The down elevator trip from Laurel Heights Corporate Tower seemed like a lifetime. Holding the big packet Noah Blackwood had given me, its contents still unopened, my palms shook. I half-expected the receptionist to stop me, as if leaving the premises without considering his ridiculous suggestion would somehow be against the policies.
I have to have a wife.
His comments rang in my head nonstop. Who executed that? Who suggested marriage in the way it was just another corporate merger? And why am I among others? Of all the women he might have chosen—wealthier, more polished, someone from his high-societal environment—he would have focused on me.
Cold breeze cut through my flimsy jacket by the time I arrived at the street, jogging me back to reality. Away from Noah Blackwood's stifling presence and the unworkable offer he had just made, I wanted space to consider.
The return trip to my little studio seemed more than normal. My ideas flew, every stride weightier than the next. Slightly above, the lamps created shadows on broken sidewalks. Life outside Noah's building was genuine, gritty, and hard. It was not shiny.
I arrived at my studio, a converted industrial loft sandwiched between a defunct café and a dry cleaners. The poor "Harper Creative Designs" sign fluttered just over the door. This site had once been my dream. It seemed now like a decaying remnant of what could have been.
Inside, I smelled stale coffee and printer toner, familiar. Overdue bills, customer rejection emails, and half-finished logo ideas piled on my desk. Reality struck like a kick to the gut—Noah was correct. My company was on a thread, and I had no backup.
I slipped into the old office chair and at last tore open the envelope. Inside was a well written legal document called a marriage contract proposal.
My air stopped. He hadn't been acting in bluffs. Every detail—including marital length, public appearances, and financial stipulations that would rescue my company over night—was described. He had offered an incredible sum—enough to cover my debt, grow the studio, and guarantee my future.
But at what expense?
The buzz of my phone was constant. Gracie.
Knowing she would see right through me, I hesitated but I wanted her honest straight forward approach.
Hey, I said, trying to seem natural.
'At last! The conference went as follows: Have you brought in the customer? Her voice hummed with eagerness.
client. correct. I gave a hard swallow. It was not what I had anticipated.
She Stopped. "Isla, what occurred?""
I bit my lip, wondering just how much to say. "It was... really difficult. Neither a client. More precisely, like an offer.
Offer: Her voice became more pointedly suspicious. "What kind of deal is this? "
Please marry me. The words stayed right out of my lips. "Something unconventional," I hedged.
"Isla." The voice of Grace softened. "Are you ok?" You sound... strange.
I'm good. The lie felt hollow. Just processing.
She sighed. " Whatever it is, just promise me you won't do anything crazy out of desperation."
My eyelids closed tightly. Right late. "I'll be good." I promise.
After hanging up, I fell back into my chair, gazing at the contract. Every feeling shouted that this was a horrible concept—a trap covered in financial stability. Walking away, however, guaranteed definite disaster.
Pros:
✔ Debts-free.
✔ Studio development
✔ Stability in career.
Cons:
✘ Linked to a cold, pragmatic guy I mistrust.
✘ No emotional connection at all.
✘ Legal responsibilities I was not quite clear about.
The nasty arithmetic refused to balance. This was survival, not a choice about love or even respect.
The ramifications still troubled me as a strong knock broke the silence. Heart hammering, I hurried to the door half-expecting Noah personally. Rather, there was Mark, my landlord, with his always present doom-oriented checklist.
"Miss Harper," he said, his voice equal parts bored and predatory. You two are two months behind.
"I know," I said, stuttering. "I am working on it."
"You've been 'working on it' for three months." He touched the copybook. " rents or evictions. Near the end of the week.
My gut turned over. "Please; I just need a few more days."
"No extensions," he said, cutting in "Business is Business."
His comments were like icy water running down my spine. Losing my studio was just one aspect of this; I was losing all I had battled.
Desperation wrapped tightly about me. Mark went, and I collapsed against the cold metal sealed behind him. Sitting angrily on my desk, Noah's contract dared me to take away my freedom.
Could I really wed a guy like him? someone not familiar with the definition of warmth or compassion? Someone who saw me as a tool for achieving a goal, not different from a corporate merger?
The response came home from my phone driven by the blinking eviction warning.
Sometimes survival calls for making hard decisions.
I turned to get a pen.
The contract shook in my hands as I signed the line, therefore securing a future I was unable to avoid.