Married by contr

chapter 1

I woke up with my heart already racing. My eyes flicked to the clock on the nightstand, 7:02 AM. I promised myself I would sleep in, but my brain hit “panic” ten minutes before the alarm even buzzed. I bolted upright, tangled in sheets. My apartment was a mess, a stack of unpaid bills on the table, a half-empty coffee mug on the windowsill, and my phone blinking “no service” at me.

I swung my legs over the bed and nearly kicked the nightstand, feeling a sudden jolt. Of course. Every bruise in my body felt like a reminder that life has not been kind lately. I slid into yesterday’s jeans, put on a blouse, then stared at my reflection, hair stranded in knots, dark circles under my eyes. I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Okay, Emma,” I said out loud. “You’ve got fourteen minutes to look human. No crying. No exploding.”

By 7:15 AM I was in the hallway, rushing for the elevator. My tote bag swung against my hip, laptop, charger, contract copies, and an emergency granola bar. I pressed the button, paced, then checked my watch. Seven-eight, seven-nine… The doors slid open. I hopped in, smoothed my hair with more force than necessary, caught a glimpse of myself in the metal walls. One fly-away strand dared me to give up. I ignored it.

Outside the building, the air smelled like exhaust and hot asphalt. I hustled toward the taxi stand, nearly ran into a jogger who glared. “Sorry,” I muttered, hands up. I held out my phone, Uber was still loading. My thumb swiped, swiped… “Come on, come on.” The app finally loaded and pinged “Driver assigned.” Relief. I leaned against the building and sucked in a breath.

My phone buzzed:

Unknown: “Ready to sign your life away?”

My chest tightened. I swallowed. Not now. I deleted it without reading it twice.

A taxi pulled up. I climbed in, gave the address. The driver grunted. I pulled out my contract and flipped to page three, the signature line. My thumb traced the blank. Six months marriage to someone I’d never met. I closed my eyes and let the memory of Lucas’s pale hospital face fill me. Bills stacking like dirty dishes. I nodded at the driver. “Go.”

Downtown traffic crawled. I tapped my pen against the folder, glanced at my reflection in the rearview mirror. New crease in my shirt. Couldn’t even look neat. A car honked. “Yeah, I know I’m underdressed,” I wanted to shout, but I stayed quiet.

At Blackwood Industries, I paid the fare, dashed out. My heel snagged on a curb. I stumbled, nearly face-planted. A stranger caught my arm. “Hey, you OK?” she asked. I sucked in a lungful of air. “Thanks. I’m fine.”

I spotted the revolving doors. Steel and glass, stretching two stories high. In the lobby, a guard lounged at the desk, eating a granola bar. I paused. Should I have called ahead? No. The instructions were clear: show up, sign, leave.

I cleared my throat. “Good morning.” My voice cracked like an old floorboard. He glanced at me without looking up. If he was impressed by my résumé, he didn’t show it. I nodded and headed for the elevators.

I pressed the button. My heart felt like a jackhammer. The doors opened. I stepped in and noticed five other people, well-dressed in suits, checking their phones or staring at the floor. No one spoke. I squeezed into a corner. The elevator hummed up. Third floor, then fourth… I texted my mom: “I’m gonna be late. Wish me luck.” No reply. Of course.

On the top floor, a line of sleek doors faced me. A small sign read “Mia Chen – Executive Assistant.” Mia looked up at me with precisely that mix of politeness and “I’ve got a thousand other things to do.” She tapped a code. The door clicked open before I could knock.

“Emma Clarke?” she prompted, voice soft but brisk.

“That’s me,” I said, swallowing.

“Right this way.” She stepped aside.

I followed her down a narrow hallway lit by recessed lights, no windows, only the hum of air vents. My shoes clicked on the carpet. At the end, double doors loomed. She paused, then pushed one open.

Inside was the office of Ethan Blackwood. His desk was massive, dark wood, not a speck of clutter. He sat behind it, reading something on his phone. I held my breath for a second, then realized he had not noticed me.

I stepped forward. “Mr. Blackwood.” My voice trembled.

He looked up, set the phone aside. His eyes were sharp, like two gray knives. He rose fluidly. My chest seized.

“Emma Clarke,” he said. His pronunciation sounded more like an assessment than a greeting. “Have a seat.”

I found the leather chair he indicated. It creaked when I lowered myself. I slid the contract folder onto the desk. My palm felt sweaty.

He folded his arms. “You read the terms?”

I nodded, pulled out my copy. “Six months contract marriage. Separate residences except for public events. No financial claims. Monthly stipend.” I rattled it off like I was reciting grocery items.

His lips twitched, almost a smile or maybe a smirk. “And you’re certain?”

I closed my eyes, picturing Lucas’s bruised smile. “I’m certain.”

