INICIAR SESIÓNI looked up, desperation rising in my chest. With no way to repay the debt, begging was all I had left. “Please... give me a year. I’ll pay back the loan. I just need time to find—” “No. There is no time,” he cut in, his voice calm but final. “You have only one choice,” he said. “Marry me—since you didn’t bring the money to clear your family’s debts.” My throat went dry as I stared at him. “It’s simple. Marry me for one year. That’s the deal. You want your mother out of jail? You want your father not to join her after getting out of that hospital bed? This is how.” * Natasha Williams had two dreams; to become a successful doctor and start a family with the love of her life. Everything seemed perfect until her sister ran away and bailed on her arranged marriage, putting their family in a tough position. Now Natasha was the only one who could fill her shoes and save her family’s reputation, but she couldn’t abandon everything she’d worked for. But when she catches her boyfriend proposing to another woman, her whole world shatters. Heartbroken, she had no choice but to agree to the marriage proposal. Her groom, Sylvester Manson was not a man to reckon with. He was the infamous billionaire heir of the Manson empire, and all he needed was a wife to secure his inheritance. Bound by a contract marriage, their fates are intertwined, but what happens when they blur the lines between reality and fantasy? Will they be consumed by their duty or passion?
Ver másPOV Elías
Lo primero que pensé cuando la vi cruzar el umbral no fue en mi futuro hijo, ni en el milagro de la vida, ni en ninguna de esas gilipolleces que ponen en los folletos de la clínica. Lo primero que pensé fue que esa maleta iba a rayar el suelo. Y lo segundo, que ella era demasiado... ruidosa visualmente. Era una maleta rígida, de un rosa chicle ofensivo, con una de las ruedas atascada. Mara la arrastraba sin levantarla, y el plástico duro chirriaba contra la pizarra negra del recibidor. Criiiic. Criiiic. El sonido se me metió en los dientes, pero no pude dejar de mirar cómo los tendones de su antebrazo se tensaban al tirar del peso muerto. Me quedé quieto, con la mano en el pomo de la puerta abierta, aguantando las ganas de gritarle que parase. Debería haberle dicho que levantara ese trasto, que ese suelo costaba más que todo lo que ella llevaba puesto encima. Pero no dije nada. Apreté la mandíbula y cerré la puerta. El clic de la cerradura sonó como una sentencia. Estábamos encerrados. —Joder, qué vistas —dijo ella. No me miraba a mí. Miraba el ventanal de seis metros que daba a la ciudad. Dejó la maleta en medio del pasillo (bloqueando el paso, rompiendo la simetría del hall) y caminó hacia el cristal. Me quedé observándola desde atrás. Llevaba unos vaqueros gastados que se le ajustaban de una forma casi agresiva a las caderas y una camiseta de un grupo de rock descolorida. Llevaba unas zapatillas de deporte blancas, de esas abultadas, bastante sucias en la puntera. Contrastaba tanto con la pureza de mi salón que casi dolía mirarla. Era una mancha de tinta en una sábana blanca. Inevitable. —Quítate los zapatos —dije. Mi voz sonó más ronca de lo que pretendía. Retumbó en el hormigón, demasiado íntima para ser una orden. Mara se giró despacio, pivotando sobre los talones. El movimiento hizo que su pelo alborotado le cayera sobre la cara. Tenía ojeras. No ojeras de haber salido de fiesta, sino esas sombras moradas de quien vive al límite. Se mordió una piel del labio inferior antes de contestar, y mis ojos, traicioneros, se clavaron en ese gesto. —Hola a ti también, Elías. El nombre en su boca sonó raro. Demasiado familiar. Espeso. Se suponía que yo era el "Señor Vázquez", o al menos eso me había prometido el abogado. Pero ahí estaba ella, invadiendo mi espacio vital, tuteándome con una insolencia que me erizó el vello de la nuca. —Los zapatos —repetí, señalando el zapatero oculto en el panel de madera, intentando recuperar el control—. En esta casa no se entra con calzado de la calle. Es… antihigiénico. Mentira. No era por higiene. Era porque no quería que la suciedad de su mundo tocara mi santuario. Y, quizás, porque quería verla obedecer. Ella me sostuvo la mirada un segundo más de lo necesario. Tenía los ojos oscuros, inteligentes y burlones. Me escaneó de arriba abajo con la misma precisión clínica con la que yo reviso un plano. Soltó un suspiro largo, teatral, y obedeció. Se descalzó apoyándose en la pared (dejando seguramente una huella de grasa de la mano en el estuco veneciano). Primero un pie, luego el otro. Se quedó en calcetines. Uno de ellos tenía un agujero en el dedo gordo. Miré ese agujero. Miré la piel pálida de su dedo asomando por la tela rota. Miré su vientre plano bajo la camiseta ancha, sabiendo lo que iba a ocurrir ahí dentro. De repente, sentí un vértigo atroz. Un agujero en el estómago. ¿Qué he hecho? Esa chica era un desastre. Era caos. Al pasar por mi lado, me llegó una bofetada de su olor: tabaco frío, desodorante dulce y algo más... cálido, humano, piel sudada por el viaje. Un olor que se me agarró a la garganta. Yo acababa de firmar un papel para que su sangre y la mía se mezclaran. Iba a vivir aquí nueve meses. Nueve meses viendo ese agujero en el calcetín y oliendo ese perfume barato que, por alguna razón, hacía que me costara respirar. —¿Dónde duermo? —preguntó, rompiendo la tensión estática del momento. —Al final del pasillo. La puerta corredera. —¿Esa? —Señaló con la cabeza—. Parece la entrada a una nevera. —Es minimalismo. —Es gris —corrigió ella, agarrando de nuevo la maleta rosa. Me miró una última vez por encima del hombro, con esa media sonrisa torcida—. Como tú. Volvió a arrastrar la maleta. Criiiic. Otra vez el chirrido. Esta vez lo hizo a propósito, estoy seguro. Me quedé allí parado, clavado en la entrada, escuchando cómo las ruedas —y ella— se alejaban hacia la habitación de invitados. Me miré las manos. Me temblaban ligeramente. Y no era de rabia. O no solo de rabia. Fui a la cocina, abrí el grifo de agua filtrada y bebí dos vasos seguidos sin respirar, intentando ahogar la sensación de invasión. El silencio de la casa, mi precioso silencio, se había roto. Fui al recibidor, me agaché y pasé el dedo por el suelo, justo por donde había pasado la maleta. No había marca. Pero cuando acerqué la mano a la pared donde ella se había apoyado, juraría que el estuco todavía guardaba su calor.EPILOGUEAuthor’s POV.