Emma
I've made a deal with the devil.
Ethan Grayson's cold, sharp eyes followed me as my father and I left his sleek, glass-encased office in a stumbling manner. My pulse makes a repetitive sound like a war drum, my stomach knots tighter with every step we take toward the elevator.
"Emma, you can't perform this unpleasant action." My father's voice is raw, breaking with guilt. "I'll find another way. There has to be another way."
I push down the elevator button harder than necessary, not taking notice of the sheen of sweat on my palms. "What other way, Dad? Huh? Because I don't see people lining up to save us. I don't see investors throwing their fortunes at a disgraced man accused of embezzlement!"
The bite in my words isn't fair, but I can't stop them. I'm too furious. At him. At Ethan. At myself.
The elevator doors open with a soft chime. We step inside, and I hit the ground-floor button. The silence between us is suffocating, the hum of the descending car the only sound.
"Emma," he tries again, his voice involuntarily shake. "This isn't the life I wanted for you. I failed you, and now—"
I spin to face him, my vision blurred with unshed tears. "You didn't just fail me, Dad. You failed Mom. You failed yourself. And now you're asking me to pay for your mistakes with my life. A year of my life."
He falls back like I've struck him, his shoulders lose firmness under the weight of my words. I immediately regret the venom in my tone, but the apology dies on my lips.
Because the truth is that,to fix this, there's no apology big enough.
By the time we step outside, the chilly New York air hits me like a slap, its icy fingers clawing at my skin. My father hails a cab, but I linger on the sidewalk, staring up at the towering skyscraper that houses Ethan Grayson's empire.
He owns this city.
And now, he owns me too.
Ethan
Her defiance is intoxicating.
I watch through the tinted glass of my office as Emma Whitmore steps into a cab. Her head is held high, her movements sharp with frustration. It's fascinating, really. How someone with so much fight still chooses to bend when pushed.
But that's the thing about desperation—it makes people pliable.
"Was that necessary?" Olivia asks, her arms crossed as she leans against the doorway.
I glance at my assistant, her expression an irritating mix of judgment and curiosity. "Was what necessary?"
"Demanding a marriage contract," she says, arching a brow. "There are easier ways to deal with Whitmore's mess. Ways that don't involve ruining his daughter's life."
"Her life isn't ruined," I reply, my tone clipped. "If anything, I'm saving it."
Olivia snorts. "Right. Because marrying the infamous Ethan Grayson is every girl's dream."
My jaw tightens. "Do you have a point, Olivia, or are you just here to moralize?"
Her expression softens slightly, but she doesn't withdraw her claim. "Just make sure you know what you're doing, Ethan. Emma's not like the others. She won't bow to you without a fight."
I smirk, turning back to the skyline. "Good. I wouldn't want her to."
Emma
The contract arrives the next morning.
A glossy, leather-bound folder accompanied by a note in Ethan's handwriting is delivered to our door:'' You have 24 hours to decide''.
I have just twenty-four hours. To trade my freedom for salvation.
My father's already moving forward along the kitchen, his hands wringing like he's trying to squeeze the guilt out of them. "Emma, please. Don't sign it. We'll find another way. I can—"
"You can do what?" I snap, slamming the folder onto the table. "Take out another loan? Beg another billionaire for mercy? We've tried everything, Dad. This is it. This is the only way to save what's left of our family."
He stops pacing, his face crumpling like parchment. "I extremely dislike that it's come to this. I hate that I've put you in this position."
For a moment, I want to comfort him. To tell him it's not his fault. But that would be a lie. It is his fault.
And now,the responsibility is mine to clean up the mess.
The day passes in a blur of emotionally out of control indecision. My mother calls, her voice trembling with concern, but I can't bring myself to tell her the real thing. She doesn't need to know how bad it's gotten. Not yet.
I'm sitting alone in the dim light of our living room,by the time the sun sets,the folder is still not opened on the coffee table. My fingers remain suspended over it, my heart pounding as I imagine the life I'm about to agree to.
A life bound to Ethan Grayson.
Ethan
The call arrives at exactly 11:59 PM.
"Miss Whitmore," I reply smoothly, leaning back in my chair. "To what do I owe the sensual gratification?"
Her voice is tight, controlled, but I can hear the narrow break beneath the surface. "I'll do it. I'll sign the contract."
I smile, satisfaction curling in my chest. "Good. My lawyer will finalize the details tomorrow. I trust you'll be ready."
There's a pause, and for a moment, I wonder if she'll withdraw. But then she speaks, her words clipped and covered with ice.
"Don't mistake this for submission, Mr. Grayson..Don't think for a second that I'll make this easy for you." I'm agreeing because I have no choice.
Her act of defying sends a thrill through me, but I keep my tone even. "Oh, I wouldn't expect anything less, Emma."
The line goes dead, and I set the phone down, a slow smile spreading across my face.
Let the games begin.
Emma
I sign the contract the next morning.
Ethan's lawyer is a shark in a tailored suit, his words precise and his behavior toward other colder than the Manhattan wind. He slides the papers across the table, his expression is impossible to read and understand.
"Once you sign, the terms are binding," he says. "There will be no corrections or renegotiations."
I hold back in doubt, the weight of the pen heavy in my hand. My father sits beside me, his face is not bright and drawn, but he doesn't say a word.
I scrawl my name across the dotted line, with a deep breath each stroke of the pen sealing my fate.
The lawyer nods, collecting the papers with mechanical efficiency. "Mr. Grayson will be in touch regarding the next steps. Good day, Miss Whitmore."
As the door closes behind him, I feel the air leave the room, my chest strongly fixed with the realization of what I've just done.
The next time I see Ethan, it's not in his office.
He arrives at our penthouse without any prior announcement, his presence commanding as he steps through the door like he is the owner of the place.
And maybe he does now.
"Miss Whitmore," he greets, his tone infuriatingly polite. "Are you ready?"
"For what?" I ask, my voice sharper than intended.
He smirks, holding out a hand. "To start your new life as Mrs. Grayson."
My stomach twists as I look fixedly at his outstretched hand, the enormity of what I've agreed to crashing over me. But before I can respond, Ethan leans closer, his voice dropping to a low, involving possible harm whisper.
"Remember, Emma. You're mine now. And I don't share."