One Year With You

The Contract

The Lamborghini sat outside James’s garage like it was mocking him.









Black. Low. It cost more than his entire street. 



The kind of car that didn’t belong in East London. The kind of car that made the kids on the corner stop and stare. The kind of car that said _I don’t worry about parking tickets or petrol or anyone stealing it_.









Rain slid down the hood in sheets. The neon "Carter Auto" sign buzzed above the door, half the letters dead. The C and the R flickered. The rest stayed on. 



Inside, the garage smelled like oil, old coffee, and the kind of debt that keeps you awake at 3am. 



The heater was broken. Again. James’s breath made small clouds. A radio played static in the corner.









Chloe stepped out of it like she owned the rain. Black coat. Heels that clicked on wet concrete. No umbrella. She didn’t need one. 



The coat was wool. Expensive. It hit just above her knees. Under it, James could see the hem of a black dress. Business, but not office business. 



Water ran off the shoulders of her coat but she didn’t shiver. Her makeup was perfect. Eyeliner sharp. Lips bare. 



Her hair was pulled back. But James noticed the small things. 



The way her fingers flexed at her sides. Like she was counting to 10 in her head. 



The faint bruise under her eye that concealer couldn’t quite hide. Purple. Old. 



And the way she kept glancing at the alley between his garage and the tyre shop next door.









“Good afternoon,” she said. Her voice was smooth. Trained. The kind of voice that ran board meetings. 



James was elbow-deep in an engine. A '97 Toyota that had been towed in that morning. The owner said it made a noise. 



He didn’t look up. “We’re closed.”









“I need my tire changed,” she said.









“Call roadside assistance.” 



He reached for the 10mm socket. His hands were freezing.









“I did,” Chloe said. “They said it would take 2 hours. I don’t have 2 hours.”









The Lamborghini had a flat. Front driver side. Rim was touching the concrete. 



He muttered a curse and slid out from under the '97 Toyota. The concrete was cold through his jeans. It bit into his knees. 



He grabbed a rag, wiped his hands. Grease under his nails. It never came out all the way.









James finally looked up. And saw her. Really saw her. 









Not the photo Mark showed him. That one was all smiles and gala dresses. White dress, champagne glass, standing next to her father. 



The real her. 



Tired eyes. Not just tired. Exhausted. The kind that comes from not sleeping because you’re afraid of what happens when you close them. 



Jaw tight. Like she hadn’t slept in days. Like she was holding her face together. 



There was a tension in her shoulders that didn’t match the €200,000 car. 



Like she was waiting for someone to jump out from the alley. Like the rain itself might be a threat.









He wiped his hands on a rag. It didn’t help. “€80.”









Chloe blinked. “What?”









“For the tire. €80.” 



It was triple what he usually charged. €25 for a patch. €40 if he had to change it. 



But triple wouldn’t even cover his dad’s first notice. And part of him wanted to see if she’d walk.









She almost laughed. Almost. The corner of her mouth twitched. Like she remembered how. 



“Fine.” 



She didn’t ask for a receipt. Didn’t haggle. Didn’t ask why so much. 



Just pulled a black card from a wallet that cost more than his tools. Matte black. No name on it.









He worked in silence. The jack went under the car. The lug nuts came off one by one. 



The rain drummed on the roof. Loud. Constant. Every few minutes a car would pass and Chloe’s head would flick toward the sound. Fast. Automatic. 



She watched him. 



The way he moved. Efficient. No wasted motion. Years of doing this in the cold had taught him that. 



When he loosened the lug nuts his forearms flexed and there were scars there. 



Old ones. A burn on his right wrist from an exhaust pipe. A thin line across his knuckles from a fan blade.









“You’re Mark’s friend’s son,” she said suddenly.









James’s hands stopped. The wrench hung mid-turn. The metal was cold against his palm. 



“Your father’s associate told you about me?” 



Mark. The suit. The Lamborghini. The €100,000 offer. That was 4 hours ago.









“My father’s dying,” Chloe said bluntly. “He doesn’t have time for games. Neither do I.”









The words dropped into the garage like a stone. 



Dying. 



James finished the job. Pumped the tire to 32 PSI. Lowered the car. Torqued the nuts. 



He didn’t ask what she meant by "dying." He’d learned not to ask questions from people like her. People who came in expensive cars and left with blood on their shoes.









