Chapter 2

The hospital smelled like ozone and slow-fading hope.

Aara walked down the corridor of the ICU, her wet shoes squeaking against the linoleum. Every step felt like she was dragging a lead weight. Through the glass window of Room 402, she saw her father. He looked so small beneath the white sheets, his chest rising and falling only because of the rhythmic wheeze of the ventilator.

Miss Vance?

Aara turned. Dr. Aris was standing there, looking at a tablet with a frown that made her stomach drop.

I’ve been trying to reach you, he said softly. The billing department just flagged your account. The insurance provider... they’ve denied the claim for the next round of treatments. They’re saying the policy was terminated this morning.

Aara felt the air leave her lungs. The policy was tied to the company. Thorne Enterprises bought the company this morning. They... they canceled everything.

The doctor sighed, a sound of genuine pity. Without the specialized treatment, his lungs won't hold. We can keep him comfortable for another twenty-four hours, but after that...

No, Aara whispered, her voice trembling. No, there has to be another way. A payment plan? I have three thousand dollars in savings

The daily cost of this wing is five thousand, Aara. I’m so sorry.

Aara leaned her forehead against the cool glass of her father's room. She watched the green line of the heart monitor. Beep. Beep. Beep. Each sound was a countdown.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the black card. It felt heavy, like it was made of actual lead. Damian Thorne. CEO.

The man who had ruined her father’s life was the only man who could save it. It was a cruel, sick joke played by the universe.

She walked toward the end of the hallway, near a window where the rain was still lashing against the glass. Her fingers shook as she dialed the number on the card. It was a private line.

It rang once. Twice.

Speak, a voice commanded.

It wasn't a Hello. It was a cold, sharp authority that cut through the noise of the hospital.

It’s... it’s Aara Vance, she said, her voice sounding small even to her own ears.

There was a brief pause. She could hear the faint sound of a pen scratching against paper on the other end. "You have six hours left until my deadline, Miss Vance. You’re early.

I’ll do it, she said, the words catching in her throat. I’ll marry you. I'll sign the contract. But I need the money for my father’s treatment tonight. Not tomorrow. Tonight.

I don't negotiate on timelines, Aara, Damian said, and she could almost hear the predatory smirk in his voice. "But for a wife? I can make an exception. My driver is already downstairs at the hospital entrance. He’s been waiting for you to make the right choice.

Aara froze. He had known. He had sent a car before she had even called. The man wasn't just a billionaire, he was a puppeteer.

How did you know I’d call?

Because you love your father more than you hate me, he said simply. And in my world, that is a weakness I can use. Come down. We have papers to sign.

The line went dead.

Aara looked back at her father’s room one last time. I’m doing this for you, Dad, she thought. Even if it means living in a nightmare.

When she stepped out of the hospital, a sleek black sedan was idling at the curb. A man in a suit opened the door silently. Aara stepped inside, the leather smelling of luxury and something darker.

Ten minutes later, she was being led into a penthouse that looked like it belonged in a movie. It was all floor-to-ceiling glass, black marble, and white leather. The city lights twinkled below like fallen diamonds, but the room felt cold.

Damian Thorne was standing by a wet bar, pouring amber liquid into a crystal glass. He had changed out of his suit and into a black silk shirt, the top buttons undone to reveal the base of a powerful throat.

He didn't look at her as she entered. He just pointed to a thick stack of papers on the coffee table.

Read it. Sign it. My lawyer has already notarized my portion.

Aara walked over and sat on the edge of the sofa. Her eyes blurred as she scanned the legal jargon.

Rule 1: The marriage shall remain private except for authorized public appearances.

Rule 2: The parties shall reside in the same residence for three hundred and sixty-five days.

Rule 3: There shall be no romantic involvement with third parties.

And then she saw it.

Rule 4: The husband retains the right to request the wife’s presence at any time, for any reason.

This rule, Aara said, pointing to the fourth line. It’s too vague. 'Any reason'?

Damian finally turned, walking toward her with a slow, predatory grace. He leaned over her, one hand on the back of the sofa, the other on the table, effectively pinning her in place. The scent of him sandalwood and expensive scotch swirled around her, making her head spin.

It means exactly what it says, Aara, he whispered, his face inches from hers. You are mine for a year. Your time, your image, your presence. I bought your father's life. This is the price.

"I’m not a slave, Damian."

No, he said, his gaze dropping to her lips for a split second before meeting her eyes again with terrifying intensity. "You’re a bride. Now sign, or I tell the driver to go back to the hospital and pull the plug myself."

Aara’s hand trembled so hard she almost dropped the pen. But she thought of the heart monitor. Beep. Beep.

She pressed the pen to the paper and signed her name in jagged, desperate strokes.

Damian picked up the papers immediately, his eyes flashing with a dark triumph. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet box, flipping it open to reveal a diamond so large it looked like a shard of ice.

He grabbed her hand. His touch was electric, sending a jolt of heat up her arm that she wasn't prepared for. He slid the ring onto her finger. It felt like a handcuff.

Welcome to the family, Mrs. Thorne,  he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "Now, go upstairs. The third door on the left. That’s your room. Don't lock the door. I hate locks."

Aara stood up, her heart racing. Why? Why do you want me to leave it unlocked?

Damian took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving hers. Because, Aara... I like to know I can enter what I own whenever I want.