One Year To Love You

The morning light used to make me feel alive. ‎ ‎Today, it only showed me how broken everything had become. ‎ ‎It slipped through the dirty window of my studio, cutting across the room in bright, unforgiving lines. Dust floated through the sunlight like tiny ghosts, exposing every crack in the ceiling and every patch of peeling paint. ‎ ‎I stared at the wall opposite me. ‎ ‎Another piece had fallen away during the night. ‎ ‎I didn't even have the energy to fix it. ‎ ‎My fingers tightened around the paintbrush in my hand. ‎ ‎On the easel in front of me was a half-finished painting of a marsh. ‎ ‎Green grass. ‎ ‎Blue water. ‎ ‎A pale morning sky. ‎ ‎It was supposed to feel peaceful. ‎ ‎Instead, it looked like a lie. ‎ ‎How could I paint something full of life when I couldn't even recognize my own? ‎ ‎I dipped the brush into the blue paint. ‎ ‎Then stopped. ‎ ‎My vision blurred. ‎ ‎I blinked quickly. ‎ ‎It didn't help. ‎ ‎One tear slipped down my cheek. ‎ ‎Then another. ‎ ‎I lowered my head, but the tear fell before I could wipe it away. ‎ ‎It landed directly on the canvas. ‎ ‎Right in the middle of the cattail I had spent three days painting. ‎ ‎"Dammit." ‎ ‎I wiped at it with my palm. ‎ ‎The blue spread. ‎ ‎A muddy streak ruined the entire section. ‎ ‎I stared at it. ‎ ‎For a few seconds, I said nothing. ‎ ‎Then I laughed. ‎ ‎It wasn't a happy laugh. ‎ ‎It was the kind that came when you were too exhausted to cry anymore. ‎ ‎"Of course." ‎ ‎I stepped back. ‎ ‎"Of course." ‎ ‎Everything I touched seemed to fall apart lately. ‎ ‎My career. ‎ ‎My finances. ‎ ‎My sleep. ‎ ‎My confidence. ‎ ‎And now the painting. ‎ ‎I dropped the brush onto the table and walked toward the door. ‎ ‎That was when I saw the envelope. ‎ ‎It sat on the small table in the hallway. ‎ ‎Cream-colored. ‎ ‎Thick. ‎ ‎Official. ‎ ‎I knew the logo before I even picked it up. ‎ ‎First National Bank. ‎ ‎My stomach tightened. ‎ ‎"No." ‎ ‎I reached for it anyway. ‎ ‎My fingers trembled as I opened the envelope. ‎ ‎There were several pages inside. ‎ ‎I only needed to read the first one. ‎ ‎FINAL NOTICE OF FORECLOSURE ‎ ‎My breath stopped. ‎ ‎I read the next line. ‎ ‎Thirty days. ‎ ‎For several seconds, I couldn't move. ‎ ‎Thirty days. ‎ ‎That was all they were giving me. ‎ ‎Thirty days before the bank took my home. ‎ ‎My family's home. ‎ ‎The only thing my parents had left me. ‎ ‎I sank onto the bottom step of the staircase. ‎ ‎"No..." ‎ ‎The word barely escaped my lips. ‎ ‎I looked around the hallway. ‎ ‎The faded wallpaper. ‎ ‎The old wooden railing. ‎ ‎The framed photograph of my parents hanging crookedly on the wall. ‎ ‎My father smiling. ‎ ‎My mother standing beside him. ‎ ‎Both of them young. ‎ ‎Both of them alive. ‎ ‎I pressed the paper against my chest. ‎ ‎"I tried." ‎ ‎My voice cracked. ‎ ‎"I really tried." ‎ ‎For three years, I had fought to keep this house. ‎ ‎I had emptied my savings. ‎ ‎Sold my jewelry. ‎ ‎Worked jobs that left my hands aching. ‎ ‎Waitressed at night. ‎ ‎Tutored children in the