Chapter 2: Terms
1969words
Two million dollars. One year of my life. A fake marriage to a man whose eyes held all the warmth of an Arctic winter.
Was my freedom worth my father's life? The answer terrified me because I already knew what I would do.
---
"You can't seriously be considering this." Mia, my best friend since college and now a corporate attorney, pushed her glasses up her nose as she scanned the contract spread across her kitchen table. Morning sunlight streamed through her apartment windows, making the legal document look deceptively innocent.
"Do I have a choice?" I wrapped my hands around my coffee mug, seeking warmth. I hadn't slept in thirty-six hours, and exhaustion made everything seem slightly unreal.
Mia looked up, her expression grave. "This isn't just a business contract, Elena. This is your life."
"And my father's life," I countered. "The doctors say without this experimental treatment, he has six months at best. The treatment costs—"
"I know what it costs." Mia's voice softened. "But this..." She tapped the contract. "This is essentially selling yourself."
I flinched. "It's a business arrangement."
"With a man known for crushing his opponents. Alexander Blackwood didn't become a billionaire by being nice." She flipped to another page. "Have you read the behavioral clauses? No dating, no personal social media, approval required for all public outings. He's essentially buying control of your life."
My stomach twisted. I had read those clauses, multiple times. Each one had felt like another bar in a gilded cage.
"One year," I whispered. "I can do anything for one year."
Mia reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "At least let me negotiate better terms. These clauses about 'appropriate behavior' are dangerously vague. And there should be penalties if he breaches the contract too, not just you."
I nodded, feeling a flicker of hope for the first time since that black car had pulled up beside me. "Can you have it ready by this afternoon? He's expecting my answer by five."
"Of course." Mia's eyes narrowed with determination. "If you're going to make a deal with the devil, we're at least going to make him work for your soul."
---
The hospital room was quiet except for the steady beep of monitors and my father's labored breathing. I sat beside him, holding his frail hand in mine. Once those hands had been strong enough to lift me onto his shoulders, to build the small accounting firm he'd run for twenty years before cancer had stolen his strength.
"I met someone," I said softly, though I knew he couldn't hear me through the sedation. "He's... not what I expected for myself. But he can help us, Dad. Help you."
My throat tightened. How could I explain that I was selling myself into a contract marriage to save him? That the experimental treatment that could extend his life would be paid for by pretending to love a man I barely knew?
"You always taught me to stand on my own two feet," I continued, a tear sliding down my cheek. "To never depend on anyone. But I can't stand by and watch you die when I could do something about it."
The door opened behind me, and I quickly wiped my eyes. My sister Sophie entered, her scrubs wrinkled from her night shift at the pediatric ward.
"Any change?" she asked, her voice hoarse with fatigue.
I shook my head. "Doctor says the pneumonia's getting worse. Without the immune therapy..."
Sophie sank into the chair beside me. At twenty-four, four years my junior, she looked a decade older than she had six months ago when Dad's cancer returned.
"The loan sharks called again," she whispered. "They said they're done waiting."
My blood ran cold. "What exactly did they say?"
"That they know where I work. Where you live." Her voice trembled. "That Dad's medical equipment would be a shame to damage."
I closed my eyes, Alexander Blackwood's offer suddenly seeming less like a choice and more like the only path forward.
"I have a solution," I said carefully. "But you're not going to like it."
---
Blackwood Tower looked even more imposing in the fading afternoon light, glass and steel stretching toward the darkening sky like a modern fortress. I smoothed down my one good suit—navy blue, conservative, the armor I wore to important meetings—and tried to ignore the trembling in my hands.
Mia's revised contract sat in my bag, the changes highlighted in yellow. Small victories in what felt like a war I was already losing.
The same silent elevator carried me to the top floor. This time, when the doors opened, Alexander Blackwood was waiting, hands clasped behind his back. The tailored perfection of his charcoal suit made me acutely aware of the wrinkles in mine, the result of thirty-six sleepless hours.
"Ms. Winters." His voice was cool, professional. "I was beginning to think you'd decided against our arrangement."
"I have conditions," I replied, stepping into his office with more confidence than I felt.
Something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps, or irritation—before his expression returned to its usual impassive mask.
"I assumed you would simply sign the contract as presented." He gestured toward the seating area, where a leather portfolio lay open on the glass coffee table.
"Then you assumed wrong." I pulled Mia's revised contract from my bag. "My attorney made some adjustments."
His eyebrows rose slightly. "Your attorney?"
"Yes. Did you think I'd sign away a year of my life without legal counsel?" I held out the document, refusing to let my hand shake.
For a moment, I thought he might refuse it. Then, unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
"Sit, Ms. Winters. Would you like coffee while I review these... adjustments?"
I sank into the leather chair, my exhaustion suddenly overwhelming. "Black, please."
He raised an eyebrow at that, then pressed a button on his desk. "Two coffees, black."