“SIX MONTHS LATER.”After giving birth to a little princess, it was finally the grand wedding.The church was filled with light that morning, the kind of soft golden glow that made everything look almost unreal. Guests spoke in hushed voices, dressed in muted elegance, their faces lit with quiet joy. After all the storms, after the trials that nearly tore them apart, the day everyone had longed for had finally come—the wedding of Sylvester Mason and Natasha Vance.Natasha stood at the back of the aisle, her arm resting in her father’s, his eyes glistening with emotions he couldn’t quite hide. On her other side, her mother smiled, clutching a bouquet identical to the one her daughter held. The soft music began, the murmurs fell silent, and Natasha took her first step forward.Sylvester stood waiting at the altar, his expression calm but deeply moved. His eyes stayed fixed on her as though every step she took erased the shadows of the years behind them. For th
Natasha’s POV.Life began to feel gentle again, like the slow rise of dawn after a long storm. I woke each morning to peace instead of fear, and to warmth instead of tension. The air in the house felt lighter. My real parents had settled in quietly, adapting to a world that had moved on while they were hidden away. It was strange watching them learn little things—how phones worked, how online banking had replaced paper bills—but it filled me with an indescribable tenderness.Mother would hum in the mornings as she brewed tea.Father liked sitting by the window, watching the trees sway, as if freedom itself was still something he couldn’t quite believe he had.They asked questions about my life, my work, and the years they had missed. It was painful to speak about some of it, but their kindness never made me feel exposed. There was no judgment, no blame, only the quiet sorrow of time that couldn’t be replaced and the deep gratitude that we were all still here.Sylvester made it his m
Sylvester’s POV.The reunion felt like something sacred. I stood quietly by the doorway, watching Natasha sit between her real parents. Dr. Richard and Mrs. Eleanor Williams held her hands like they were afraid she would vanish if they let go. The hospital room was silent except for their voices and the faint sound of machines in the background.Her mother looked fragile, her hair streaked with gray, her eyes still swollen from crying. Her father sat close beside her, the way a man does when he knows he can’t protect his wife from pain but still tries to share it. They had been through too much. Years in captivity had worn them down, but now, seeing their daughter, there was light again in their eyes.Natasha spoke softly, asking questions, trying to piece together memories that had been stolen. Every now and then, she would pause, looking lost, then force a small smile before continuing. It was as if she was holding herself together for their sake. I could see how hard she was tryi
Natasha’s POV.When Sylvester told me they had found a lead on my real parents, I couldn’t speak for a while. My thoughts didn’t form clearly. It felt like my heart forgot how to beat properly, caught between disbelief and an aching kind of hope that was too fragile to hold. For so long, I had convinced myself that there was nothing left to find. That the people who brought me into this world were gone, erased by the same cruelty that had stolen my childhood. Hearing they might still be alive shattered every wall I had built to protect myself.He sat across from me in the living room, his voice low and careful, as though saying the words too loudly might make them vanish. “They think your real parents are alive, Natasha. The agents traced records that show they’ve been kept somewhere isolated. We’re preparing to move in soon.”I looked at him and tried to understand what that meant. My real parents. Alive. The words sounded too heavy to fit in my mind. I couldn’t picture their faces,
Sylvester’s POV.The house was quiet when I returned that evening after leaving briefly to get her some supplements from the hospital. The air felt heavy, carrying a stillness that didn’t belong there. I walked through the hallway, loosening my tie, and called out for Natasha.Her voice didn’t come
Sylvester’s POV.The night was long and heavy. The weight of the truth Natasha had uncovered lingered in every corner of the house. She had cried herself to sleep, her face pale from exhaustion. I sat beside her for a long time, listening to the rhythm of her breathing, trying to make sense of what
Natasha’s POV.The house felt heavier than I remembered. Every time I came here, something inside me seemed to wither. The smell of the furniture polish, the ticking clock in the sitting room, the faint sound of my mother’s slippers against the tiled floor — all of it brought back memories that no
Carol’s POV.The silence in the room pressed against my chest like a weight I couldn’t lift. Natasha stood across from me, her eyes on the floor, her face pale but calm in that unbearable way of hers. Sylvester stood beside her, his arms folded, his expression closed off. I could see it all in his












Welcome to GoodNovel world of fiction. If you like this novel, or you are an idealist hoping to explore a perfect world, and also want to become an original novel author online to increase income, you can join our family to read or create various types of books, such as romance novel, epic reading, werewolf novel, fantasy novel, history novel and so on. If you are a reader, high quality novels can be selected here. If you are an author, you can obtain more inspiration from others to create more brilliant works, what's more, your works on our platform will catch more attention and win more admiration from readers.
reseñas