The hospital smelled like antiseptic and fear.
I hated both.
I sat stiffly in the chair outside the ICU, my hands clenched in my lap as machines beeped behind the glass wall. My father lay motionless on the bed, his skin pale, his chest rising unevenly.
Alive.
For now.
"You have thirty minutes," the nurse said quietly. "Without payment authorization, we'll have to move him."
Move him.
That was a polite word for give up.
My phone vibrated.
I didn't need to look at the screen to know who it was.
Damien Cross.
I stood and walked down the hallway, my heels echoing against the polished floor like a countdown.
He was waiting near the window, hands in his pockets, suit immaculate—as if he hadn't just offered to buy my life.
"You work fast," I said bitterly.
"I value efficiency," he replied without turning. "Especially when time is expensive."
I laughed hollowly. "You enjoy this, don't you?"
Now he turned.
Slowly.
His eyes were dark, unreadable.
"I enjoy winning," he said. "Your situation is unfortunate, but not personal."
Not personal.
My father lay dying, and this man called it unfortunate.
"You framed him," I said through clenched teeth. "You destroyed our company. You took everything from us."
Damien studied me for a long moment.
Then he said, "Sit."
I didn't move.
"I'm not your employee."
"No," he agreed calmly. "You're something else."
His gaze flicked briefly toward the ICU.
"Sit, Ivy. Or we're done."
My body trembled with fury—but I sat.
He pulled out a slim folder and placed it on the small table between us.
A contract.
Thick. Clean. Already prepared.
"One year," Damien said. "Legally married. You attend events. Smile when necessary. Speak when spoken to."
My fingers curled.
"And in return?"
"I pay for your father's treatment. Every bill. Every procedure. No questions."
I swallowed hard.
"And after one year?"
"We divorce," he said. "Quietly. You walk away with nothing except your father alive."
My chest ached.
I flipped open the contract with shaking hands.
Clause after clause stabbed at me.
No infidelity.
No public defiance.
No pregnancy.
No emotional involvement.
I laughed softly.
"You really think you're someone I'd fall in love with?"
Damien's lips curved faintly.
"No," he said. "I think you're smart enough not to."
I looked up sharply.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping.
"This marriage is not about love. It's about control."
My nails dug into the paper.
"And if I break the rules?" I asked.
His eyes hardened.
"Then I break you."
The words were quiet.
Certain.
They chilled me to the bone.
I shoved the folder back toward him. "You're sick."
"Yes," he agreed easily. "But I'm also your only option."
I glanced back toward the ICU.
My father shifted slightly, his brow furrowing as if even unconscious, he could feel me hesitating.
I stood abruptly.
"You think you own me," I said. "But you don't."
Damien rose as well.
We stood inches apart now.
Electric. Hostile.
"I don't need to own you," he said calmly. "I just need your signature."
Silence stretched between us.
I hated him.
I hated the way he looked at me like a chess piece.
I hated that he was right.
Slowly, I picked up the pen.
But before I signed, I met his gaze.
"This doesn't make you powerful," I said. "It makes you a coward."
For the first time—
Something flickered in his eyes.
Gone in an instant.
"You'll learn," he said quietly, "that power doesn't care how it's earned."
I signed.
The pen scratched across the page like a death sentence.
Damien took the contract, glanced at it once, and nodded.
"Good," he said. "You'll move into my penthouse tonight."
Tonight.
Already.
He turned to leave, then paused.
"Oh—and Ivy?"
I looked up.
"Fall in love," he said coldly, "and you lose everything."
He walked away without another glance.
I stood there alone, my signature burning in my mind.
I had just married the man I hated most.
And to save my father—
I had sold myself to the devil.