THE RULE
694 Words
The pen felt heavy in my hand even after I put it down.
Damien didn’t smile. He didn’t look triumphant. He just picked up the contract, slid it into a black folder, and pressed a button on his desk.
"Miss Chen will take you to your room," he said.
A woman in a gray suit appeared like she’d been waiting behind the wall. She was maybe forty, hair pulled back so tight it had to hurt, no makeup. She looked at me like I was a stain on the carpet.
"This way, Mrs. Blackwood."
Mrs. Blackwood.
The name hit me wrong. I wasn’t Mrs. Anything. I was Maya Lopez, waitress, daughter, broke. Not a wife. Not his.
I followed her down a hallway that felt longer than my whole apartment building. The floors were marble. The walls had paintings I was afraid to breathe near. Everything smelled like money — cold, clean, expensive.
My room was at the end.
It wasn’t a room. It was a suite. Bigger than the diner and my apartment combined. King bed with white sheets that looked untouched. A balcony overlooking the city lights. A closet already filled with clothes, all my size, all with tags still on.
"Mr. Blackwood had these prepared," Miss Chen said. "You will wear them to the gala tomorrow. You will not wear your own clothes in public."
I touched the sleeve of a red dress. Silk. Soft. "I don’t need—"
"You do," she cut me off. "You are Mrs. Blackwood now. You will look like it."
She left before I could argue.
I sat on the edge of the bed and didn’t move for ten minutes. The mattress was too soft. The room was too quiet. I could hear my own breathing.
My phone buzzed. Mom.
_Mom: Mija, where are you? The nurse said someone paid the bill. Full amount. Who?_
My throat closed up. I typed, deleted, typed again.
_Me: Don’t worry. It’s taken care of. I’ll visit tomorrow, okay? I love you._
_Mom: Maya…_
I turned the phone off.
A knock. Three sharp raps.
Damien stood in the doorway, jacket off now, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He had a scar on his left wrist, thin and white.
"Rule 4," he said. "You don’t lie to me."
"I wasn’t—"
"You were going to tell your mother you got a loan. Or won the lottery." He stepped inside, closed the door behind him. "Don’t. She’ll ask questions. You’ll slip. Tell her you married me. Tell her it was sudden. Tell her you’re happy."
The word _happy_ sounded ridiculous in his mouth.
"And if she asks why?" I said.
"Tell her you fell in love."
I laughed, short and bitter. "You said no falling in love. Rule 3."
His eyes flicked to my mouth, then back up. "I said _you_ don’t fall in love with me. I didn’t say you can’t pretend."
He walked to the closet, pulled out the red dress, held it up.
"Wear this tomorrow. Hair down. Minimal makeup. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t drink. Don’t leave my side."
"Am I a dog?" I snapped.
He didn’t react. "You’re my wife. For one year. Act like it."
Something in me broke a little. "You’re really going to treat me like a prop?"
"Yes," he said, simple as that. "That’s what you signed for."
He turned to leave. My voice stopped him at the door.
"Do you even know my middle name?"
He paused. Didn’t turn around. "No."
"Then don’t call me wife like it means something."
For a second, the room was so quiet I could hear the city below us.
Then he said, "Get some sleep, Maya. Tomorrow you meet the people who will decide if you’re believable."
The door clicked shut.
I stood in the middle of that beautiful, empty room and realized I’d traded one kind of hell for another.
My mother would live.
And I would spend the next year pretending I belonged in a world that would chew me up and spit me out.
I looked at the red dress hanging on the closet door.
It looked like blood.
- Writer
