The contract arrived by private courier two hours after I left Vance Holdings. It was bound in crisp, black leather, the pages within smelling of new ink and unyielding legality. I spent the night hunched over my kitchen table, a single lamp pushing back the darkness, as I read every soul-crushing clause.
It was worse than I could have imagined.
Clause 7.2: The Parties agree to maintain a shared primary residence for the duration of the Term.
Clause 8.4: The Wife shall make herself available for a minimum of two (2) public appearances per month and all family functions requested by the Husband.
Clause 11.1: The Parties agree to strict confidentiality regarding the nature of this Agreement. Any breach of this confidentiality will result in immediate forfeiture of all remaining financial compensation and legal action.
It went on. Sections on media conduct, discretion, acceptable attire. A list of approved designers I'd never heard of. A clause stipulating I was to be "pleasant and engaging" but "not overly familiar" with Mr. Vance in public. It was a job description for the role of "Wife," and the salary was my freedom.
The most chilling part was Appendix B: The Annulment Agreement, pre-written and waiting, a ticking clock on our non-existent marriage from the very first day.
I signed it at dawn, my hand cramping as I scrawled my name on a dozen dotted lines. There was no ceremony to it. No deep breath. Just the cold, final scratch of the pen. I was too numb for tears. This was the price, and I had chosen to pay it.
Friday arrived under a blanket of oppressive grey clouds. I dressed in a simple, cream-colored silk shift dress I'd found on a desperate, dizzying shopping trip the day before, funded by a small, terrifying cash advance Julian had arranged. It was elegant and utterly impersonal. The perfect costume.
I took a taxi to the courthouse, my small overnight bag on the seat beside me. According to Clause 7.3, I was to move into the penthouse immediately following the ceremony. My entire life had been condensed into one bag. The rest, Alexander's efficient assistant had informed me via a terse email, would be "handled."
Julian was waiting on the courthouse steps, his expression a mask of professional calm. "Ready?"
"No," I said honestly.
He gave a tight smile. "It will be quick."
He led me inside, down a sterile linoleum hallway, to a small, windowless room that smelled of lemon disinfectant and lost hope. A clerk stood behind a cheap wooden desk. And there, standing before a bored-looking justice of the peace, was Alexander Vance.
He wore a dark, impeccably tailored suit, no different from any other day. There was no boutonniere, no smile, no light in his eyes. He glanced at me as I entered, his gaze sweeping over my dress with a brief, analytical nod, as if I'd chosen an acceptable piece of office equipment.
My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it. The point of no return was no longer a concept in a contract; it was this airless room, this stranger in a suit, this official with a tired smile.
"Shall we begin?" the justice of the peace asked, opening a small, worn booklet.
We took our places before him. Alexander stood a full foot away from me, his posture rigid. I could feel the cold emanating from him, a force field of disinterest.
The words of the ceremony were a bland, generic stream. To have and to hold… in sickness and in health… for as long as you both shall live. Each vow was a grotesque parody. I kept my eyes fixed on a scuff mark on the floor, my cheeks burning with a shame so profound it felt like a physical weight.
"Do you, Alexander, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"I do." His voice was flat, devoid of all emotion. A statement of fact.
"And do you, Elara, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
I felt the eyes of everyone in the room on me. Julian, the witness, looking politely away. The clerk, faintly curious. Alexander, waiting.
The word stuck in my throat, a traitorous lump. No. No, I don't. I take the money. I take the escape. I don't take him.
"I do," I whispered.
The justice of the peace pronounced us husband and wife. "You may kiss the bride."
A wave of pure panic seized me. I hadn't considered this. A perfunctory peck for the paperwork, perhaps. But the way Alexander stiffened beside me told me he hadn't considered it either, or he had and found the idea repugnant.
He turned to me, his expression unreadable. There was a long, awkward pause. The justice of the peace cleared his throat.
Alexander leaned in, his movement swift and efficient. He didn't touch me anywhere else. He simply inclined his head and pressed his lips to my cheek. The contact was brief, dry, and cold as marble. It lasted less than a second, but the sensation branded my skin. It wasn't a kiss. It was a seal. A final, cold stamp on our transaction.
He pulled back, his face an impassive mask once more. "Shall we go?" he said, his tone suggesting a business meeting had just concluded.
I numbly signed the marriage certificate, my new name...Elara Vance looking alien and wrong on the page. As I put the pen down, my phone buzzed in my clutch. A notification from my bank.
Deposit: $1,000,000.00.
The world tilted. The zeros were a blinding, nauseating confirmation. It was done. My family was saved. My life was sold.
Alexander was already walking out of the room, not looking back to see if I followed. Julian gave me a sympathetic look and gestured for me to go after him.
I stood alone for a moment in the empty room, the scent of his cologne still a ghost in the air, the phantom chill of his kiss on my cheek, and the weight of a million dollars, a king's ransom, burning a hole in my soul.
My husband was gone. And I was expected to go home with him.