years, she'd survived only because Sylvie had been keeping her going with traditional medicine and herbs.

Whenever the toxins flared up again, Sylvie had no choice but to rely on an outrageously expensive imported drug to keep Esther alive.

After hanging up, Sylvie immediately checked her bank balance. A single vial of antitoxin cost 8,000 dollars, and she had only 3,000 dollars left in her account.

Just two days ago, she'd gotten an 8,000-dollar paycheck. But Jonah had said his startup was still short on seed money. She'd wired him the entire amount without keeping a single dollar for herself.

Sylvie clenched her jaw. She scrolled through her contacts and found a number she used to have pinned to the top. She dialed it, but the line rang for a long time before disconnecting.

She drew in a deep breath and called again. On the fifth try, someone finally picked up.

She started, "Joe, give me back the money I—"

"Ms. Hart, haven't you had enough of this?" The voice on the other end wasn't Jonah's. It belonged to another man, and it was sharp with impatience. "Since you already know who Mr. Emerson is, you should know your place. Stop clinging to him like some kind of leech.

"He's having a romantic dinner with Ms. Greene and doesn't have time to deal with a woman like you who's delusional about marrying up."

"I'm not clinging to him. I just want my money back," Sylvie shouted into the phone, her voice shaking so hard she could barely get the words out. "I need it to save my mom's life! Tell him to give it back!"

The guy didn't listen to a word she said. He hung up on her.

Sylvie stood at the crowded intersection. Bodies streamed past in every direction, but it was like all the noise had cut out.

She never would've imagined that the man she'd spent five years of her life on—pouring her heart and soul into him—would turn into the sharpest, cruelest blade, driven straight into her chest.

When she was 20 years old, she came across Jonah, who'd been covered in blood and hanging on by a thread. She'd carried him home on her back and stayed up for three whole days to drag him back from the brink.

When he'd woken up and said he couldn't remember anything, she'd believed him. When she'd said she would take care of him, his eyes had gone red, and he'd promised to treat her well for the rest of his life.

When he'd said he wanted to come to Whithaven to start a business, she'd followed him here, working three part-time jobs a day and handing over every last cent she made.

If he asked for something, she never said no.

But this was all her devotion amounted to. She'd pinched every penny and given him her whole heart, only to discover that to the pampered Emerson heir, she'd been nothing but temporary amusement when he was down on his luck.

Sylvie was shaking with rage, but she forced the tears brimming in her eyes not to fall. She swore to herself that if she ever spent another cent on a man, she would crawl on all fours.

Now, her priority was Esther. She was still 5,000 dollars short for the medication.

Sylvie took a deep breath, pulled up Velma Smith's number, and called it. Velma specialized in lining up high-paying private gigs and had connections everywhere.

The moment the call connected, Velma snapped, "You've sure got nerve, calling me after pissing Mr. Emerson off! I can't risk setting you up on these gigs anymore."

Sylvie's fingers tightened painfully around her phone. "Ms. Smith, what happened last night was an accident. I know I've caused you trouble, but I really, really need money right now. Please, just help me one more time. I'll take anything—dirty work, hard work, whatever!"

There was a brief silence. In the end, Velma's resolve softened. "I do have a job that pays fast. The client's looking for someone to be his contractual wife. He wants a woman who can keep her mouth shut, toe the line, and can take care of people. If you take it, you'd better be mentally prepared. Don't stir up trouble for me again."

Sylvie closed her eyes for a moment. She'd already lost everything—Jonah had ground even her dignity into the mud. She couldn't lose Esther, too.

"I'll take it!"

…

Sylvie transferred buses twice and finally made it to the agreed cafe at 4:00 pm. When she pushed the door open, the wind chime above it gave a soft jingle.

The place was almost empty. A man sat by the window. He wore a fine-knit black sweater that set off the cool pallor of his skin. His long fingers rested lazily on the rim of his coffee cup.

He slowly lifted his gaze when he heard the wind chime jingle.

The second she saw his face, Sylvie stopped in her tracks. He was strikingly handsome. His eyes were dark and distant, and his features were as sharp as if carved from marble. He had a straight nose, and his lips were thin and unsmiling.

Even just sitting there, the quiet, unquestioned authority rolling off him made people instinctively think twice about getting close. Beside him stood a young man in a suit with a folder in his hands.

"Sylvie Hart?"

The seated man, Elliott Quinton, spoke. His low voice carried the cool, somber timbre of a cello, utterly devoid of warmth.

"That's me." Sylvie snapped out of it and hurried over. She sat down across from him, a little on edge.

Elliott gave her a brief, indifferent once-over. She wore the plainest white button-down and a pair of jeans so washed out they were almost gray, with a battered old canvas tote slung over one shoulder.

She had a soft, round face and delicate features. Her eyes were big and bright, and a few loose strands had slipped free of her messy bun. She looked clean and simple.

The faint redness at the corners of her eyes made it obvious she'd cried not long ago, but it didn't take away from her looks at all. If anything, it added a fragility that tugged at people's sympathy.

She didn't look like someone who'd come to hammer out a deal. Instead, she looked like a small, cornered animal with nowhere else to go.

The young man in the suit beside Elliott spoke up right on cue. "Ms. Hart, I'm Finn Davies, Mr. Quinton's assistant. I'll be walking you through the terms today."

Sylvie let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Not having to deal with Elliott directly took a lot of the pressure off.

Finn opened his folder and started reading in a businesslike tone.

"The contractual marriage will last for three years. During that time, you'll be expected to play your part with Mr. Quinton's family and keep everything confidential. You're also not allowed to use your status as his wife for personal gain.

"After getting married, you'll move into a designated apartment. The study, the master bedroom, and the medical room are off-limits unless you're given permission to enter.

"Mr. Quinton doesn't like people touching his things, and he dislikes people prying into his private life even more. You'll be expected to show up on call whenever you're needed."

Sylvie blinked.

Finn went on, "In addition, Mr. Quinton has a health condition that occasionally causes medical episodes. You'll be responsible for his day-to-day care. If anything happens, you'll contact his private doctor or me immediately."

Sylvie gripped the strap of her canvas bag, her palm slick with sweat. She couldn't help glancing up at Elliott. He hadn't said a word, yet the pressure rolling off him felt like a huge weight pressing down on her chest.

He suddenly looked up, and their gazes met.

Sylvie's heart lurched. She dropped her eyes at once.

Finn closed the folder and slid it across the table to her. "The rest of the terms and boundaries you need to maintain are written out in the agreement. You can take your time looking it over, Ms. Hart."

Sylvie drew in a steadying breath and flipped the agreement open, scanning through it page by page. Line after line of clauses boxed her in, but she wasn't in a position to be picky.

She only cared about one thing. "What's the pay?"