The moment my father's trembling hands pushed the contract across the mahogany table toward me, I knew my life as I'd known it was over. "Sign it, Charlotte." His voice cracked, aged a decade in the span of weeks. "Please." I stared at the document, the words blurring together except for three that stood out like a brand: *Marriage Agreement Contract*. And there, at the top in bold letters: *Damien Cross*. My heart stopped. Then it slammed against my ribcage so hard I thought it might shatter. "No." The word escaped as barely a whisper. "Dad, no. Anyone but him." "There is no one else." My mother's voice came from the corner of our living room—no longer *our* living room, I reminded myself. The bank owned it now. They owned everything. "Damien Cross is the only one willing to save the company. The only one willing to save us from complete ruin." I looked up at my father, searching his face for any sign that this was a nightmare I'd wake from. But his eyes, once so full of pride and warmth, held only desperation and shame. "He wants a wife," Dad said, unable to meet my gaze. "For one year. In exchange, he'll absorb our debts, save the company, and ensure your mother and I can keep the house. After the year, you'll receive a settlement. You'll be free." Free. The word tasted like ash. For three years, I'd worked as a junior analyst at Cross Industries. For three years, I'd endured Damien Cross's cold indifference, his cutting remarks during presentations, his impossible standards that left me working until midnight more nights than not. He was brilliant, ruthless, and devastatingly handsome in a way that made him even more insufferable. He looked at me like I was invisible. No—worse. He looked at me like I was an inconvenience. "Why me?" I forced the question past the lump in my throat. "He could have anyone. Models, socialites, women who actually run in his circles—" "He specifically requested you." My father finally met my eyes. "I don't know why, Charlotte. I didn't ask. I couldn't afford to." The room tilted slightly. Damien Cross had requested me? The man who'd never spoken a personal word to me outside of work critiques? Who'd never even acknowledged my existence beyond my employee ID number? "What aren't you telling me?" I stood, the chair scraping against hardwood. "There's more to this. There has to be." My parents exchanged a look that confirmed my suspicion. "He has... conditions," Mom said quietly. "Beyond the marriage." Of course he did. Damien Cross didn't make deals; he made conquests. "Tell me." Dad opened his mouth, closed it, then pulled out a second document. This one was shorter, but the words hit like physical blows: *Clause 7: The marriage will be consummated. The wife agrees to provide the husband with an heir within the contracted year.* *Clause 11: Upon successful birth of said heir, the wife will relinquish all parental rights and leave the country for a period of no less than five years.* My vision tunneled. "He wants me to have his baby and then... disappear?" "The settlement is substantial," Dad said quickly, desperately. "Fifty million dollars, Charlotte. You'd never have to worry about money again. You could start over anywhere in the world—" "You're selling me." The words came out flat, emotionless. I felt disconnected from my body, like I was watching this happen to someone else. "You're actually selling me to Damien Cross like I'm property." "We're out of options!" Dad's composure cracked, tears streaming down his face. "The bankruptcy—it's not just the company, Charlotte. I made mistakes. Bad investments. I used money that wasn't mine. If Cross doesn't step in, I'll face criminal charges. Your mother will lose everything. We'll be destroyed." "So instead, I'm destroyed." "You'll be rich," Mom interjected, her voice taking on a sharp edge I'd never heard before. "You'll be set for life. One year of discomfort for a lifetime of security—people have endured worse." I looked at her, really looked at her, and saw a stranger. When had my mother become someone who could say such things? The answer whispered through my mind: when survival became more important than love. "I need time to think—" "We don't have time." Dad pushed a pen toward me. "He needs an answer by tonight. If you say no, he's withdrawing his offer entirely." "Then let him withdraw it. We'll find another way—" "There is no other way!" Dad slammed his hand on the table, making us both jump. "Do you think I haven't tried? Do you think I want this? I've begged every contact I have. Cross is it. This is it." The silence that followed felt suffocating. I picked up the pen, my hand surprisingly steady despite the chaos in my mind. Three years of Damien Cross's cold disdain. Three years of being invisible to him. And now he wanted to own me completely. "Why?" I asked again, quieter this time. "Why does he want me specifically?" Neither of my parents had an answer. I looked down at the contract, at the signature line that would seal my fate. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice screamed at me to run, to refuse, to choose dignity over duty. But I looked at my father's broken expression, at my mother's desperate eyes, and I knew I'd already made my choice. I'd been making it my whole life, every time I'd put their needs before my own. My signature flowed across the page in blue ink, elegant and damning. "It's done," I whispered. Dad exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for days. "Thank you. Charlotte, thank you—" "Don't." I stood, leaving the pen on the table. "Don't thank me for this." I walked to my childhood bedroom, the room that would belong to strangers soon, and pulled out my phone. My hands shook as I typed out the message to the number Dad had given me—Damien Cross's private line. *I've signed the contract. When do you want to make this nightmare official?* The response came within seconds, as if he'd been waiting: *Tomorrow. 3 PM. My office. Don't be late, Charlotte. And wear something appropriate for meeting your future husband.* I threw the phone onto my bed and pressed my palms against my eyes, refusing to let the tears fall. Damien Cross had bought me. And tomorrow, I'd learn exactly what price he expected me to pay. ---