Chapter 4 paper chains and promises

The papers crackled as Elira turned the pages of the contract, her gaze following the crisp, unforgiving lettering that defined her next twelve months—if she agreed.

Compensation: Generous monthly stipend.

Living Arrangement: Shared penthouse suite, one.

Medical Benefits: Complete family coverage for immediate.

Termination Clause: One year. No renewal unless by mutual agreement.

Clause 17: No emotional involvement.

Her mouth dry.

"This is crazy," she whispered, laying the binder aside with a soft touch.

Caelan hadn't budged. His stance remained taut, angular—like a man constructed on deadlines and nothing but deadlines. "You can say no."

"But you know I won't," she spat.

His jaw worked. "I figured that probability."

Of course he had. The guy didn't appear to do anything without figuring out every angle beforehand.

. She walked away from him, toward the city scene that glittered outside the glass wall. The view was lovely—untouchable. Much like this existence.

Much like him.

“You think money is enough to erase everything weird about this?” she asked softly.

“No,” Caelan said. “But necessity often buries hesitation.”

That line felt like it was written just for her. Necessity. Her mother’s failing kidneys. The growing debt. The aching guilt that no matter how hard she worked, it would never be enough. Not fast enough.

She hated how right he was.

She turned to him. "What then when I sign?"

"You move in. Tomorrow. We do some public appearances. A dinner here. A gala there. You'll be given everything you require—wardrobe, styling, car, security."

Elira snorted. "I'm not some doll that you dress up.

"I didn't say you were," he answered. "But the press is a different animal. If I'm going to sell the fiction of a legitimate marriage, we both have to pretend."

"And if I stumble?" she asked. "Say the wrong thing, wear the wrong shoes, sneeze in public?"

Caelan's eyes went black, but his voice was silky. "Then we adjust. I don't care about perfection, Miss Cruz. I care about efficiency."

Cold, hard, calculating. That was Caelan Ferrer.

And yet—she didn't leave.

Instead, she said, "What if I quit halfway through?"

"You won't."

"But if I do?"

He regarded her, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Then you lose all payment. Medical benefits cease. And you'll have signed a non-disclosure agreement so tight, even your grandkids will be bound by it legally.

The weight of the binder in her arms felt heavier now. She imagined telling Leni this over a phone call. “Hi Ate, I’m marrying a billionaire for mom’s dialysis. Don’t worry, it’s purely transactional.”

She imagined her mother in a clean, quiet hospital room. No more shared beds or waiting hours for a worn-out doctor. Real medicine. Real care.

All bought by a fake marriage.

She sat back down. "Do I have a lawyer?"

"Absolutely," Caelan replied. "Pick one of your own, or we can suggest someone unbiased. No pressure."

"You say that like there isn't already a noose around my neck."

"Paper chains," he said. "You can leave whenever you want. But you won't."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Stop being so confident about me."

But even she couldn't pretend anymore.

She glanced over at the contract. "One year," she whispered.

"One year," he echoed. "Nothing else."

"No intimacy?"

"No expectations. I don't want a romantic charade."

"And then, after the year, you'll vanish?"

"Just as I discovered you," he agreed.

It was all so cold. So professional. And yet, beneath the surface, the hum of something else vibrated softly, something unnamed. A hidden past. A specter named Matteo.

She stretched out for the pen that sat patiently next to the folder, her hands shaking a little.

"Elira," Caelan interrupted abruptly. "You don't have to sign it today."

She hesitated. "But you want me to."

"Yes."

He didn't bother to hide it. Didn't prevaricate. He wasn't a man given to wasting words or time.

She set the pen down on the table.

"I'll think about it tonight," she said at last. "One night. That's all I ask."

He nodded once. "Tomorrow, then."

---

Later that Night

Elira came home late after dark. She turned off every light, dropped her bag on the floor, and sat on the edge of her thin bed. The binder was still in her arms.

A refreshing breeze crept in through the slats of the window. She heard barking dogs in the distance, a siren blaring two blocks away, the beat of her own heartbeat pulsating louder in the stillness.

She didn't weep. There were no tears remaining.

She whispered into the stillness instead, "What would you do, Matteo? What were you to me?"

She re-read every clause in the binder once more.

By 3:12 AM, her mind was made up.

Compensation: Ample monthly allowance.

Living Arrangement: Joint penthouse apartment, one.

Medical Benefits: Full family coverage for immediate.

Termination Clause: One year. No renewal except with mutual consent.

Clause 17: No emotional attachment.

Her mouth dried.

"This is insane," she breathed, setting the binder down with a gentle finger, not wanting to smudge the edges. Too neat, too tidy. The sort of paper you couldn't sob on.

Across the room, Caelan still hadn't moved. His posture was still tense, angular—like a man built on deadlines and deadlines alone. Hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes as sharp as steel. His body language did not offer an invitation, merely precision.

"You can say no," he stated, voice flat.

"But you know I won't," she sneered before she could catch herself.

His jaw worked. A muscle ticked. "I calculated that probability."

Of course he did. The man didn't appear to take a step without weighing out every possibility in advance, without backup plans A through Z.

