Chapter 3: The Contract 

Isla’s POV

I woke up just before sunrise.

The first light poured through the glass, casting golden streaks across the room.

He lay beside me, still asleep. One arm stretched over the bed like he owned the whole world.

I watched him.

Even in sleep, he looked powerful. Dangerous.

I couldn’t stay.

If I stayed, I might start believing this meant something.

I got dressed. crumpled dress, sore feet, dignity hanging by a thread. I grabbed my shoes, my bag, and what little pride I had left.

I didn’t expect comfort.

But I never expected a price tag.

I looked back once. He was asleep barely covered by the sheet, all lean muscle and stillness. Beautiful in a way that makes you forget to breathe. 

Untouchable.

What was I even hoping for? That he’d wake up, ask for my number, walk me to the door, or pretend to care?

Stupid.

I reached for the door.

And just then it opened.

She walked in, almost bumping into me. Blonde bun, sharp suit, polite but unreadable face. The kind of employee you only see around men with ridiculous money.

“Mrs. Lawson,” she said.

I blinked. “I’m not…..”

She didn’t wait for me to finish. Instead, she handed over a small white envelope with a rehearsed smile. “From Mr. Valtieri.”

That name.

I took it slowly, cautiously. My name wasn’t on it.

Inside: a neat stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills.

I didn’t need to count it.

It wasn’t a thank you. It wasn’t kindness.

It was payment.

My face flushed so fast I thought I’d pass out.

Like I’d been bought. Like that night was just a transaction.

I bit back the nausea. “Tell him…” I started, but stopped. 

Tell him what? That I wasn’t for sale?

“Never mind,” I muttered, shoving the envelope into my bag like it burned. Then I walked past her and out the door.

No note. No goodbye.

Just cash.

The morning air hit me like knives sharp and uncaring.

I found a tiny coffee shop on the corner and locked myself in their bathroom.The mirror didn’t lie, it showed everything. 

Smudged makeup. Hollow eyes. Cheap dress.

I looked exactly how I felt—disposable.

I pulled the envelope out, spread the money across the sink, and stared at it like it might explain something to me.

But it didn’t.

Half went into my coat pocket. The other half I stuffed into a charity bin outside. I didn’t want it. I didn’t want any piece of him tied to me. But pride doesn’t buy groceries or stop eviction notices.

Back at my building, the landlord was waiting on the steps like a bad habit.

“I thought I told you….”

“I’ve got it,” I interrupted, voice tight. I pulled some bills from my coat and handed them over without looking him in the eye. “Two months. That should cover it.”

He grunted, counted it. “Two weeks. Then I want the rest or you’re out for good.

I climbed the stairs, my hands shook uncontrollably as I unlocked the door and stepped into the dim cold space I still called home. The air mattress sagged in the corner, surrounded by silence and a stack of untouched resumes.

I dropped to the floor.And finally I cried.

Not when I lost my job. Not when Mom passed. 

Not when I skipped meals to keep my phone on.

But now. Because of him.

Because he saw me. For one moment, he actually saw me.

And then he paid me like I was nothing.

Just like everyone else had.

I slept through most of the day, dreamless and drained. When I woke, the sky was bruising into night. I pulled on a hoodie, ready to walk down to the corner for some noodles and cheap painkillers.

But I didn’t make it to the door.

A knock.

Firm. Direct. Three times.

I froze. No one knocked on my door unless it was bad news.

I opened it slowly.Two men in black suits stood outside. One was tall and broad, the other lean with sharp features and colder eyes.

“Isla Hart?” the taller one asked.My heart skipped. 

“Who’s asking?”

“We represent Mr. Ares Valtieri. He requests your presence.

”Now.I tried to shut the door. “I think you have the wrong….”

“No mistake.” The sharper one stepped forward and handed me an envelope. “Please read this.”

I didn’t take it.

“Mr. Valtieri doesn’t handle refusals well, Miss Hart.”

“I’m not interested,” I said, backing up.“You’ll be compensated. Generously.”

It wasn’t the money that made me snatch the envelope, it was the tone. Like I was still a transaction. Still for sale. I opened it anyway.

Inside: a formal letter. Glossy paper. Legal terms. 

A contract.

An offer. Twelve months of marriage. Public only.

Two Hundred And Fifty Thousand Dollars.

Conditions: Appearances required. No intimacy. Strict NDA. No emotions allowed.

I stared.

Then I saw it.

A photograph. Me and him. Leaving the club.

How?

Below it, one handwritten line:

You need a way out. I need a wife. Be ready at 9 a.m. sharp. Ares Valtieri. 

I couldn’t breathe.

Who the hell was this man?

What kind of person orchestrates marriages like business mergers?

“Tell your boss I’m not a toy,” I snapped, pushing the envelope back into the man’s chest.

He didn’t react. “You’ll be there,” he said calmly. “One way or another.”

And then they were gone.

I shut the door. Locked it.

My hands were shaking.

A marriage contract. Two hundred and fifty grand. A stranger who didn’t even say goodbye now wanted to own my next twelve months?

This wasn’t real.

I should’ve ripped the paper in half, burned it and walked away.

But I didn't. Because under all the anger, beneath the shame, I was still desperate.

And he knew it.

Sleep never came.

The radiator hissed. The street noise pressed against the windows. My mind wouldn’t stop spiraling.

I was running out of time.

He offered control. Stability. A new life.

And all it would cost was me.

*****

By morning, I’d made my decision.

Not because I wanted to.But because I had nothing left.

He was waiting.

Ares Valtieri.

Same suit. Same eyes. Same beautiful, dangerous energy.

“You came,” he said.

I glared. “You paid for me.”

“No,” he said. 

“I paid you for last night. This ….” he tapped a folder on the table “is something else entirely.”

I didn’t move.

“What is this?” I asked, voice hoarse.

“A contract,” he said simply. “You pretend to be my wife. We stay married for a year. You attend a few events. You leave richer and free.”

“Why me?”

“I need a wife to seal a merger. The photo of us complicates things. This fixes it.”

“So I’m your cleanup act.”

“You’re a solution.”

I stood up, fists clenched. “You think I’m that desperate?”

His expression didn’t change. “You already proved it.”

That landed like a slap.

I turned toward the door.

“Hundred and Twenty-five thousand now. Hundred and Twenty-five more when it’s over. Clean break. New start.”

I froze.

He knew. Somehow, he knew I was sinking.

“I’m not yours to buy,” I said quietly.

“No,” he replied. “You’re someone who needs a way out.”

Silence stretched like a knife between us.

“You can walk away,” he said. “Go back to nothing. Or you can sign this and start again.”

My hand hovered over the pen.

This was madness.

But so was starving.

I picked up the pen.

And I signed.