I sat frozen in the leather chair, the echo of his words-*I need a wife*-reverberating in the silent, cavernous office. My mind scrambled to catch up, trying to assemble the pieces of this nightmare into something that made sense. Marriage? To a criminal? To this man, who radiated danger like a furnace radiates heat? It couldn't be real. I looked at him, searching his face for any hint of a joke, a cruel prank. There was nothing. His expression was utterly serious, his gray eyes holding me in place with an unnerving intensity.
My voice, when I finally found it, was a raw whisper. "You want to... marry me?"
He didn't even blink. "I want to hire you," he corrected, his tone chillingly matter-of-fact. "Marriage is the contract."
He leaned back in his throne-like chair, the picture of calm relaxation while my entire world was imploding. "Let me be clear, Miss Martins. This isn't about romance. This is a business transaction." He steepled his fingers again, a gesture of pure, untouchable authority. "In my line of work, perception is everything. My partners, my investors, my rivals-they trust family men. Stable men. A bachelor, especially at my age, is seen as unpredictable. A risk."
"So marry someone!" I interrupted, a spark of defiance cutting through my fear. "There must be a line of women who would kill to be your wife. Why me?"
His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, the only sign that my interruption had registered. "Because you're perfect for what I need." He said it so simply, so coldly.
"You're a nobody," he stated, and the blunt honesty of it was more painful than a direct insult. "You have no connections to my world, no hidden ambitions to use my name for your own gain, no messy family who might interfere." His gaze swept over me again, that same assessing look from before. "You're educated, you're presentable, and you have an air of innocence about you. You project the exact image I require." He paused, letting the words sink in before delivering the final, crushing blow. "And most importantly... you're desperate."
That word hit me like a physical slap.
"Desperate people," he continued, his voice devoid of any sympathy, "don't ask inconvenient questions. They obey."
A hot surge of anger, fierce and potent, finally burned through the fog of my terror. "I am not some... some object you can just buy and use."
He cut me off, his voice sharp as glass. "You are in my debt for two million dollars. Miss Martins, you are *exactly* that."
With a flick of his wrist, he slid a thick document bound in a dark blue folder across the polished expanse of his desk. It stopped just inches from my trembling hands. A contract.
"The terms are simple," he said, his voice returning to that calm, business-like cadence. "One: You will marry me in a legal, binding ceremony. It will be small, private, and devoid of spectacle. Two: You will live here, in this house, for the duration of the contract. Three: You will accompany me to any business dinners, charity galas, or social functions where a wife's presence is expected. Four: You will act the part. You will smile, you will be charming, and in public, you will play the role of a loving, devoted wife."
My hand shook as I reached out and touched the cover of the contract. It felt cold, heavy.
"Five," he added, his voice unwavering. "The marriage will last for exactly one year. Three hundred and sixty-five days. Not one day more."
My fingers, acting of their own accord, opened the folder. My teacher's instincts took over, my eyes scanning the dense paragraphs of legalese, searching for the traps I knew must be hidden there. I found a clause specifying separate bedrooms, and a wave of relief so profound it almost made me dizzy washed over me.
He must have seen the flicker of emotion on my face. "No physical relationship is required," he stated, as if discussing the weather. "That is, unless both parties consent."
My face burned with humiliation and rage. "I would never-"
"I'm not interested in forcing myself on anyone, Miss Martins," he cut in, his tone bored. "I have no shortage of willing partners for that. I need a wife in name, not in my bed."
I kept reading, my stomach tightening with every line. There were clauses about my behavior. *"The party of the second part shall not embarrass, publicly defy, or bring shame upon the party of the first part... will not attempt to leave the primary residence without express permission... will not discuss the nature of this agreement with any outside party..."*
"You want to isolate me," I whispered, looking up at him. "You want to make me a prisoner."
"I want to protect my investment," he corrected smoothly. "You are a liability. Until I know I can trust you, your movements and communications will be monitored."
My old life, my friends, my freedom-all to be locked away. Then my eyes fell on the final section of the contract, the part detailing his obligations.
