Hating You Was My Full Time Job

CHAPTER 8: SIGNED IN BLOOD

The Blackwood Tower didn’t have doors. It had gates.

I stared up at the 80 floors of glass that cut through the Lagos sky like a blade. Three years ago I walked out of this building laughing, after I accidentally sent the wrong email and cost Adrian Blackwood a $2 billion deal.

Today I was back. Begging.

My phone buzzed.

*St. Mary’s Hospital*: _Reminder: Surgery deposit due in 24 hours. $10,000,000._

My mother had pancreatic cancer. Stage 3. The only surgeon who could save her was flying in from London tomorrow. And he didn’t take "I’ll pay you later."

I took a breath and walked in.

The lobby was marble and silence. No one looked at anyone. Everyone was too rich to care.

"Miss Carter?" A man in a black suit appeared. "Mr. Blackwood will see you now."

The elevator didn’t have buttons. It just went up. 67... 68... 79... 80.

The doors opened and I remembered why I hated him.

The office was bigger than my entire apartment. Floor to ceiling windows. The whole city below us. And behind a desk that probably cost more than my mother’s hospital bill sat Adrian Blackwood.

He was 35. Sharp jaw. Gray eyes. Black suit, no tie. Hair like he’d been running his hands through it while destroying companies.

He didn’t stand up.

"Ava," he said. My name in his mouth sounded like a lawsuit. "You’re late."

"I’m 2 minutes early," I shot back. Old habits.

That earned me the smallest twitch of his mouth. Almost a smile. Almost.

"Three years," Adrian said, leaning back. "You cost me two billion dollars. You laughed in my face. And now you’re here."

"My mother is dying," I said. No point in dancing. "Pancreatic cancer. She needs surgery in 24 hours. Ten million dollars."

"I know." He tapped his laptop. "Lillian Carter. 54. Single mom. Raised you alone after your father left. You work two jobs. Barista by day, rideshare driver by night. $1,240 in savings."

My blood went cold. "You had me investigated."

"I investigate everything that walks into my building." Adrian stood. He was taller than I remembered. "You want money, Miss Carter. I want something too."

He pressed a button. A woman in a blazer came in with a thick folder and left without a word.

"Marriage," Adrian said.

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Marriage. To me. For one year." He slid the contract across the desk. "In exchange, BlackCorp pays $10 million directly to St. Mary’s Hospital. Tonight."

The words didn’t make sense. "Why? You could marry a model. An actress. Someone from your world."

Adrian walked to the window. His back to me. "My board thinks I’m unstable. Unmarried at 35. No family. Bad for stocks. A wife for one year fixes that."

"And then?"

"And then we divorce. Clean. $5 million severance for you. NDA. You never speak about this."

I flipped through the contract. My hands were shaking.

*Clause 3.1: Public appearances required.*

*Clause 4.2: Separate bedrooms.*

*Clause 8.4: No pregnancy. If pregnancy occurs, contract is void and all payments stop.*

*Clause 9.1: No emotional attachment.*

"No emotional attachment," I read out loud. "You put that in a marriage contract?"

Adrian turned. "This isn’t a marriage, Ava. It’s a transaction."

The way he said my name made something twist in my chest. I hated that.

"Why me?" I asked again. "Why not someone who would actually benefit you?"

"Because you have nothing to lose," he said simply. "And you hate me enough to not fall in love."

That hurt more than it should have.

My phone buzzed again. Hospital. _22 hours remaining._

I looked at Adrian. The man who ruined my father’s company. The man I blamed for my dad’s heart attack. The man who was now my only option.

"What about my mother? Can I see her?"

"Daily visits. No press. No photos." Adrian came back to the desk. "Do we have a deal, Miss Carter?"

I picked up the pen. It was heavy. Montblanc. Probably cost more than my car.

"One condition," I said. "When the year is over, you disappear. No calls. No ‘checking in’. Nothing."

Adrian studied me. For a second I saw something in his eyes. Not cold. Tired.

"Agreed."

I signed. Ava Carter. The ink looked permanent.

He signed next. Adrian Blackwood. Confident. Final.

A lawyer appeared and stamped it. A ring was placed on my finger. Platinum. Plain. Cold.

"It’s done," the lawyer said. "Marriage certificate will be filed within the hour. Payment to hospital will be sent tonight."

I exhaled. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath.

"Good," Adrian said. "My assistant will take you to the penthouse. Your things will be moved. You start tomorrow. 8 AM. Board breakfast. You’ll be my wife."

"I have a job," I said weakly.

"You don’t anymore," Adrian replied. "You have a $50,000 monthly allowance. Spend it. Don’t embarrass me."

I wanted to slap him. I wanted to hug him.

I did neither. I just nodded.

The penthouse was on the top 3 floors. Marble. Art that cost millions. A kitchen I’d never use.

"Separate wings," the assistant explained. "Mr. Blackwood’s is east. Yours is west. You are not to enter his wing unless invited."

That night I lay in a bed bigger than my old apartment and listened to the city.

At 2 AM my phone rang. Unknown number.

"Miss Carter? This is St. Mary’s. Payment received. Surgery is confirmed for 8 AM. Your mother is being prepped now."

I broke.

I cried into a $10,000 pillow in a $50 million apartment because the man I hated just saved my mom.

The next morning I woke to a dress delivered to my room. White. Simple. Expensive.

A note: _8 AM. Don’t be late. - A_

The board breakfast was 20 people in suits who all looked at me like I was a stain.

"Everyone," Adrian said, his hand at the small of my back. It burned through the dress. "This is my wife, Ava Blackwood."

Gasps. Whispers. Cameras flashed.

"She’ll be joining us for the next year," Adrian continued, voice smooth as ice. "Any questions about my personal life can be directed to my PR team."

No one asked questions.

After, in the elevator, Adrian dropped the act.

"You did fine," he said.

"Was that so hard?" I snapped. "Pretending I matter?"

Adrian looked at me. Really looked. "You matter for 12 months, Ava. Don’t confuse that with anything else."

The elevator dinged. My floor.

That night I visited my mom. She was sleeping after surgery. The doctor said it went well.

"Who’s paying for this, baby?" Mom asked when she woke up.

"A friend," I lied.

She squeezed my hand. "You don’t have friends with ten million dollars."

I didn’t answer.

Back at the penthouse at midnight, I saw light under Adrian’s door.

I knocked before I could think.

He opened it. Shirt unbuttoned. Tie gone. He looked human.

"What?"

"Thank you," I whispered. "For my mom."

Adrian’s jaw tightened. "Don’t."

"Don’t what?"

"Don’t thank me. Don’t look at me like that." He stepped back. "Go to bed, Ava."

I went. But I couldn’t sleep.

Because somewhere between the contract and the hospital call, something shifted.

I signed in blood today.

Not literally. But it felt like it.

And the scariest part wasn’t the marriage.

It was that for one second, when Adrian’s hand was on my back, I didn’t hate it.

END OF CHAPTER 8