Rhys stood in front of me, coat unbuttoned, eyes darker than usual like the night pressed into them.
He didn't sit.
He didn't come closer.
He just stood there looking at me like he was trying to read every thought burning behind my ribs.
"You walked out fast," he said.
"I needed space."
"I know."
He said it like he meant it.
Like he understood.
Like he remembered being seventeen on a rainy street with me crying in front of him and how much space he created when he left.
His eyes flicked to my hands, still gripping the bench.
"You're cold," he said softly.
"I'm fine."
"You're shaking."
I looked down.
Damn it.
I unclenched my hands.
"Rhys," I murmured, "I don't need you to fix everything."
"I'm not trying to fix everything."
He paused.
"Just… something."
His voice cracked at the last word, so lightly that I almost thought I imagined it.
He finally sat beside me, leaving a careful space between us as if the air itself was fragile.
For a moment, we just breathed.
Quietly.
Cautiously.
Then he said it:
"You didn't sign because you wanted to."
"No," I agreed. "I didn't."
"You signed because of the debt."
I didn't answer.
He continued anyway.
"And because you think I owe you."
My chest tightened; I turned to him sharply.
"I never said that."
"You didn't have to."
His words were calm.
Too calm.
Like he'd already rehearsed them in his head before saying them out loud.
He looked out at the street instead of at me.
"Reece… you think I left because I wanted to."
He breathed in slowly, jaw tight.
"But the truth is more complicated than that."
There it was.
The edge of the secret.
The one he never explained.
The one that lived under my anger and grief like a splinter.
My heart pounded.
"Then tell me," I whispered. "Tell me why you left."
His hands tightened on his knees.
"Not tonight."
My chest dropped.
"Rhys, "
"Not tonight," he repeated, voice thick with something like guilt. "Because once I tell you, everything changes."
The words hit like a blade.
Because part of me already knew.
Already feared.
Already felt the shape of the truth, even if I had never touched it.
He turned to me then.
Finally.
Eyes open.
Unguarded.
And the look he gave me stole the air from my lungs.
"Reece… you're not ready for that history."
A bitter laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
"I survived the version where you walked away," I said. "How much worse could the truth possibly be?"
His silence answered for him.
Much worse.
Infinitely worse.
I stood abruptly, the weight of his unspoken confession pressing hot and heavy against my spine.
"I agreed to the marriage," I said, voice tight but steady. "Because I had no choice. Because my family needs me. Because your board needs a solution. But don't mistake that for trust."
He flinched.
Actually flinched.
"I don't trust you," I whispered.
His throat bobbed.
"I know."
"Then don't expect me to wait forever for answers that should've come years ago."
His eyes dropped.
"I'll tell you," he whispered. "When it's time."
"When it's time," I repeated, swallowing the frustration rising in my chest. "Or when the truth is convenient?"
His jaw clenched.
I immediately regretted the words, because I saw pain flash through his eyes before he hid it again.
I sighed.
"This marriage, this contract, this year… I'm doing it because I have to."
He nodded once.
"And I'm doing it," he said quietly, "because I owe you the truth."
His voice shook just enough for me to hear what he didn't say:
And I owe you more than that.
I stepped back.
"I need to go home."
He rose with me.
"I'll take you."
"No."
He froze.
I forced a breath.
"I need space tonight," I said. "And honesty tomorrow."
He didn't argue.
He just nodded.
Slowly.
Thoughtfully.
Like he was imprinting my words on his skin.
"Tomorrow, then."
I turned away.
But as I walked toward the street, his voice reached me, quiet, raw, almost broken.
"Reece."
I paused.
"Whatever you think happened," he said, "the truth is worse for me than it ever was for you."
I swallowed hard.
But I didn't look back.
I couldn't.
Because if I had turned around in that moment,
I would've seen the man I used to love.
Not the man I was forced to marry.
And that was history I wasn't ready to face.
Not yet.
Not tonight.
Not when his unspoken truth still lived like a storm on the horizon.
There is a moment, right after a life-altering choice, when the world goes perfectly, horrifyingly still.
No noise.
No movement.
Just the echo of the decision you can't take back.
That silence stayed with me long after I walked away from Rhys in the park.
Long after my anger cooled into something quieter.
Long after I realized that everything had already changed, whether I was ready or not.
And the next morning, that silence followed me right back into Sterling Tower.
Because today, the ink would dry.
And once it did, nothing fear, not regret, not unspoken history, could undo what we'd signed.
Sterling Tower, 9:02 a.m.
