Chapter 5: Three Years Of Lies

POV: IVY 

The contract promised me freedom in three years, but every signature felt like another lock closing around my life.

I sat in the quiet, climate-controlled office of Mr. Vance, the family’s corporate attorney. The morning sun filtered through tall glass windows, illuminating the thick stack of legal documents resting between us on the polished mahogany desk.

Mr. Vance adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and pushed a thin blue folder toward me.

“This is the private substitution rider, Miss Ivy,” he said, his voice measured and professional. “It incorporates the strict terms you demanded last night. The family trust is legally bound to fund your grandmother’s ICU treatment, private doctors, and specialized equipment unconditionally. It also guarantees a two-million-dollar compensation payout directly to your personal account upon completion of the three years.”

I let out a slow, heavy breath, leaning forward to read every line. But before my eyes could focus on the text, Mr. Vance lowered his voice, his gaze growing uncharacteristically grave.

“However, as an officer of the law, I am duty-bound to give you a stark warning,” he murmured. “This private document establishes the family’s financial promises to you, but it cannot erase the legal consequences of impersonating your sister in an official marriage. If Michael Sterling discovers this substitution, this paper will not protect you from criminal fraud charges or severe civil liability.”

A sharp spike of fear struck my chest, making my pulse race.

“Is there really no other way, Mr. Vance?” I asked, my voice cracking slightly. “Can’t we force Evelyn to pay for Grandmother’s care through a family court petition? The trust has the resources!”

Mr. Vance sighed, shaking his head regretfully. “The family certainly possesses the capital. However, without a court order, which could take months or even years of litigation, I cannot force your mother to allocate trust funds toward non-mandatory expenses. And given your grandmother’s fragile state, time is a luxury you do not have.”

He was right. I had spent the early morning hours frantically researching options, calculating whether I could take out personal loans or start a crowd-funding campaign. But eighty thousand dollars a month was an impossible figure for someone with only twelve thousand dollars in savings. No bank would grant me a loan without collateral, and Grandmother’s heart numbers were dropping by the hour.

Delaying meant death.

An hour later, I was back in Suite 402 at St. Jude’s Hospital, sitting quietly beside Grandmother’s bed.

The steady, rhythmic beep, beep, beep of her monitor filled the room. She was sitting up slightly, her frail face looking pale against the white pillows, but her eyes brightened the second I walked through the door.

“Ivy, my sweet girl,” she rasped softly, taking my cold fingers in her warm, papery palm. “I had the most wonderful dream last night.”

“Did you, Grandmother?” I asked, forcing a soft smile onto my lips as I stroked her hand.

“Mmm,” she nodded gently, a faint smile touching her lips. “I dreamed we were at the seaside, just the two of us. I was walking without this oxygen tank, and you were reading your books under the sun. Once I recover and get out of this hospital room, let’s take a little trip together, Ivy. Somewhere quiet.”

Tears burned the back of my eyes, a devastating wave of grief washing over me. I squeezed her hand tight, leaning down to press a soft kiss against her bruised knuckles.

“We will go wherever you want, Grandmother,” I promised, my voice thick with emotion. “I’ll take you to the ocean. I promise.”

I couldn't tell her what I was about to do. I couldn't tell her that the price of her seaside trip was my freedom, my identity, and my soul. If she knew I was selling three years of my life to Michael Sterling to pay for her life support, she would refuse every pill, every injection, and every breath.

So I kept the lie locked deep inside my heart, choosing to carry the weight alone.

By eight o'clock that evening, I returned to Mr. Vance’s law office. The building was empty and dark, save for the single lamp glowing on his desk.

I sat down in the leather chair, pulling the heavy stack of documents toward me. I read the contract one final time, word for word, sentence by sentence. It explicitly guaranteed that Grandmother’s treatment would be paid in full directly to the hospital every single month, and that my two-million-dollar compensation would remain untouched in a private account under my real name, Ivy.

“I insist on receiving certified physical copies of every single signed document tonight,” I said, looking straight into Mr. Vance’s eyes. “And I want written receipts sent directly to my personal email every time a hospital payment clears.”

“Understood, Miss Ivy,” Mr. Vance replied, bowing his head. “That will be arranged.”

My hand trembled as I picked up the heavy silver fountain pen resting on the desk. My fingers felt like ice, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Three years. Thirty-six months. One thousand and ninety-five days.

It is a long time, I told myself, closing my eyes for a brief, fleeting moment to gather my courage. But it is not forever. I will put on Gemma’s clothes, live in Michael Sterling’s mansion, protect Grandmother, and leave with enough money to build a life that finally belongs to me.

I pressed the tip of the pen to the smooth white paper.

First, I forged my sister’s sharp, arrogant signature on the public marriage license application: Gemma.

Then, on the bottom of the private guarantee rider, I signed my own name in neat, firm cursive: Ivy.

The ink dried rapidly under the desk lamp. I signed page after page, refusal no longer an option, sealing my fate with every stroke of the pen.

Mr. Vance gathered the signed pages, stacking them neatly into a thick leather folder. He capped his pen with a quiet, solemn click and looked at me with a heavy, sympathetic expression.

“Secrets become far more dangerous the longer people depend on them, Miss Ivy,” he murmured quietly, placing my certified copy in front of me. “Be extremely careful in that house.”

I stood up, pulling my coat tightly around my shoulders, and picked up the envelope. “Thank you, Mr. Vance.”

As I pushed open the glass doors of the office building and stepped out into the crisp night air, the sharp, shrill chime of my phone sliced through the quiet street.

I pulled it out of my pocket with trembling fingers. A new notification popped up on the screen from St. Jude’s Billing Portal.

NOTICE: Trust Account Wire Transfer Cleared. Monthly ICU Maintenance Deposit for Suite 402 Paid in Full. Treatment Protocol Resumed.

I stood alone on the pavement, staring at the bright screen through a haze of quiet tears. For the first time since this nightmare began, I knew exactly what my sacrifice had bought.

Grandmother was going to live.

And tomorrow morning, I would walk into Michael Sterling’s world as a fake bride.