afternoons. ‎ ‎Designed terrible advertisements for a real estate company whose owner paid me almost nothing. ‎ ‎And six months ago, I had done the thing that still made my stomach hurt whenever I remembered it. ‎ ‎I had taken Grandma's sapphire ring to a pawn shop. ‎ ‎The ring had belonged to her mother. ‎ ‎Then to her. ‎ ‎Then it had been mine. ‎ ‎Three generations. ‎ ‎One tiny blue stone. ‎ ‎One month's worth of property taxes. ‎ ‎That was all it had bought me. ‎ ‎One month. ‎ ‎I closed my eyes. ‎ ‎A tear slid down my cheek. ‎ ‎I had spent years believing that if I worked hard enough, sacrificed enough, loved this house enough, I could save it. ‎ ‎Apparently, I had been wrong. ‎ ‎The phone rang. ‎ ‎I jumped. ‎ ‎The old landline in the entrance hall shrieked again. ‎ ‎And again. ‎ ‎I already knew who it was. ‎ ‎Henderson. ‎ ‎The real estate agent who had been trying to buy this property for months. ‎ ‎He had offered me less than half of what the house was worth. ‎ ‎He called it a generous offer. ‎ ‎I called it robbery. ‎ ‎I ignored the phone. ‎ ‎It kept ringing. ‎ ‎Finally, I grabbed it. ‎ ‎"What?" ‎ ‎There was silence on the other end. ‎ ‎Then a man's calm voice answered. ‎ ‎"Miss Eleanor Vance?" ‎ ‎I frowned. ‎ ‎"Yes." ‎ ‎"My name is Arthur Finch. I represent Mr. Julian Thorne." ‎ ‎I straightened. ‎ ‎"Who?" ‎ ‎"Julian Thorne." ‎ ‎The name meant nothing to me. ‎ ‎"I'm sorry, but I don't know anyone by that name." ‎ ‎"I understand." ‎ ‎His voice was strangely calm. ‎ ‎Too calm. ‎ ‎"I believe you have been expecting my call regarding an arrangement." ‎ ‎I laughed bitterly. ‎ ‎"Unless you're calling to tell me the bank changed its mind, I don't know what arrangement you're talking about." ‎ ‎"Actually, Miss Vance, that's exactly why I'm calling." ‎ ‎My smile disappeared. ‎ ‎He continued. ‎ ‎"Mr. Thorne is aware of your financial situation." ‎ ‎My fingers tightened around the phone. ‎ ‎"What financial situation?" ‎ ‎"Your outstanding property taxes. Your mortgage. Your personal debts. The foreclosure notice you received this morning." ‎ ‎My blood turned cold. ‎ ‎I looked at the letter still lying on the stairs. ‎ ‎"How do you know about that?" ‎ ‎"We conducted an investigation." ‎ ‎"An investigation?" ‎ ‎"Mr. Thorne has reviewed your circumstances." ‎ ‎I stood. ‎ ‎"Why?" ‎ ‎There was a pause. ‎ ‎Then Finch said quietly, ‎ ‎"Because he believes he can solve your problem." ‎ ‎I almost laughed again. ‎ ‎"Nobody can solve my problem." ‎ ‎"Mr. Thorne can." ‎ ‎"And what does he want?" ‎ ‎Another pause. ‎ ‎Then the answer came. ‎ ‎"Marriage." ‎ ‎My entire body went still. ‎ ‎"Excuse me?" ‎ ‎"Mr. Thorne requires a wife." ‎ ‎I stared at the wall. ‎ ‎"You're insane." ‎ ‎"He requires the appearance of a stable family life for an upcoming business acquisition." ‎ ‎"Then he should find someone who actually wants to marry him." ‎ ‎"He doesn't want a conventional marriage." ‎ ‎"Good for him." ‎ ‎"He wants a contractual one." ‎ ‎I swallowed. ‎ ‎"And you called me because..." ‎ ‎"Because he believes you