He slid a pen toward me across the desk. I froze. His offer was so casual, like he was offering sugar. “Your pen,” he said.

I picked it up, heart in my throat. His hand brushed mine. I yanked back, too fast. The pen rolled. I scrambled for it.

“Smooth,” he remarked, voice flat.

I flushed. “Sorry.”

He didn’t look annoyed. Just waited. My throat felt bone-dry. I bent over the contract, found the line: Emma Clarke. Six months of pretending. I inhaled and signed. Ink scratched against paper, the smear under my finger like a warning.

I lifted my head. He watched me. I pressed my lips together. “That’s it.”

He stood, walked around the desk in four steps. The space between us closed. My pulse hammered. He held out his hand, palm up. “Welcome to the Blackwood family.”

His palm was solid when I placed my hand inside it. I sensed the pressure of his fingers, the quiet confidence that came with knowing everything. I nodded. It felt like accepting a verdict.

“Thank you… Ethan.” I squeezed back.

He let go without a word. I stared at the spot where our hands had touched. It felt hot. He strode to a side door, turned the handle, and disappeared. I blinked. The door closed.

Silence swallowed me. I sank onto the guest chair. My legs trembled so hard I nearly slid off the seat. My phone buzzed in my lap. I pulled it out:

Unknown: “Well done.”

I dropped the phone back onto the chair cushion. “Thanks?” I muttered.

Mia peeked through the door. “Everything all right?”

I blinked at her. “Yes… I think so.”

She offered me a bottle of water. I took it with shaking fingers. “Here, drink.”

I unscrewed the cap, tipped my head back. The cold water was ice down my throat. I exhaled.

Mia lingered. “He’ll meet you at the family gala next week. You’ll need to rehearse appearances, walking arm in arm, smiling for cameras.”

I swallowed. “Got it.”

She nodded. “Good. I’ll send you the schedule.” She turned to leave, then looked back. “You’re brave.”

I closed my eyes. “I have to be.”

She left. The moment the door clicked, the office felt empty. I gathered my things, tote, folder, water. I slid out of the chair and headed for the door Ethan had come through. I knocked once. No answer. I opened it and peered into the hallway. Empty.

On my way back to the elevator, my phone buzzed again. I fished it out, same unknown number:

Unknown: “Keep your eyes open.”

A cold trickle ran down my spine. “Who are you?” I typed, then deleted it.

At the elevator, I pressed “L.” The doors closed. The reflection showed me, hair loose around my face, blouse untucked on one side, crease down my skirt. I looked like chaos.

When I stepped into the lobby, the guard still hadn’t looked up. I forced a polite nod and headed outside. The sun hit me like a physical weight, too bright, too real. I squinted. Past the security desk was a revolving door; I pushed through.

On the sidewalk, the city roared back: horns, sirens, people yelling into phones. I locked my phone, shoved it deep into my tote. I walked toward the subway entrance, heels clicking. Somewhere in the crowd, a street vendor shouted “Fresh bagels!” I ignored it. My mind raced: fake marriage, stiff boardrooms, cameras flashing, my mother’s worried texts, Lucas’s hospital bed.

I paused at the top of the stairs, phone suddenly buzzing again. I pulled it out, no new message, but the screen saver read: “Ethan Blackwood: 12:00 PM tomorrow.” A calendar invite. Gala prep meeting.

I pinched my eyes shut. Tomorrow, I would rehearse fake smiles. I would pretend to be the perfect bride. Then I’d go back home and face the real mess waiting for me.

A hand tapped my shoulder. I jumped. A man in a suit, another commuter, said, “Excuse me.” His coffee spilled a drop on my coat.

“Oh sorry!” he blurted, pulling out napkins. I shook my head. “It’s fine. Really.”

He cleaned a spot while I stood there, clutching my tote. I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. I shrugged. “Marriage by contract, coffee by accident, seems fitting.”

He paused, looked at me, then offered a faint smile. “Good luck.”

I nodded and turned away. On the stairs, I paused again, hand on the railing. I let the rush of people swirl around me.

I’d signed my name to a stranger’s life. I didn’t know his secrets, and someone else already texted me warnings. I felt small, like a pawn on a huge board. But I also felt something else: a flicker of excitement, a fierce rush of adrenaline.

I straightened my shoulders and descended. One foot in front of the other. No retreat. Six months to play the part. Six months to save my family. And maybe, just maybe, six months to figure out what it meant to trust a man like Ethan Blackwood.

My phone buzzed one last time:

Unknown: “See you tomorrow.”

I stared at it, thumb hovering. I locked the screen and slipped the phone into my back pocket.

Tomorrow.

I bent my head, tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and kept walking down into the subway, toward a future I hadn’t chosen but was about to own.