Rain drummed a relentless rhythm against the tin roof of the old Grey family bungalow, stitching a gloomy soundscape that matched Amara Grey's unraveling thoughts. The downpour had begun at dawn and showed no sign of easing, as though the very sky conspired to remind her of everything slipping through her fingers, her parents' dream house, her own freedom, and most painfully, her younger brother Leo's life.
Inside, the living room smelled faintly of cedar and lemon polish, a scent her late mother always claimed made even the weariest soul feel at home. Tonight, however, that comforting aroma was overpowered by the sterile tang of rubbing alcohol wafting from Leo's makeshift sickbed in the adjoining room. Machines beeped at steady intervals, echoing like distant footsteps down a corridor of fear. Each beep reminded Amara why she could not allow herself to hesitate.
She paced the threadbare rug, clutching an ivory envelope whose weight felt far heavier than its paper suggested. Gold-embossed lettering spelled out "Marriage Contract: Ethan S. Blackwood & Amara R. Grey." The elegant script mocked her; something so beautiful should never herald so cruel a bargain. Only yesterday, she would have laughed at the idea of marrying anyone, let alone a man who, according to gossip rags and boardroom whispers, had ice where ordinary people kept a heart.
Yet here she stood, the clock ticking toward midnight, the contract begging for ink.
An urgent coughing fit from Leo's room jolted Amara from her reverie. She rushed in. Under flickering lamplight, she found her eighteen‑year‑old brother struggling to sit up, his thin shoulders shaking. His once caramel‑brown complexion was pallid, like parchment stretched too tight. Seeing her, he forced a weak grin.
"Hey, Sis," he rasped. "Did you eat? You never eat when you're worrying."
Amara swallowed the knot in her throat and sank onto the mattress's edge. "I'll grab something later. How do you feel?"
"Like a truck parked on my chest," he joked with a half‑smile, then grew serious. "The oncologist called again. They won't continue chemo unless we settle the last invoice."
She brushed damp curls from his forehead. "Don't think about bills. Rest. I've got a plan."
Leo's brow furrowed. "I know that look. What are you about to do?"
Before she could answer, a polite yet authoritative knock split the night's quiet. Amara's pulse spiked. He's early. She smoothed her blouse, one of two she owned without frayed cuffs and hurried to the door.
Standing on the porch beneath a black umbrella was Ethan Blackwood's personal assistant, Alistair Clarke: mid‑thirties, faultless charcoal suit, expression carved from granite. Rain slipped from the umbrella in silver curtains, but not a single droplet touched the Italian leather shoes peeking under his trouser hem.
"Miss Grey," he greeted, voice a cultured baritone. "Mr. Blackwood is five minutes out. He prefers punctuality."
She nodded stiffly. "Please, come in."
Alistair stepped inside, gaze sweeping the humble décor with an unreadable tilt of his brow. He produced a sleek fountain pen from an inner pocket and laid it beside the envelope Amara still clenched. "Everything is prepared. I trust you've reviewed the terms."
"I've read them ten times." A lifetime wouldn't make them sit easier, she thought.
The front door swung open again. This time, no umbrella preceded the visitor; the rain seemed to bend around him in deference. Ethan Blackwood six‑foot‑two, impeccably tailored midnight‑blue suit, black hair slicked back from a chiseled, almost cruelly handsome face owned the room before he crossed its threshold. His eyes, the chill gray of winter dawn, locked onto Amara's with unsettling precision.
"You kept me waiting," he said, glancing at the grandfather clock. Not accusation exactly more an acknowledgment of inefficiency.
Amara lifted her chin. "My brother had a coughing fit."
Ethan's gaze flicked toward Leo's room, then away as if he'd already calculated the probabilities and filed them under Irrelevant. "Let us not waste more time. Alistair, the documents."
The assistant produced duplicate contracts, sliding one toward Ethan and the other toward Amara on the coffee table. A hush fell, broken only by the rain's drumming.
Clause One: A one‑year marriage in name only. Public appearances obligatory; private interactions optional.
Clause Two: All medical expenses for Leo Grey covered in full, effective immediately upon signatures.
Clause Three: At contract's end, a lump sum of five million dollars transferred to Amara Grey's account, contingent on her adherence to confidentiality and nondisclosure.
There were more clauses fifteen, to be exact each colder than the last. One forbade her from revealing personal details about Ethan. Another restricted her from forming "intimate associations" that could cause scandal. All, she realized, were designed to protect his empire Blackwood Holdings from gossip and emotional entanglements.
Ethan signed first, strokes bold, final. Then he turned the document toward her. "If you doubt my lawyers' thoroughness, bring your own counsel. I'll wait though the hospital may not."
Amara's fingers trembled. She thought of her parents' graves, of nights spent praying for miracles, of Leo's laughter fading day by day. She uncapped the pen. Ink met paper. Her name blossomed across the line like a bruise.
Ethan slid a slim black card across the table. "Platinum tier. No spending limit. Use it exclusively for your brother's care."
She swallowed. "Thank you."
"I don't do charity, Mrs. Blackwood," he replied. "We both get what we want."
The word Mrs. hit her like icy water. "When do we"
"Now," he interrupted. "My driver is outside. Pack only essentials; we'll send someone for the rest. Alistair will coordinate the hospital transfer for your brother tonight."
Amara's knees nearly buckled. "Tonight? But Leo"
"Will receive better care at St. Augustine Private. My personal physicians are on staff." His tone softened by a fraction. "He'll be comfortable."