The elevator opened to the executive floor with a soft chime that sounded entirely too calm for the way my heart raced.
I'd barely stepped out into the marble hallway when I saw him.
Rhys.
Standing at the glass wall with his back to me, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone loosely at his side. His posture was straight, controlled, every inch of him composed like someone who knew how to command a room without speaking a word.
But the tension in his shoulders?
That wasn't business.
That was us.
As if sensing me, he turned.
His eyes found mine immediately, sharp, dark, unreadable, and for a moment neither of us moved.
Not until he slipped his phone away and said, quietly:
"Reece."
"Morning," I managed.
We stood facing each other in the wide hallway, sunlight stretching between us like a thin, fragile line.
He studied me, slowly, carefully, as if checking whether I'd slept, whether I'd eaten, whether I was still in one piece after last night's conversation.
I wasn't.
But I was standing, so that counted.
He nodded toward the conference room.
"They're waiting."
They.
The lawyers.
The notary.
The witnesses.
The people who would turn our signatures into a legally binding marriage arrangement.
A shiver crawled down my spine.
Not from fear.
From finality.
Inside the Conference Room
The room looked different today.
Or maybe I was different.
The long table was set with two thick packets, our copies of the fully executed contract. Several pens arranged neatly. A notary with a neutral expression. Two lawyers waiting with clipped professionalism.
Rhys pulled a chair out for me.
I hesitated.
Just for a heartbeat.
Then I sat.
He lowered into the seat beside me, closer than yesterday, but still leaving a polite distance between us. A distance that felt too wide and too narrow all at once.
The notary cleared her throat.
"We'll begin with verification of identity and signatures. Once complete, both parties will initial each page. After that, the agreement becomes legally binding."
My stomach tightened.
Each page.
Every line.
Every clause Rhys insisted on.
Separate rooms.
No intimacy.
Boundaries thick enough to choke on.
Public affection that wasn't real.
Ink and paper were about to make all of it irreversible.
The notary passed me the pen first.
A black fountain pen, heavy and expensive, cool against my fingers.
My name sat at the bottom of the first page.
REECE KAY.
In my handwriting.
In my decision.
My throat tightened as I touched the pen to the paper.
The soft scratch of ink felt louder than thunder.
When I finished the first initial, I inhaled shakily.
One down.
Dozens to go.
I moved through the pages slowly. Carefully. Each initial felt like attaching bricks to my ribs.
Beside me, Rhys was silent.
But I could feel his attention like heat.
Not hovering.
Just… there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Bearing witness.
When I reached the page outlining the bedroom arrangement, separate rooms, locked doors, no shared spaces after midnight, I paused.
My hand trembled.
Not because of him.
Because this page was the clearest reminder of everything we once were, and everything we'd never be again.
Rhys noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His voice dropped low, meant only for me.
"If you want to renegotiate that clause, we can."
"I don't."
He exhaled through his nose.
"Reece,"
"I signed it," I whispered. "I'll live it."
The lawyer glanced up at us curiously.
Rhys went still.
Very still.
Then he said nothing.
Because there was nothing left to say that wouldn't expose us.
Halfway Through
My fingers began to ache around the pen.
The notary kept her expression blank, but she didn't miss the tremor in my hand. No one did.
Except maybe the lawyers.
They looked at us without seeing anything.
Rhys saw everything.
When I paused to stretch my fingers, he slid a glass of water toward me without a word.
A simple gesture.
But it was the most intimate thing allowed between us.
I took a sip.
He watched my hands, not my face.
Like he knew touching me wasn't allowed, but helping me was.
"Thank you," I murmured.
He nodded once, jaw tight.
It wasn't gratitude he reacted to.
It was the softness.
Softness that wasn't supposed to exist anymore.
The Final Page
The last page nearly undid me.
Not because of the words.
But because the space for my signature waited directly above Rhys's.
Two names.
One last act binding us together.
For one year.
For stability.
For survival.
For everything except love.
My chest rose and fell too fast.
The pen felt heavier than it should.
My breath hitched before I touched ink to paper.
This was it.
The end of freedom.
The beginning of something else entirely.
I signed.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Fully.
The moment the ink settled, something inside me shifted, like a door creaking shut behind me.
I wasn't sure whether I'd stepped into a cage or a sanctuary.
Maybe both.
The notary turned the document to Rhys.
His pen rested between his fingers, steady, controlled, annoyingly confident.
But his eyes?
They weren't steady at all.
He looked at my signature for a long moment.
Too long.
As if he was memorizing it.
As if part of him still couldn't believe it was there.
Then he signed beneath mine.
