A contract, Not a ring

The office smelled like leather and money. And fear.

I sat across from Damian Harrison in a wheelchair that probably cost more than my rent in a year. Black. Expensive. Silent. But I could see the way his hands gripped the armrests. Tight. Like he was holding himself together.

My hands were sweating. My heart was beating so loud I was sure he could hear it.

He didn’t look at me. Not once in the last five minutes. His eyes were fixed on the papers in front of him. Papers with my name on them. Arabella Carter.

Outside, the city lights were starting to come on. But here, it felt like midnight.

“Sign it,” he said finally. His voice was calm. Too calm. Like he was ordering coffee, not asking me to sell my life.

I stared at the contract. Ten pages. Legal words I didn’t understand. But I understood the number at the bottom.

Ten million dollars.

My breath caught.

“A marriage contract,” I whispered. My throat was dry. “For one year.”

“For appearances,” he corrected, still not looking up. “My grandfather is dying. He wants me to be settled before... well... before he...”

His jaw clenched.

The word die stuck in his mouth.

For the first time, Damian Harrison looked human.

“You will attend events with me,” he continued, his voice hard again. “Dinner. Business meetings. You will wear the clothes I buy you. You will smile for the cameras. And you will never, under any circumstances, tell anyone this is fake.”

I laughed. But it came out broken. “And what do I get out of this, Mr. Harrison? Besides being a prop in your life?”

That’s when he looked up.

His eyes were the darkest gray I’d ever seen. Empty. Cold. But for one second, I thought I saw something else. Tiredness. Pain.

“Ten million dollars,” he said. “Deposited in your account the day the contract ends.”

Ten million.

Enough to pay the debt of my last mother's hospital bills ten times over. Enough to never worry about money again. Enough to buy my freedom.

I swallowed. “And?”

“And my protection.”

The room went cold.

Protection. From the debt collectors. From the men who kept calling me at 2 AM. From losing the only home I had left.

They were going to take everything.

I hated him. I hated that a stranger knew how desperate I was. I hated that he was my only way out.

But I hated the idea of being his fake wife even more.

“Why me?” The question escaped before I could stop. “You’re Damian Harrison. You could have any woman. Models. Actresses. Why a nobody like me?”

He rolled his wheelchair back from the desk and turned toward the window. His back was to me. Perfect suit. Rigid posture.

“Because you don’t want anything from me,” he said quietly. “No love. No attention. No forever. Just money. That makes you safe.”

Safe.

The word hit me like a slap.

I picked up the pen. My hand was shaking so bad I almost dropped it.

Ten million dollars. For six months of my life.

This wasn’t a proposal. There were no flowers. No ring. No love.

This was a business deal. And I was the product.

I signed. Arabella Carter.

The ink felt like it was burning the paper.

The moment I finished, Damian took the contract from me without touching my hands.

“Good,” he said. “We start tomorrow. There’s a charity gala at 8 PM. A car will pick you up at 7.”

He walked to the door. His hand was on the knob when he stopped.

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

Then, without turning around, he said in a voice so low I almost missed it:

“And Arabella… don’t fall in love with me. Because the last woman who did…”

He opened the door and walked out.

Leaving me alone.

With a contract worth ten million dollars in my hands.

And a warning that made my blood run cold.