"After one year, the contract is terminated," he explained, seeing where I was reading. "The divorce will be quiet, civilized, and handled by my lawyers. The paperwork is already drafted." He leaned forward. "Upon the dissolution of the marriage, your brother's debt will be marked as paid in full. Completely erased. And you will walk away with five hundred thousand dollars as compensation for your time."
My eyes widened. Half a million dollars. The number was so large it felt unreal. It was more money than I could hope to make in fifteen years of teaching. It was a new life.
"You'll be able to start over," he said, his voice a low, seductive promise. "Go anywhere in the world. Do anything you want. No one will ever know." He made it sound so simple. So reasonable. A fair trade.
But it wasn't. I pushed the contract back across the desk. "No." The word was shaky, but it was there. "This is insane. You're asking me to sell my life, my freedom, my..."
"Your life?" His voice hardened, losing its detached calm and taking on a sharp, mocking edge. "You mean your one-bedroom apartment, your mountain of bills, and your thirty-two-thousand-dollar-a-year salary? You wouldn't trade one year of mild discomfort to walk away from all that, a wealthy woman?"
I stood up, needing to put distance between us, to escape the magnetic pull of his logic. "It's not about the money! It's about... I'm not for sale!"
He rose to his feet as well, and the sheer size of him was overwhelming. He towered over me, a mountain of dark power and tailored silk. "Everyone is for sale, Miss Martins," he said, his voice dropping low. "The only question is the price."
I turned and moved toward the door, my body screaming for escape. "I won't do this. I'll find another way-"
"There is no other way."
His voice stopped me cold, more effective than a physical barrier. I turned back to face him. He was walking toward me, his steps slow and deliberate, the movements of a predator closing in.
"Let me tell you what happens if you walk out that door," he said, his tone chillingly calm. He listed my future as if reading from a menu. "Option one: I sell your debt. There are men in this city, competitors of mine, who are far less patient than I am. They will take everything you have. And when that's not enough, they will take you."
My breath hitched.
"Option two," he continued, relentless. "I call in the debt through more... conventional channels. My lawyers will bankrupt you. You'll lose your apartment, your car, your teaching license. No school board will hire a teacher with known connections to organized crime. Your life as you know it will be over."
He stopped, standing so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body. I had to tilt my head back to look at him, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
"Option three..." he said, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "I do nothing at all. I write off the debt as a loss. But your brother didn't just owe me money. He betrayed other partners. Dangerous men. They're still out there, and they will come looking for closure." He paused, his gray eyes locking onto mine. "And they know all about your niece. They know about Mia."
That name. Hearing it from his lips broke something inside me. A dam of rage and terror burst. "Don't you dare," I choked out, my voice shaking.
He didn't even flinch. "I have a code. I don't harm children. But I can't speak for everyone else in this city." He took the final step, closing the space between us. "Marry me, and I extend my protection over you. And over her. No one touches my family." His voice was absolute. "Refuse, and you are both on your own."
Tears burned the backs of my eyes, hot and furious. I fought them back, refusing to show him that weakness. "You're a monster."
"Yes," he agreed without a flicker of emotion. "But I'm the monster offering to save you."
It was an impossible choice. My life for my freedom. My soul for Mia's safety. I turned away from him, wiping angrily at my wet cheeks. I thought of Mia's sweet, smiling face, of her little hand in mine. I thought of a future spent looking over my shoulder, hunted and terrified, dragging her into the darkness Adam had created.
One year. It sounded like a lifetime and no time at all. One year of this. Married to him.
"I need time to think-"
"No." The word was final, absolute. "You decide now. In this room. The offer expires the moment you walk through that door. I don't wait for anyone."
My mind became a battlefield.
*This is slavery. You're signing your life away to a criminal.*
*But it's temporary. One year. You can survive anything for a year.*
*He's a killer. You can see it in his eyes.*
*But he's offering to protect Mia. To save her.*
*You'll lose yourself in this gilded cage.*
*But you'll walk away free. With enough money to give Mia the life she deserves.*
My gaze fell back to the desk, to the contract and the pen lying beside it. It felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. My hand, trembling, moved toward it. Dante watched me, silent and still, the hunter watching his prey walk into the trap.