RHYS STERLING LAWSON.
His handwriting was sharp, deliberate, unmistakable.
And when the pen lifted,
when the loop of the last letter dried,
a quiet crackle filled the air.
A shift.
A current.
Electric.
Undeniable.
Not seen.
But felt.
It pulsed between us, through us, like something ancient waking up under the weight of ink.
The notary smiled professionally.
"Congratulations. The agreement is officially binding."
Congratulations.
As if we'd just won something.
Rhys didn't look away from the page.
Neither did I.
Because that paper wasn't just a contract.
It was a burial.
A rebirth.
A battlefield.
And somewhere deep beneath my ribs, a truth throbbed:
This wasn't the end of anything.
It was the beginning of a story neither of us were ready to tell.
Afterward
Everyone stood.
Chairs scraping. Papers shuffling. Lawyers packing up their briefcases.
But Rhys and I remained seated.
Frozen at the same moment.
The ink between us is cooling like molten metal.
He finally lifted his gaze to mine.
His voice came out low and hoarse:
"It's done."
I nodded.
"Yes."
"Reece…"
My heart stumbled.
Not because of the word.
Because of the way he said it.
Soft.
Raw.
Like the name meant something again.
He swallowed tightly.
"Are you alright?"
I should've lied.
I should've said I was fine.
But the contract didn't just bind us.
It took honesty with it.
"No," I whispered. "Not really."
His jaw clenched.
The kind of clench that meant he wanted to reach for me but knew he couldn't.
The distance between us suddenly felt unbearable.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Like everything I'd ever wanted from him was sitting on the tip of a knife we weren't allowed to touch.
Then he said something I didn't expect.
"Neither am I."
The words were quiet.
Unsteady.
Almost broken.
I inhaled sharply.
The lawyer opened the door.
"We can escort you both downstairs,"
Rhys held up a hand.
"Give us a moment."
The lawyers stepped out.
Silence filled the room again.
Thick. Heavy. Charged.
I looked down at my hands.
He looked at me.
And for one terrifying second, I felt it:
The contract might've ruled out intimacy…
…but it didn't kill what lived between us.
It only buried it under rules.
Rules that were already shaking.
Already cracking.
Already struggling to contain everything we weren't saying.
Rhys exhaled slowly.
Quietly.
Then he whispered, almost to himself:
"The ink is dry."
He wasn't talking about the paper.
He was talking about us.
About the finality.
About the year ahead.
About the past we were both still drowning in.
I stood before I lost the ability to.
"We should go."
He rose too.
But he didn't walk ahead of me.
Or behind me.
He walked beside me.
As if we were already married.
As if the contract wasn't made of distance.
As if ink had the power to change everything,
and maybe it already has.
I kept my eyes forward.
Because if I looked at him,
if I let myself feel anything beyond survival,
I knew exactly what would happen,
and what could never happen again.
The ink was dry.
But nothing else was.
Not us.
Not our history.
Not the storm waiting between the lines we signed.
And the worst part?
Somewhere deep in my chest…
a small, reckless part of me whispered that I wasn't afraid of the storm.
I was afraid of what it might uncover.
I never realized how small my apartment was until the moment I unlocked the door and stepped inside with the weight of a signed marriage contract pressing between my shoulder blades.
Maybe it wasn't the space that felt small.
Maybe it was me.
Maybe it was everything I had been holding together with thin thread, fear, duty, resentment, memories, and now that the ink was dry, I didn't know where to put any of it.
The door clicked shut behind me.
My choice.
My freedom.
My life before Rhys Sterling re-entered it like a storm that didn't ask for permission.
I dropped my keys into the ceramic bowl by the door and exhaled shakily.
"Okay," I whispered to myself. "Focus."
Pack.
Sort.
Prepare.
Because tomorrow, I will move into his world.
And tonight, I would say goodbye to mine.
I walked into the bedroom and pulled out the old suitcase from under my bed, its wheels squeaking in protest. I unzipped it and began folding clothes mechanically, stacking them in neat piles that looked far more organized than I felt.
Shirt.
Jeans.
Sweater.
Breath.
Breathe, Reece.
You signed the contract.
You can handle the fallout.
I shoved another shirt into the suitcase, ignoring the way my fingers shook.
But I wasn't ready for the knock.
Soft.
Low.
Two controlled taps.
Not a neighbor.
Not a delivery.
Not someone who didn't know me.
My heart slammed into my ribs.
No.
Not here.
Not now.
But my feet already knew the truth, moving me toward the door even before my mind caught up.
I opened it.