One Year As His Wife

Grace Morgan sat cross legged on the thin mattress that served as both her bed and the only soft surface in the tiny studio apartment, staring at the glowing screen of her laptop as if the email currently open in front of her will somehow rewrite itself into something less humiliating if she looked hard enough. Outside the single window that refused to close all the way, the city kept moving, car horns and distant sirens blending into the kind of background noise she had stopped noticing months ago, the same way she had stopped noticing the way her stomach clenched every time she checked her bank balance. She had sent out forty-seven job applications in the last three weeks, each one carefully tailored, each one carrying the quiet, desperate hope that this time someone would see past the gap in her résumé and the fact that her degree had not yet translated into anything for a stable income. Forty-six of those applications had already been answered with polite variations of the same rejection, and the forty-seventh, the one currently staring back at her, had arrived only twenty minutes earlier with a subject line so cheerfully final that it almost felt personal. We regret to inform you that the position has been filled. She read the sentence three times, as if the repetition might change it, but the words only settled deeper into the already crowded space behind her ribs that was already used to disappointment. The laptop battery icon flashed red at the corner of the screen. She had eighty-three dollars left until the end of the month, and rent was due in nine days. The thought of calling her mother and admitting that she was struggling with unpaid utilities and grocery store ramen felt worse than the actual emptiness of the fridge. Pride was a stubborn thing, even when it was the only thing she still owned. Grace closed the laptop with more force than necessary and pushed herself up from the mattress, padding barefoot across the cold floor toward the kitchenette. She filled a chipped mug with water from the tap and drank it slowly, buying herself a few extra seconds before she had to face the reality that none of her carefully constructed backup plans were working. The idea of returning home sat in the back of her mind like an unwelcome guest who refused to leave, complete with the imagined conversations and the quiet looks of concern that would follow her through every family gathering for the next decade. She had left that town with the kind of fierce determination that only a twenty-two-year-old fresh out of college could carry, certain that talent and hard work would be enough. Two years later, the city had taught her that talent and hard work were only half the equation, and the other half seemed to require either connections or the kind of luck she had never been good at attracting. Her phone buzzed against the counter, the screen lighting up with a message from Lila. The text was short and characteristically blunt, asking whether Grace had eaten anything that was not instant noodles in the last forty-eight hours. Grace typed back a dry reply and set the phone down again, she wasn’t ready to deal with her best friend’s concern in her already crowded evening. Lila meant well, but there was only so much sympathy Grace could absorb before it started to feel like another reminder of how far she had fallen short of the life she had imagined for herself. She was still standing there, mug in hand, when the knock came at the door. It was not the usual knock of a neighbour asking to borrow sugar or a delivery person who had the wrong apartment number. This knock was firm and entirely too confident for eight forty-seven on a Tuesday night in a building where most people preferred to pretend they did not know their neighbours existed. Grace set the mug down carefully and crossed the small space, pausing with her hand on the doorknob as a flicker of unease moved through her. She lived on the third floor of a building that did not have a working intercom, which meant whoever was standing on the other side of the door had either been buzzed in by someone else or had simply decided the locked front entrance was optional. She opened the door the width of the security chain and peered through the gap. The man standing in the narrow hallway did not look like anyone who belonged in a building with peeling paint and a chronically broken elevator. He was tall, dressed in a dark suit that probably cost more than three months of her rent. His hair was dark with the first traces of silver at the temples, and his expression was carefully neutral, as if he had already calculated every possible reaction she might have and found none of them particularly interesting. “Grace Morgan?” His voice was low and even, the kind of voice that did not need to raise itself to be heard. She kept the chain in place. “Who’s asking?” “My name is Marcus Hale. I work for Asher Blackwood.” He brought out a plain black envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and held it out through the narrow opening. “Mr. Blackwood would like to discuss a business proposition with you. Everything you need to know is inside. He is prepared to make it worth your time.” Grace stared at the envelope without taking it. “I think you have the wrong person.” “I do not,” Marcus said, still holding the envelope steady. “Your father worked for the Blackwood family several years ago. That connection is part of why Mr. Blackwood is reaching out now. He is offering a substantial sum of money in exchange for a temporary arrangement that would benefit both of you. The details are in the envelope. You are under no obligation, but he asks that you read it before making a decision.” The mention of her father landed with unexpected weight. Grace had not spoken about him in months, and the idea that his old employment history might somehow still be relevant felt strangely personal. She unlatched the chain after a long moment and accepted the envelope, careful not to let her fingers brush against his. Marcus inclined his head once, a gesture that managed to be both polite and final, and then turned and walked back toward the stairs without waiting for further questions.