I picked up the pen. "If I do this," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "If I sign... you promise? You promise Mia will be safe? That no one will ever touch her?"
"You have my word," he said, and the conviction in his voice was unnerving. "And in my world, Miss Martins, my word is the only law that matters."
I looked up into his stormy gray eyes, trying to see past the cold facade, searching for a hint of deception. I found nothing. Only certainty. I looked down at the signature line. One year of my life. I was twenty-three. I would be twenty-four when it was over. Still young. Still able to start again.
*Adam, forgive me,* I thought, a silent apology to my brother for the mess he'd left behind.
With a final, shuddering breath, I pressed the tip of the pen to the paper and signed my name: *Ella Martins*. The signature was a jagged, shaky mess, the autograph of a condemned woman. I put the pen down, a wave of nausea rolling through me.
Dante took the contract, his movements smooth and unhurried. He signed his own name-*Dante Russo*-in bold, confident strokes.
"Congratulations, Miss Martins," he said, the words devoid of any warmth, laced only with the cool satisfaction of a deal well made. "You're going to be my wife."
He pressed a button on an intercom on his desk. A moment later, the office door opened and a man I hadn't seen before entered. He was handsome, with kind eyes that seemed out of place in this environment.
"Marco, this is Ella," Dante said. "She will be living here. Starting today."
My head snapped up. "Today? But I need to get my things, my clothes-"
"Already being arranged," Dante said, cutting me off without even looking at me. "My men are at your apartment now, packing what you'll need."
A feeling of violation washed over me. "You were that sure I'd sign?"
He finally met my gaze, and a flicker of something-amusement, maybe?-crossed his face. "I'm always sure."
The man, Marco, gave me a small, respectful nod. "Ma'am. If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your room."
Numbly, I followed him out of the office. My legs felt disconnected from my body, moving on autopilot. At the door, I risked one last look back. Dante was standing at the massive window now, his back to me, looking out at the glittering expanse of the city below. His kingdom. He didn't turn around. To him, the transaction was complete. I was just another asset acquired.
Marco led me through the silent, opulent hallways. I was in such a state of shock that I barely registered the lavish details. He stopped at a door and opened it. "Your quarters, ma'am."
The room was breathtaking. A massive king-sized bed with a plush gray headboard dominated the space. There was a walk-in closet bigger than my entire bedroom back at my apartment, an adjoining bathroom clad in white marble, and glass doors leading to a private balcony. It was more luxurious than any hotel I had ever seen.
"Your belongings will arrive within the hour," Marco said politely. "Dinner is at seven. Someone will come to fetch you. If you need anything, just press this button on the wall." He pointed to a small intercom panel near the door, then left, closing the door softly behind him.
I was alone.
I walked on unsteady legs to the balcony doors and looked out over the manicured grounds. High stone walls topped with security wire encircled the entire property. A golden cage. I caught my reflection in the glass. The terrified girl staring back at me was a stranger. Who was she? This girl who had just sold herself to the devil?
My phone buzzed in my purse. I pulled it out. It was a text from Sarah, Adam's ex-wife. Attached was a photo of Mia on the swings, her face alight with a joyful, gap-toothed smile. The message read: *She's asking about you. When can we see you?*
My throat tightened, and a fresh wave of tears threatened to fall. I typed back a lie, my fingers clumsy. *Soon. I promise. I love you both.*
I put the phone down and sank onto the edge of the ridiculously large bed. The silk comforter was cool beneath my hands. The full weight of what I had just done crashed down on me, suffocating me.
I had signed a contract with the devil. One year of my life in exchange for a future. But as I sat there, in that beautiful, empty room, a terrifying thought took root in my mind: What if the price wasn't just my time? What if, by the end of this year, he owned my soul too?