I signed the marriage contract at exactly 9:03 a.m.
By 9:04, I no longer belonged to myself.
The leather chair creaked as I shifted my weight, my fingers tightening around the sleek Montblanc pen they handed me like it was an execution sword. A folder lay open before me, thick with clauses, legal jargon, and cold formality. A silent witness to my quiet desperation.
"Congratulations, Mrs. Williams," the lawyer said, voice monotone, almost bored. "Your wedding certificate will be processed immediately. Mr. Williams has already signed."
I didn't smile. I didn't speak. I simply lifted my eyes from the paper to the glass wall beyond his shoulder, where the New York City skyline burned in morning light, fast cars, steel towers, and a life I wasn't sure I belonged in.
They said every girl dreams of her wedding day. But no girl dreams of marrying a stranger to pay off her mother's hospital bills.
No girl dreams of being bought.
It started three weeks ago, the day Mom collapsed in our living room.
The doctors said it was a stroke. I said it was poverty.
We had no insurance, no savings, no time. They wouldn't even admit her until a deposit was paid. I stood outside that hospital, cold and soaked from the rain, dialing every number I had. Every relative. Every friend. Every contact. Nobody picked up.
Except one.
Tasha.
My half-sister.
She met me at a café the next day, wearing sunglasses even indoors, nails sharp as her words.
"I heard you're in trouble," she said, sipping from a tiny porcelain cup like this wasn't a life-or-death conversation. "Mom needs treatment? That must be hard."
I said nothing. I didn't trust her. I never had.
"You should thank me," she added. "I got you a solution."
A manila envelope slid across the table. Inside: a contract.
Marriage.
To Adrian Kane Williams.
The billionaire tech mogul. Cold as steel. Rich as sin. And apparently, desperate for a wife.
"Why me?" I asked, throat raw.
Tasha laughed. "Because I turned him down. And they still need a bride urgently. You're just the convenient leftover. Take it or leave it."
I should have walked away. But Mom was dying.
So I took it.
Now I stood outside a penthouse door with a suitcase that wasn't even mine. A housekeeper had packed it for me.
Door 1012.
I took a breath, fingers trembling. Knocked twice.
It swung open almost instantly.
Adrian Kane Williams.
He was taller than I expected. Sharper. A black suit hugged his frame like it was stitched onto his skin. His hair was dark, slicked back, and his eyes cold. Like a frozen ocean.
"You're late," he said.
That was our first conversation.
Not hello, not welcome home.
Just you're late.
I stepped in. The air smelled like cedarwood and money. The living room was white marble, glass, and silence. Too clean. Too empty. Like no one really lived here.
"Do I get a room?" I asked quietly.
"You're my wife," he replied without looking at me. "You get the master bedroom."
He walked off, jacket flaring behind him like he was leading a war.
And me? I followed.
The master suite was bigger than our entire apartment.
And yet, I had never felt smaller.
A king-sized bed sat in the middle like a throne. Two walk-in closets. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. And a silence so thick, it pressed into my lungs.
"The closet on the left is yours," Adrian said, checking his watch. "Breakfast is at seven. Dinner is optional. Don't bring strangers into this house. Don't speak to the press. Don't pretend we're in love."
My hands curled into fists. "And what do I get in return?"
His gaze finally locked onto mine. A slow, dangerous burn.
"Your mother's medical bills will be covered. And you'll get ten thousand dollars per month for the duration of this marriage. One year, Zara. Not a day longer."
I swallowed hard.
Zara. He said my name like it tasted wrong.
"You know what this is," he added, voice low. "Don't act like it's more."
And with that, he turned and left.
Later that night, I found the wedding ring on the vanity.
Platinum. Heavy. Too big.
I slipped it on anyway.
Because Mom needed her treatment.
Because survival didn't wait for love.
Because I had already sold my soul, and this was just the receipt.
Three days passed.
We barely spoke. Ate separately. Slept in the same room but on opposite sides of the bed, like enemies forced into a ceasefire.
But I watched him.
He worked late into the night, rarely rested, and barked orders through phone calls. Always in control. It's always cold.
Until the night, I caught him staring at the wedding photo.
I'd forgotten we had one. Taken at the courthouse. I wore a borrowed dress. He didn't even touch me.
But he stared at it like it haunted him.
"Why do you look so angry in it?" I asked from the doorway.
He turned sharply. "Don't sneak up on me."
I stepped closer. "Do you hate me that much?"
His jaw tensed. "I don't know you enough to hate you."
"Then get to know me."
A long silence. Then he said something that froze me to the floor.
"You're not the one I was supposed to marry."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
He looked away.
"Nothing. Go to sleep."
But I couldn't sleep after that.
The next morning, I called Tasha.
"Why did you really back out of the marriage?" I asked.
She paused.
Then she laughed.
"Because Adrian Williams doesn't marry for love. He marries for revenge."