Chapter 3: The Weight of Duty

Celeste

My childhood bedroom felt smaller than I remembered, the pink wallpaper faded and peeling at the corners like old memories trying to escape. I sat cross-legged on my narrow bed, surrounded by the remnants of dreams I'd once believed in—sketches of wedding dresses scattered across my rumpled comforter, dog-eared romance novels stacked on my nightstand, and watercolor paintings of couples dancing in moonlight tacked to the walls.

The contract lay before me like a death sentence, its crisp white pages mocking the fairy tale endings I'd once sketched in the margins of my notebooks. Killian Hart's signature was already there, bold and decisive, waiting for mine to seal our devil's bargain.

A soft knock interrupted my brooding. "Celeste?" Dad's voice carried the weight of desperation. "Can we talk?"

I quickly shoved the contract under my pillow. "Come in."

He entered slowly, his shoulders stooped with the burden of our family's collapse. The man who used to carry me on his back through summer fields now looked fragile enough to break. "I've been thinking about Hart's offer all night."

"Dad—"

"No, let me say this." He sat heavily on my bed, the mattress springs creaking. "I know what I'm asking of you. I know it's not fair that my failures should become your sacrifice." His voice cracked. "But your mother's medical bills, the foreclosure notice, Lily's future—"

"I know." I reached for his weathered hand. "I understand the situation."

"Do you?" His eyes met mine, and I saw decades of pride crumbling. "Because if you don't do this, we lose everything in four days. The house your grandmother loved, the business three generations of Andrews men built, your sister's chance at college—everything."

The weight of three generations pressed down on my chest. I thought of Great-grandfather Andrews, who'd started the textile mill with nothing but determination and calloused hands.

"What if there's another way?" Lily's voice came from the doorway, sharp with teenage defiance. She stood there in her paint-stained art smock, looking so much like I had at her age—hopeful, passionate, believing the world owed her happy endings.

Dad's face darkened. "There is no other way."

"There's always another way." Lily pushed into the room, her dark eyes blazing. "We could sell the house, move somewhere cheaper. I could get a job instead of finishing school. We could—"

"Absolutely not." Dad's voice turned steel-hard. "I won't have my daughters sacrifice their educations because of my mistakes."

"But you'll let Celeste sacrifice her entire life?" Lily whirled on me, her long hair flying. "Tell him you won't do it, Celeste. Tell him we'll find another way."

I looked between them—my broken father and my fierce sister—and felt the familiar ache of being caught in the middle. Always the mediator, always the one trying to fix everyone else's problems while my own dreams withered.

"It's just one year," I said quietly, the words tasting like ash.

"One year married to a stranger! One year pretending to love someone who sees you as a business transaction!" Lily grabbed my hands, her grip desperate. "What about your art? What about traveling to Paris like you always dreamed? What about finding real love?"

Real love. The words hit me like a slap, dragging me back to when I was eighteen and stupid enough to believe in soulmates.

The dreams had seemed so real then, so inevitable. True love was supposed to find everyone eventually, wasn't it?

How naive I'd been.

"Some people don't get fairy tales, Lily," I said finally, pulling my hands free. "Some people get duty instead."

Her eyes filled with tears. "That's not fair."

"No, it's not." I stood, walking to the window that overlooked our dying garden. Mom's roses, once the pride of the neighborhood, were now brown and brittle from neglect. "But fair is a luxury we can't afford anymore."

Dad cleared his throat. "The decision is yours, sweetheart. But you need to make it soon."

After they left, I sat alone with the contract, my hands shaking as I read through the terms again. One year of my life in exchange for my family's salvation. It should have been an easy choice—what was one year compared to a lifetime of guilt knowing I could have saved them?

But it felt like signing away my soul.

The house grew quiet as midnight approached. Mom and Dad had gone to bed hours ago, their whispered conversations carrying through the thin walls. Lily had finally stopped crying, her room falling silent except for the occasional sniffle.

I picked up a pen—the same one I'd used to write my college application essays, full of hope and ambition. Now it felt heavy as lead in my trembling fingers.

Celeste Andrews, I wrote slowly, each letter feeling like a nail in my coffin. My hand shook so badly that the ink smeared slightly, but I pressed on. This was for Mom's medicine, for Lily's future, for the ghosts of Andrews ancestors who'd built something worth saving.

A tear dropped onto the paper, staining the pristine white with my grief. Then another. I tried to wipe them away, but they kept coming—six years of buried dreams pouring out in salt water and regret.

But I didn't stop writing. I signed my name with all the finality of a death warrant, then quickly folded the papers before I could change my mind.

I crept downstairs, my bare feet silent on the worn carpet, and slipped the envelope into our mailbox. The metal clanged softly as it closed, sealing my fate.

Back in my room, I stared at my reflection in the vanity mirror, searching for some sign of the girl who'd once believed in love. But she was gone, replaced by someone harder, more practical. Someone who understood that love was a luxury poor girls couldn't afford.

"I won't let him hurt me," I whispered to my reflection, my voice steady despite my tears. "I won't fall for his charm or his moments of kindness. This is business, nothing more."

The words felt like armor, protecting what was left of my battered heart. I could play his wife for a year—smile at his side, wear his ring, pretend to love him for the cameras. But I would never let him past my defenses. Never let him make me hope for something real.

The next morning, I heard a car pull into our driveway. At 10 AM, no one visited unless it was an emergency. My heart hammered as I peered through my curtains.

A sleek black sedan sat in our broken driveway, looking as out of place as a diamond in a coal mine. A uniformed driver stepped out, approached our front door, and rang the bell once—politely, quietly, mindful of the late hour.

I threw on my robe and raced downstairs, reaching the door just as Dad appeared, his hair wild from sleep.

"Delivery for Miss Celeste Andrews," the driver said, extending an elegant black box tied with silver ribbon. "From Mr. Hart."

My hands shook as I accepted the package. It was heavier than it looked, solid and expensive.

The driver tipped his hat and disappeared into the night, leaving us alone with Killian's gift.

Inside, nestled in black velvet, lay the most beautiful ring I'd ever seen. A massive diamond solitaire caught the hallway light, throwing rainbows across our faded wallpaper. It was the kind of ring I'd once sketched in my fairy tale drawings—perfect, elegant, everything a girl could dream of.

Except it wasn't from someone who loved me. It was from someone who'd bought me.

Beneath the ring lay a simple white card in Killian's precise handwriting: "Be ready in three days. The announcement will run in tomorrow's papers. - K"

Three days. My knees went weak as the reality crashed over me. In three days, I would become Mrs. Killian Hart, at least in name. The whole world would know I belonged to him.

But what exactly did he expect from me? And why did looking at that beautiful, soulless ring make me feel like I was already drowning?