Purchased Vows

Chapter 2: The Signature

I didn't sleep that night.

The contract sat on my kitchen table like a judgment, its pages spread out under the dim light of my apartment. I'd read it three times, memorized every clause, every condition, every way this could go wrong.

But I kept coming back to one line: *$500,000 upon completion of contract term.*

Half a million dollars. Freedom. A future where I didn't have to choose between paying rent and buying groceries. Where Mom could get the best treatments without me having to beg for payment plans.

At 6 AM, I picked up my phone and called the number Marcus's assistant had given me.

"I'll do it," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "I'll sign the contract."

"Excellent. Mr. Sterling will send a car for you at noon. Bring your things—you'll be moving in today."

"Today?" My stomach dropped. "But I need time to—"

"The contract begins immediately upon signing, Ms. Chen. Your current lease will be handled. Just be ready."

The line went dead, and I stared at my phone, reality crashing down on me. Today. I was getting married today. To a man I'd met once. For money.

I called Sarah first, waking her up with my news.

"You're doing WHAT?" Her voice was shrill with disbelief. "Liv, you can't be serious. This is insane. This is—"

"I don't have a choice, Sarah. It's this or lose everything."

"Then lose everything! We'll figure something out. You can't sell yourself like this."

But I was already packing, throwing clothes into a suitcase I'd borrowed from a neighbor. "It's just a year. One year, and then I'm free. And Mom will be taken care of. That's worth it."

Sarah was quiet for a long moment. "Are you sure about this?"

No. I wasn't sure about anything. But I said yes anyway.

The car arrived exactly at noon—a sleek black sedan with tinted windows that screamed money. The driver, a stoic man in a suit, loaded my single suitcase into the trunk without comment.

"Ms. Chen," he said, opening the door. "Mr. Sterling is waiting."

The drive to what I assumed was Marcus's house took us out of the city, into an area where the houses got bigger and the gates got taller. We pulled up to an estate that made my jaw drop—a modern mansion with floor-to-ceiling windows, surrounded by perfectly manicured gardens.

This wasn't a house. This was a fortress.

The driver led me inside, and I stepped into a foyer that was bigger than my entire apartment. White marble floors, a spiral staircase, abstract art on the walls that probably cost more than I'd make in a lifetime.

"Ms. Chen."

Marcus appeared at the top of the stairs, descending with the grace of a predator. He was dressed casually today—dark jeans and a white button-down, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that made my stomach do something weird. But his expression was the same: closed off, unreadable.

"You're late," he said, though I was exactly on time.

"I'm here," I replied, trying to sound confident. "Where do I sign?"

He led me into a study that smelled like leather and expensive whiskey. The contract was already laid out on a mahogany desk, a pen waiting beside it.

"Read it one more time if you need to," he said, leaning against the desk, arms crossed. "But I assume you've made your decision."

I picked up the pen. My hand shook, and I saw his eyes track the movement. He didn't comment, just watched as I signed my name at the bottom of every page.

Olivia Chen. Over and over, until it felt like I was signing away my soul.

When I was done, he took the contract, flipped through it quickly, then set it aside.

"Good. The wedding is in three days. Small, private ceremony. Just us, a judge, and two witnesses. After that, you'll move in here permanently."

"Three days?" I blinked. "That's so fast."

"Time is money, Ms. Chen. And we both know why you're here." His tone was cold, and it stung more than it should have. "Your room is on the second floor, east wing. You'll have your own bathroom, your own space. Stay out of my wing. Don't enter my office. Don't touch my things."

"Got it." I tried to keep my voice even, but I could hear the hurt in it. "I'm just a prop, right? A temporary wife for show."

"Exactly." He moved closer, and I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "This is a business arrangement. Nothing more. Don't mistake kindness for interest. Don't read into anything. And most importantly, don't fall in love with me."

The words hit like a slap. "I wouldn't—"

"Good. Because I can't give you that. I won't give you that." His eyes held mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw something—pain, maybe. But then it was gone, replaced by that cold distance. "We'll play our parts in public. In private, we're strangers sharing a house. Understood?"

"Understood." My voice came out small, and I hated it.

He nodded, then turned away. "Mrs. Henderson will show you to your room. She's the housekeeper. If you need anything, ask her. Not me."

I watched him leave, his broad shoulders disappearing through the doorway, and something twisted in my chest. This was what I'd signed up for. This was the deal.

But as I followed Mrs. Henderson—a kind-faced older woman who smiled at me with something like pity—up the grand staircase, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd just made the biggest mistake of my life.

My room was beautiful. Too beautiful. A four-poster bed, a walk-in closet bigger than my old bedroom, a bathroom with a tub that looked like it belonged in a spa. But it felt like a gilded cage.

I unpacked my single suitcase, hanging up clothes that looked shabby against the luxury around me. When I was done, I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out my phone.

Mom had texted: *How are you, sweetheart? Did you get that job interview?*

I stared at the message, my throat tight. I hadn't told her about the contract. I hadn't told her about Marcus. I'd just said I'd found a way to pay the bills, that everything would be okay.

*I'm fine, Mom. Everything's good. Love you.*

The lie tasted bitter.

A knock on my door made me jump. "Ms. Chen? Dinner is ready. Mr. Sterling asked that you join him."

I smoothed down my wrinkled shirt and followed Mrs. Henderson to a dining room that could seat twenty. Marcus was already there, sitting at one end of a table that stretched forever, a single place setting in front of him.

And one across from him. For me.

"Sit," he said, not looking up from his phone.

I sat. The silence stretched, broken only by the sound of Mrs. Henderson setting down plates of food that looked like art. I picked at my meal, my appetite gone.

"Eat," Marcus said, still not looking at me. "You'll need your strength. We have a charity gala next week. Your first public appearance as my wife."

"Wife." The word felt foreign on my tongue. "We're not even married yet."

"Semantics." He finally looked up, and his eyes were hard. "You signed the contract. You're mine for the next year. Start acting like it."

Something snapped in me. "I'm not yours. I'm a person, not a possession."

His expression didn't change, but I saw his jaw tighten. "In this house, in this arrangement, you do as I say. That's what you agreed to. That's what you're being paid for."

I stood up, my chair scraping against the marble floor. "I agreed to be your wife in public. I didn't agree to be your servant."

"You agreed to whatever I need you to be." He stood too, and the height difference was suddenly overwhelming. "Sit down, Olivia."

"No."

We stared at each other across the table, a battle of wills I knew I couldn't win. But I was tired of being pushed around. Tired of being told what to do. Tired of feeling small.

"Fine." He picked up his phone again, dismissing me. "Go to your room. But remember—you chose this. You signed the contract. You wanted the money. So stop acting surprised when I treat this like the transaction it is."

I left the dining room, my hands shaking, my eyes burning with unshed tears. But I didn't cry. Not yet.

Because he was right. I had chosen this. I had signed the contract. I had wanted the money.

But as I climbed the stairs to my room, to my gilded cage, I realized something that made my blood run cold:

I was already starting to care what he thought of me.

And that was dangerous.