Relief warred with dread. She glanced toward Leo's room. "I need to explain."
"Do so quickly." Ethan turned to survey a framed photograph on the mantle Amara, Leo, and their parents at a county fair, faces lit with cotton‑candy smiles. For an instant, something flickered in his eyes nostalgia? Envy? before the shutters slammed down.
Thirty minutes later, the bungalow lay behind them like a memory fading in the rain. Amara sat beside Ethan in the back of a stretch Bentley, city lights streaking by. Leo, sedated and guarded by paramedics in a following ambulance, was en route to his new hospital.
Silence thickened. She wrapped her arms around herself, chilled despite the car's gentle heat. Ethan scrolled through emails on a tablet, thumbs flying. The glow cast angular shadows across his cheekbones, making him seem more statue than man.
"Why me?" she blurted before she could stop herself.
He didn't look up. "Why not you?"
"You could hire an actress, a model, someone used to your world."
"I require authenticity. The tabloids know actresses are paid. A desperate sister is more… convincing."
It stung, the precision of his truth. "So I'm your prop."
"A mutually beneficial partnership," he corrected, still reading. "Don't romanticize it. That leads to disappointment."
Amara pressed forehead to the cool window, letting the city blur. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't. Not in front of him.
The Blackwood Penthouse crowned the city's tallest residential tower, sixty stories above ordinary lives. Floor‑to‑ceiling windows revealed a skyline etched in neon and mist. When the private elevator opened, Amara expected opulence. She did not expect beauty yet beauty was everywhere: ivory marble veined with gold, art pieces spotlit like lauded guests, a baby grand piano gleaming in a lounge bathed in moonlight.
"Your suite is this way," Ethan said, striding across the open‑plan living area. A motion‑sensor fireplace flared to life as he passed, flames dancing behind tempered glass. "You'll find the closet stocked with brands you may be unfamiliar with. A stylist arrives tomorrow, seven a.m. sharp."
Amara trailed after him, trying not to gape. "A stylist?"
"The board welcomes us at a charity gala Friday night. You'll need suitable attire."
He led her through double doors into a suite larger than her entire house. The bed, dressed in cream silk, faced a balcony where raindrops glittered like diamonds under recessed lighting. A door left ajar revealed a marble bathroom with a sunken tub, a rainfall shower, and counters lined with high‑end skincare.
Ethan lingered in the doorway. "If you require anything, tell Mrs. Whitcomb the house manager. Security monitors this floor only, so you'll have privacy."
"Thank you," she murmured, words feeling small.
He nodded once. "Our lives intersect only when necessary. Maintain discretion, follow the schedule Alistair will provide, and we'll part ways next year considerably richer, both of us."
He turned, but she caught his sleeve. The contact startled them both. His gaze snapped to her hand, then to her eyes.
"My brother means everything to me," she whispered. "If anything happens"
"He'll receive superior care," he said, voice low. "I keep my contracts, Mrs. Blackwood."
She released him. "Good night, Mr. Blackwood."
He inclined his head and disappeared down the hall, footsteps soundless on the polished floor.
Amara closed the door, leaned against it, and finally allowed tears she'd dammed for weeks to fall. But when they came, they weren't only tears of anguish. Somewhere beneath the grief lurked a spark hope? Safety? She wasn't sure.
She crossed to the balcony, sliding the glass door open. The air smelled of wet asphalt and distant jasmine. Far below, headlights weaved like fireflies. Up here, she might have been in another world entirely.
She imagined her parents, who had died two years earlier in a car accident, standing beside her. Would they agree with the bargain she'd struck? Or would they be horrified? She wiped her eyes, remembering her mother's favorite saying: "Courage, my girl, is forged in impossible fires."
The words steadied her.
She turned back inside, curiosity nudging aside fear. She opened the closet to reveal rows of dresses, coats, shoes arranged by hue and heel height. A small white card sat atop a rose‑gold clutch.
Welcome to your new life. — E
No flourish, no sentiment, just a straightforward acknowledgment, yet somehow it felt personal enough to jolt her.
She set the card down and paced, restless. She ended at the piano, fingertips brushing ebony keys. Her father had taught her simple melodies when she was twelve. She pressed one key soft, tentative. The note rang clear, filling the penthouse's cavernous hush. She played another, piecing together the lullaby her mother used to hum. By the third bar, her fingers found confidence, weaving the melody through memories. Music spilled like gold thread, stitching warmth into marble and glass.
Unbeknownst to her, a tall figure paused in the shadowed hallway, listening. Ethan's expression was unreadable, as always, yet something in his posture had changed a subtle looseness, a tilting toward the sound.
He closed his eyes for one heartbeat, letting the music paint a fragment of childhood long buried beneath corporate takeovers and quarterly reports. Then, as if catching himself indulging in weakness, he opened his eyes, turned away, and disappeared.
Inside the suite, the lullaby faded to silence. Amara rested her palms on the cool keys, breathing slowly. She'd stepped into a gilded cage, but cages even golden ones could not hold the soul forever. She'd survive this year. She'd win this year whatever that meant.
Somewhere deep within, determination sparked brighter than fear.
And unbeknownst to her, far down the hall in a home office lined with floor‑to‑ceiling data screens, Ethan Blackwood studied an aerial night photo of the city. His thoughts, usually honed on profit margins, drifted instead to a trembling melody played by a woman who refused to break even when bought.
For the first time in years, he poured himself a drink, not because he needed sedation after a brutal negotiation, but because he felt something dangerously close to curiosity.