are suitable." ‎ ‎I actually laughed this time. ‎ ‎"Suitable?" ‎ ‎"Yes." ‎ ‎"For what? Pretending to be someone's wife?" ‎ ‎"Exactly." ‎ ‎I paced across the hallway. ‎ ‎"You don't even know me." ‎ ‎"We know enough." ‎ ‎Something about those words unsettled me. ‎ ‎"What does he know?" ‎ ‎"That you're twenty-eight. That you inherited Vance House after your parents died. That you are a professional artist. That you have refused every offer to sell the property despite your financial difficulties." ‎ ‎I stopped walking. ‎ ‎My heart began beating faster. ‎ ‎"And?" ‎ ‎"That you have thirty days before the bank takes your home." ‎ ‎Silence. ‎ ‎I stared at the foreclosure notice. ‎ ‎Then I whispered, ‎ ‎"What does he offer?" ‎ ‎"Full settlement of your outstanding debts." ‎ ‎My breath caught. ‎ ‎"All of them?" ‎ ‎"All." ‎ ‎"And the house?" ‎ ‎"Saved." ‎ ‎I closed my eyes. ‎ ‎"There's a catch." ‎ ‎"Naturally." ‎ ‎"What?" ‎ ‎"One year." ‎ ‎I opened my eyes. ‎ ‎"You'll be married to Mr. Thorne for one year." ‎ ‎"And then?" ‎ ‎"The marriage ends." ‎ ‎"And the money?" ‎ ‎"Yours." ‎ ‎I leaned against the wall. ‎ ‎This was absurd. ‎ ‎Completely insane. ‎ ‎I had never met Julian Thorne. ‎ ‎I didn't know what he looked like. ‎ ‎I didn't know how old he was. ‎ ‎I didn't know what kind of man he was. ‎ ‎And yet he was offering to save the only thing in the world I had left. ‎ ‎"Why me?" ‎ ‎"I can't answer that." ‎ ‎"Then ask him." ‎ ‎"I believe he would prefer to explain everything himself." ‎ ‎"When?" ‎ ‎"Tomorrow." ‎ ‎I looked down at my paint-stained hands. ‎ ‎"Where?" ‎ ‎"Mr. Thorne will come to you." ‎ ‎My eyebrows pulled together. ‎ ‎"He knows where I live?" ‎ ‎"Yes." ‎ ‎Of course he did. ‎ ‎Everything about this conversation felt wrong. ‎ ‎Dangerously wrong. ‎ ‎But then my eyes fell on the foreclosure notice again. ‎ ‎Thirty days. ‎ ‎My parents' house. ‎ ‎Grandma's garden. ‎ ‎My childhood bedroom. ‎ ‎The studio where my mother used to sit and watch me paint. ‎ ‎I couldn't lose it. ‎ ‎Not like this. ‎ ‎"What are the terms?" ‎ ‎"Mr. Thorne will send the contract tomorrow morning." ‎ ‎I hesitated. ‎ ‎Then forced the words out. ‎ ‎"Send it." ‎ ‎"Very well." ‎ ‎He paused. ‎ ‎"One more thing, Miss Vance." ‎ ‎"What?" ‎ ‎"Mr. Thorne expects absolute discretion." ‎ ‎I frowned. ‎ ‎"Why?" ‎ ‎"You'll understand tomorrow." ‎ ‎The call ended. ‎ ‎I slowly lowered the receiver. ‎ ‎For a long moment, I stood completely still. ‎ ‎Then I looked at the painting in my studio. ‎ ‎The ruined marsh. ‎ ‎The muddy blue streak. ‎ ‎The unfinished sky. ‎ ‎I walked back inside. ‎ ‎My life had already fallen apart. ‎ ‎Maybe this ridiculous marriage was simply the next thing I had to lose. ‎ ‎I picked up the foreclosure notice. ‎ ‎Thirty days. ‎ ‎Then I whispered the words that terrified me more than the bank ever could. ‎ ‎"I'll do it." ‎ ‎But I had no idea that the man I had just agreed to marry had been watching my family from the shadows for years. ‎ ‎And Julian Thorne wasn't offering me a marriage because he needed a wife. ‎