While he read through Mia's revisions, I studied him. In profile, Alexander Blackwood looked like he'd been carved from marble—all sharp angles and perfect proportions. Nothing soft or yielding anywhere. I wondered if he'd ever loved anyone, or if his heart was as impenetrable as his expression.
"These changes are extensive," he finally said, looking up from the document.
"They're reasonable," I countered. "Equal penalties for contract breaches. Clearer definitions of 'appropriate behavior.' A clause ensuring my continued employment at Blackwood International isn't contingent on our personal arrangement."
"And this?" He tapped a paragraph near the end. "A requirement that I provide 'emotional support' during your father's illness?"
Heat crept into my cheeks. "If we're presenting ourselves as a loving couple, it would look strange if you were completely absent during a family health crisis."
His gray eyes studied me with unsettling intensity. "You're more strategic than I anticipated."
"I'm fighting for my family's survival," I replied quietly. "That tends to sharpen one's instincts."
Something shifted in his expression—not softening exactly, but a subtle change, like ice beginning to crack.
"Very well." He reached for a pen. "I accept your terms, with one addition of my own."
My heart stuttered. "Which is?"
"You'll attend business functions with me as needed. Your financial background could be useful in certain negotiations."
I frowned. "You want me to work for you too?"
"I want to maximize the value of our arrangement." His voice was matter-of-fact. "Unless you object?"
It was a test, I realized. He wanted to see if I'd push back again or acquiesce.
"Add it to the contract," I said. "But I expect to be treated as a professional, not a prop."
That almost-smile appeared again. "Noted."
He made the addition in precise handwriting, then signed with a flourish. The pen felt heavy when he handed it to me, as if weighted with the consequences of what I was about to do.
I hesitated, pen hovering above the signature line.
"Second thoughts, Ms. Winters?" Alexander's voice was soft, almost gentle.
I thought of my father in his hospital bed. Of Sophie's exhausted face. Of the threats from men who saw my family's suffering as nothing more than a business opportunity.
"No," I said firmly, and signed my name.
Alexander took the contract, examining my signature as if assessing its worth. Then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small velvet box.
"This belonged to my grandmother," he said, opening it to reveal an emerald ring surrounded by diamonds. "It's expected that you wear it."
The ring was stunning—vintage, elegant, probably worth more than I'd earn in a decade. It represented everything I was agreeing to: beauty masking a transaction, sparkle disguising a cage.
"May I?" he asked, and I nodded, extending my left hand.
His fingers were cool as they took mine, surprisingly gentle as he slid the ring onto my finger. The weight of it felt foreign, wrong somehow. But when our eyes met, something unexpected passed between us—a current of awareness that had nothing to do with contracts or arrangements.
For one disorienting moment, I couldn't remember how to breathe.
The office door opened abruptly, breaking the strange tension. Ms. Chen entered, then stopped short at the sight of us—Alexander still holding my hand, the ring glittering between us.
"I apologize for interrupting," she said, her usual composure slightly ruffled.
Alexander released my hand, his expression instantly reverting to its business-like neutrality. "Not at all, Ms. Chen. In fact, your timing is perfect. I'd like you to meet my fiancée, Elena Winters."
The word 'fiancée' sent a shock through me. This was really happening.
Ms. Chen's eyes widened fractionally—the most surprise I'd seen her display. "Congratulations," she said, her gaze moving between us with new interest. "The board will be pleased to hear the news."
"Indeed." Alexander's hand came to rest at the small of my back, the touch light but unmistakably possessive. "We're keeping the engagement relatively quiet for now, but I trust you'll help with the necessary arrangements."
"Of course, Mr. Blackwood." Ms. Chen's professional mask slipped back into place. "Shall I contact the usual vendors for the announcement?"
"Yes. And have Legal prepare the paperwork for Ms. Winters' father's medical expenses. I want those bills cleared by morning."
My breath caught. He was already fulfilling his end of the bargain.
After Ms. Chen left, Alexander's hand dropped from my back, the brief warmth of his touch fading immediately.
"The funds will be transferred to cover your father's treatment and clear his debts," he said, all business again. "Ms. Chen will coordinate your move to the penthouse. I suggest this weekend."
"This weekend?" I echoed, suddenly dizzy with how quickly everything was moving.
"Is that a problem?"
I looked down at the emerald ring on my finger—so beautiful, so heavy with implications. In the space of twenty-four hours, I'd lost my job, agreed to a contract marriage, and gained a fiancé who regarded me with all the emotional investment one might give a business acquisition.
"No," I said quietly. "No problem at all."
Alexander nodded, satisfied. "Then our arrangement begins now, Elena."
My name on his lips sounded different—more intimate somehow, despite his cool tone. I suppressed a shiver.
"What happens next?" I asked.
His gray eyes met mine, unreadable as ever. "Now we convince the world we're in love."
I stared at the emerald on my finger, catching the last rays of sunset through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The green stone seemed to hold secrets in its depths—promises and warnings all at once.
What had I gotten myself into?