She went away from him, her movements slow and measured, towards the huge wall of glass overlooking the cityscape. The sight was breathtaking, clean. Like a painting that you couldn't touch. A life behind glass.

Much like this one.

Much like him.

"You believe money can just wipe away all the strange about this?" she asked quietly, not glancing back.

"No," Caelan replied. "But necessity usually entombs hesitation."

That sentence—cold, clinical—seemed written just for her. Necessity. The word rang like a drumbeat in her mind.

Her mother's failing kidneys.

The mounting debt.

The eviction notice.

Leni's silence that wasn't so much silence, but sacrifice.

And the searing guilt that no matter how much she worked, it would never be enough. Not quick enough.

She despised the way he was right.

Elira looked away, then turned back to him. "What then, when I sign?"

"You move in. Tomorrow," Caelan said, his voice close to mechanical. "We'll do some public outings. A dinner here. A gala there. You'll be provided with everything you need—wardrobe, styling, car, security. You'll have a media team prep you.

She chuckled, a sharp snap of sound. "I'm not some doll you get dressed up."

"I didn't call you one," he said. "But the press isn't the same. If I'm going to sell the illusion of an actual marriage, we both have to play along."

"And what if I trip up?" she asked. "Say something wrong, wear the wrong shoes, sneeze in public?"

Caelan's eyes grew darker, but his voice was still silky. "Then we adapt. I don't care about perfection, Miss Cruz. I care about being effective."

Cold. Calculating. Clinical. That was Caelan Ferrer.

And yet—she didn't walk away.

She didn't toss the binder back in his face or call the entire thing off. She didn't yell or blame him for taking advantage of her vulnerability. Instead, she asked, "What if I quit halfway through?"

"You won't."

"But if I do?"

He hesitated. The edge of his mouth contracted—too defined to be a grin, too brief to be affection. "Then you lose all compensation. Medical coverage stops. And you'll have signed a non-disclosure agreement so tight, even your grandchildren will be bound by it legally."

Elira flinched.

The weight of the binder in her arms felt heavier now, like it had fused with the future. She imagined telling Leni this over a phone call. “Hi Ate, I’m marrying a billionaire for mom’s dialysis. Don’t worry, it’s purely transactional.”

She pictured her mother in a hospital room, clean and peaceful. No more double rounding and hours spent waiting for a doctor who barely looked up from his clipboard. Real medicine. For once, real care. Real dignity.

All purchased by an imaginary marriage.

She sat back down cautiously, the binder coming to rest on her lap like a verdict.

"Do I have a lawyer?"

"Sure," Caelan replied. "Choose one of your own, or let's recommend someone neutral. No pressure."

"You say that as if there's not already a noose around my head."

He didn't even blink. "Paper chains," he told her. "You can go any time you wish. But you won't."

She glared at him. "Stop being so sure of me."

But she recognized—down in her very bones—that he wasn't mistaken. The type of man who could dominate entire industries into concessions wouldn't throw out a proposal like this if he didn't already know the result.

Nevertheless, she urged one last time. "One year."

"One year," he repeated. "Nothing else."

"No intimacy?"

"No expectations. I don't want a romantic sham."

"And then, after the year, you'll just disappear?"

"Just like I found you," he concurred, in a chilling finality.

Everything was so cold. So professional. And yet, below the surface, something buzzed. A quiet undertow of something unnameable. Unsaid.

Matteo.

His name wafted across her brain like smoke. She couldn't think why he was here—why she remembered him now. But she did. And it hurt.

She reached out for the pen, which lay quietly beside the folder, her hands trembling slightly as she brought it back to rest.

He broke in, his tone dropping abruptly. "Elira, you don't need to sign today."

She hesitated. "But you want me to."

"Yes."

He did not lie. Did not sugar it. He was not a man who wasted words—or time.

She let the pen clink quietly to the table.

"I'll consider it tonight," she said finally. "One night. That's all I am asking."

Caelan nodded once. "Tomorrow, then."

---

Later that Night

The sky had given way to darkness already when Elira arrived home. She switched off all the lights and allowed the stillness to engulf her. Her apartment carried a whiff of old wood and laundry detergent. She removed her shoes at the entrance, let her bag fall to the ground, and sat on the edge of her thin bed with the binder still clutched in her arms.

It didn't belong here.

Its shiny black jacket seemed ridiculous against the worn walls and cracked tile floor. The low hum of the electric fan struggled to mask the sounds of the outside world—yapping dogs, the clang of a tricycle a few houses away, a howl of a siren two blocks off.

She didn't weep. Tonight, there were no tears to waste.

She breathed softly into the darkness, "What would you do, Matteo?"

She.d no idea if he would have responded, if he were real. Present. Alive.

"What were you to me?" she repeated. "A memory, or more?"

She didn't hope for a reply. The past never answered.

Elira flipped back to the binder. She re-read each clause. Each italicized sentence. Each cutting, businesslike sentence that now felt like fate in serif type.

Clause 17: No emotional involvement.

By 3:12 AM, the pen was in her hand again.

And she was decisive.