Chapter 2

The Contracted Bride

The sound of the pen scratching across the paper felt louder than it should’ve been, like a storm ripping through silence. Amelia’s hand trembled as she signed her name on the dotted line at the bottom of the blue document.

Amelia Grace Hart.

That signature marked the beginning of something she never imagined—not in her wildest nightmares. Not even when she had lain awake at night, wondering how much worse things could get. She was no longer just a desperate sister or a broken daughter. She had just signed her soul away to the coldest man she’d ever met.

Lucas Stone.

The billionaire CEO. Her ex-boss. And now—her contract husband.

She laid the pen down and looked up, her heart pounding.

Lucas, leaning against the edge of his desk, studied her with unreadable eyes. He didn’t smile. He didn’t blink. It was as though he were watching a transaction go through at the stock exchange, not agreeing to take a woman as his wife.

“Effective immediately,” he said, his tone dry. “You are no longer Amelia Hart. You are Mrs. Amelia Stone.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Was that it?

Just like that… she was someone’s wife?

No vows. No rings. No emotions.

“Do you want to know what’s expected of you?” he continued as he picked up the contract and filed it in a drawer behind his desk.

Amelia straightened her spine. “I think you made that very clear.”

“No.” His gray eyes flicked up. “Not yet.”

He circled around her like a wolf assessing its prey. “You’ll move into my penthouse tonight. You’ll attend charity galas, dinners, and every press event where I’m expected to bring a wife. You’ll smile. Laugh when necessary. Look at me like you’re in love.”

“And in return?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

He shrugged. “Your brother’s bills will be paid in full by tomorrow. Your father’s debt? Settled by the end of the week. But that’s where the kindness ends.”

She didn’t flinch.

Lucas’s voice dropped, lower, colder. “Let me make this perfectly clear. This is not a fairy tale. You’re not going to ‘melt my heart’ or ‘change me’ or whatever ridiculous fantasies you’ve picked up from watching romantic comedies. This is a business deal. Nothing more.”

Amelia clenched her jaw. “Believe me, Mr. Stone—I don’t want your heart.”

“Good,” he said, his expression unreadable. “Because it doesn’t exist.”

He walked to the door and opened it, gesturing for her to leave. “Go home. Pack what you need. My driver will pick you up at seven sharp. If you’re even a minute late, I’ll consider this contract null and void. And your family—”

“I’ll be ready,” she cut in.

His brow raised slightly at her interruption, but he said nothing more as she stepped out of his office.

She didn’t look back.

⸻

The bus ride back to her neighborhood felt like a journey across time zones.

The glitz and wealth of Lucas’s skyscraper faded into the background as the streets grew narrower, dirtier, filled with cracked sidewalks and broken streetlamps. This was her world. The one she was leaving behind.

Not forever. Just for six months.

Just six months, she told herself. Then you’re free.

She climbed the rusted stairs to the second-floor apartment and opened the creaking door. Her father was passed out on the couch, an empty bottle of gin dangling from his fingers. She gently pried it from his hand and set it on the kitchen counter.

In the bedroom, Tyler slept peacefully, the steady beep of his portable monitor pulsing in the background.

Amelia sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her fingers across his forehead.

“I got the money,” she whispered, her throat tight. “You’re going to be okay.”

He stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

Packing was simple. She didn’t own much. A few worn dresses, a tattered sweater her mother once gave her, and a photo of her family from when they were whole.

She stared at it for a moment. Her mother’s warm eyes. Her father’s pride before the lawsuits ruined him. Tyler’s wide smile.

She didn’t know if she’d ever see that version of her family again.

A knock at the door startled her.

It was seven o’clock sharp.

Lucas’s driver stood outside, dressed in all black, holding the back door of a sleek black Rolls Royce open for her.

“Mrs. Stone,” he said politely.

The title made her stomach twist.

⸻

Lucas’s penthouse was nothing short of a palace in the sky.

Amelia had never seen ceilings that high or windows that wide. The city glittered below like a bed of stars, and every piece of furniture screamed luxury—glass, marble, leather. The living room alone was larger than her entire apartment.

A tall, elegant woman approached her with a clipboard and a cold smile.

“I’m Marsha. I manage Mr. Stone’s affairs. Including his home.” Her voice was crisp, her tone unwelcoming. “Your room is down the hall, last door on the left. Mr. Stone prefers to keep separate bedrooms for now.”

“For now?” Amelia asked.

The woman raised a brow but didn’t answer.

Instead, she led Amelia down a pristine hallway lined with expensive paintings and opened the door to a guest bedroom. The walls were white. The bedding untouched. It felt like a five-star hotel.

Marsha handed her a list. “These are your scheduled public appearances. You’ll be accompanied by a stylist tomorrow to adjust your… presentation.”

The insult was subtle but sharp.

Without waiting for a response, Marsha left.

Amelia sat on the edge of the massive bed and buried her face in her hands.

She was drowning in silk sheets and suffocating on marble floors.

⸻

Later that night, Amelia stepped into the kitchen in search of water.

Lucas stood by the balcony, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, a drink in hand. The city lights behind him painted his silhouette like a movie scene. He turned when he heard her.

“You’re awake,” he said simply.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

He raised a glass. “Get used to it.”

She walked to the sink in silence, then leaned against the counter. “Why me?”

He looked over.

“What?”

“Why did you agree?” she asked. “You could’ve picked anyone to fake a marriage with. Someone rich. Beautiful. Famous.”

He turned fully to her, his gray eyes piercing.

“Because they’d want something in return. Attention. Control. Fame.”

He stepped closer.

“But you? You’re desperate. And desperate women don’t ask questions. They just survive.”

The words struck harder than a slap.

Amelia squared her shoulders.

“You’re right,” she said, looking him in the eye. “I’m desperate. But don’t mistake that for weakness.”

Lucas stared at her, something flickering across his face—something that looked suspiciously like interest.

Then it was gone.

“You’ll fit right in,” he said coldly, and walked past her.

⸻

Alone in the kitchen, Amelia gripped the counter and whispered to herself:

Six months. You just have to survive six months.

But even she knew…

Surviving Lucas Stone might be the hardest thing she’d ever done.