Pria Cacat Itu, Suamiku

VENUS

“You’ll be fine, Mom. I promise.”

I smiled, even if it felt like lying through my teeth. “My job pays well, I’ve got savings, we’ll handle the chemo soon.”

I had to be strong. For both of us.

She gave a weak sigh, eyes glistening. “You shouldn’t be wasting your life on me, Venus. You’re only twenty-two. You should be out there living, dancing, falling in love…”

“Stop.” I tucked a stray curl behind her ear and kissed her forehead. “You don’t worry about anything. I’ve got us.”

Her voice dropped. “How’s your dad?”

My jaw clenched.

Of course, she couldn’t meet my eyes. The man hadn’t visited once since her diagnosis.

“I haven’t seen him since Sunday,” I said flatly. “And I hope I don’t. It’s been peaceful.”

She opened her mouth—probably to defend him again—but I stood. “I have to get to work, Mom. I’ll see you later.”

“Thank you for coming every day, sweetheart. I don’t deserve you.”

“You do,” I said, hugging her. “I’m your daughter. That’s all that matters.”

------

I hailed a cab, dropped into the backseat, and clutched my bag like my life depended on it. Inside was the file. The file. The one Aaron Sinclair had tossed onto my desk last night like a time bomb.

You’d check twice too if you worked for a man like him—dangerous in Dior, heartless in Hugo. He’s the kind of man who walks into a room and makes gravity shift. Broad shoulders. Razor jaw. Hazel eyes that could slice through you if his words hadn’t already done it.

To every other woman, he’s a fantasy. To me? A nightmare in tailored suits.

Two months working under him, and I swear he gets off on making my life miserable. Impossible deadlines, inhuman workload, cold stares that could freeze hell itself. And yet he hasn’t fired me. Because no matter how much he wants to break me, I always deliver.

Why not quit, you ask?

Because I can’t. I was a waitress before this, barely surviving. This job is the reason my mother has a bed in a hospital and not a floor in a rundown clinic. I have a degree, yes. But the world doesn’t pay in potential, it pays in cold, hard results.

The cab pulled up in front of the towering steel-and-glass building I now called hell. I paid, got out, and took a deep breath.

Showtime.

------

The second I stepped into my office—just a thin wall away from Mr. Sinclair’s—the intercom rang.

“My office. Now.”

No greeting. Just that voice. Sharp. Clipped. Cold.

“God, give me strength,” I muttered and walked to his door.

Knock.

“Come in.”

I entered and stood straighter than usual. “Good morning, Mr. Sinclair. You called for me?”

He didn’t look up right away. When he did, those hazel eyes locked on mine like a sniper's target.

“Sit,” he said, irritation laced in every syllable.

I sat. The silence stretched. Long enough to make me fidget. Then—

“Marry me.”

I blinked. My brain stalled.

“What?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he said smoothly, like he hadn’t just shattered reality.

And just like that, my nightmare said he wanted to make it legal.