James tightened the last bolt. “Car’s done.”









Chloe paid. Tapped her card. €80. The machine beeped. 



Then she didn’t leave. 



She stood there, rain misting her coat, water running down her heels. Looking at him like she was calculating something. Like he was a problem she had to solve.









“I heard about your father’s debt,” she said. “€100,000.”









James froze. The rag in his hand went still. 



The garage got quiet except for the rain. 



“Who told you that?” 



His voice came out low. Dangerous.









“Mark. He talks too much.” She stepped closer. She smelled like jasmine and cold air. And something else. Fear, maybe. 



“I can pay it.”









“Why would you do that?” 



Because people like her didn’t pay €100,000 out of kindness. People like her paid for things. For silence. For favors. For bodies.









“Because I need to be married before the end of the year,” Chloe said. She said it like she was reading a memo. “My father’s will. If I’m not married, the company he gave me goes to my brother Marcus. And Marcus is working with my uncle.”









James leaned against the car. The metal was wet and cold through his shirt. It soaked into his back. 



“And what does your uncle have to do with it?”









“He killed my brother,” Chloe said. No emotion. Just fact. Like she was saying the sky was gray. 



“Adam. 24. Shot in an alley because he was supposed to inherit the family business.”









The garage went quiet except for the rain. 



The radio static seemed louder. 



James felt cold. This wasn’t about money anymore. This was about bodies. About alleys. About the kind of people who sent men in suits to a garage at night.









“What kind of business?” he asked.









“The kind you don’t ask about,” Chloe said. “The kind that gets people killed.”









She pulled an envelope from her coat. Thick. Cream paper. Expensive. 



Inside: papers. A contract. 



She handed it to him. Her fingers didn’t shake.









_Marriage Contract. Duration: 1 Year. Party A: Chloe Carter. Party B: James Carter. Compensation: €100,000 upon signing. Clause 3: No romantic involvement. Clause 7: Either party may terminate after 12 months._ 



There were 9 more pages. 



Lawyers. NDAs. Terms about public appearances. _Party B will attend no fewer than 6 events per quarter._ 



Terms about separate bedrooms. _Living arrangements will be separate unless required for public image._ 



Terms about social media. Terms about what he could and couldn’t say if they divorced.









James read it twice. The numbers didn’t change. €100,000. 



His dad’s name was already on two final warnings. The bank had called yesterday. 



“This is insane.”









“This is survival,” Chloe said. “For both of us. You get your father out of debt. I get to keep my company. And my life.”









She said _life_ like it wasn’t guaranteed.









He thought of his dad. 58. Back problems. The way he’d stopped standing up straight. 



The look on his face when the men in suits came to the house. Two of them. They didn’t raise their voices. They didn’t have to. 



The shame. 



“One year,” he said. His throat was dry. “Then we’re done.”









“Then we’re done,” Chloe agreed.









She held out a pen. Heavy. Silver. Cold. 



James signed. 



His signature was messy next to hers. Clean. Sharp. Practiced. 



Like she’d signed a hundred things like this before.









The moment the ink dried, his phone buzzed. 



Bank alert. _€100,000 deposited._ 



Account balance: €100,080.00 



He stared at it. It looked fake. Like monopoly money. 



He refreshed it. Still there.









Across town, Chris hung up his phone. The office was dark except for the city lights through the window. 



“She signed it,” he said to Cole. “To a mechanic.”









Cole grinned. He had a gold tooth and a knife scar down his cheek. He was cleaning his nails with a knife. 



“Then the mechanic dies first.”









The rain kept falling on both of them. 



On the garage. On Kings Road. 



On a contract that was supposed to be just paper.









James looked up at Chloe. She was already turning to go. 



“Where do you live?” he asked. 



“Kings Road,” she said. “You’ll be given an address. A driver will come for you in the morning.” 



She paused. “And James?” 



“Yeah?” 



“Don’t tell anyone. Not your friends. Not your father. Especially not your father.”









Then she got back in the Lamborghini. The engine purred. It sounded like money. 



She drove off into the rain.









James stood in the doorway of his garage for a long time after. 



Holding a contract. 



Holding €100,000. 



And wondering if he’d just sold the next year of his life, or bought it.









The sign above him buzzed. C-A-R-T-E-R A-U-T-O. 



Half the letters dead.