The VOWS We BURIED

CHAPTER 1: THE STRANGER WITH A PROPOSAL The day Amara Vale agreed to marry a stranger, she was trying to save twelve roses from dying. She stood behind the counter of her mother's old flower shop, trimming brown edges from the petals and pretending not to notice the final warning folded beneath the cash register. PAYMENT REQUIRED WITHIN SEVEN DAYS. Seven days. That was all the time she had left before the landlord changed the locks. The shop had belonged to her mother, Elise, who had taught Amara that flowers could say what people were too afraid to speak. After Elise disappeared from their lives, Amara had kept the shop open through school, grief, and the humiliation of watching customers slowly choose cheaper stores. Now even the roses seemed to be giving up. Her phone vibrated. Another message from the landlord. Amara, I have been patient. I need the money by Friday. She pressed her lips together and placed the phone facedown. “Fine,” she whispered to the empty shop. “We will figure it out.” A black car stopped outside. Amara barely looked up until a man entered, bringing with him the faint scent of expensive cologne and rain. He was tall, dressed in a charcoal suit, and carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who had never needed to ask permission to enter a room. “Amara Vale?” “Yes. If you're here about flowers, you're early for Valentine's Day.” “I am Adrian Ashford.” The name struck her harder than she expected. Ashford Holdings. The company her father had worked for before he was convicted of fraud. The company that had publicly destroyed Thomas Vale's reputation while the Ashford family continued to appear on magazine covers. Her father had died insisting he was innocent. Amara had spent years hating the name. “What do you want?” she asked. Adrian glanced at the shop, taking in the peeling paint, the empty shelves, and the bucket collecting water beneath a leaking pipe. “I want to make you an offer.” “I'm not interested in buying anything.” “I'm not here to buy flowers.” He placed a thick envelope on the counter. Inside was a contract. Amara read the first paragraph, then looked up sharply. “Marriage?” “One year,” Adrian said. “A legal marriage with agreed conditions. I will pay your outstanding debts, provide a monthly allowance, and ensure this shop remains yours.” “And what do you get?” “My family needs me to marry. Your name would solve a problem that money alone cannot solve.” “You're asking me to sell my life because your family has a problem?” “I'm offering you a way out of yours.” She hated that he had noticed her circumstances so easily. Adrian continued. “You will have your own room, your own finances, and the right to leave after twelve months. There will be no expectation of affection.” “How generous.” “I also know you're looking for information about your father's case.” Amara went still. “My father died twenty-four years ago,” she said. “Nobody has cared about his case since.” “I have access to the Ashford family archives. Some records were never released.” “And you will let me see them if I marry you?” “Under supervision, initially.” She wanted to throw the contract at him. She wanted to tell him to take his money and his family name and leave. Instead, she remembered her father's last letter, the one she had read so many times that the folds were almost tearing. Never let them convince you that I betrayed you. “Why me?” she asked. Adrian's expression changed, just slightly. “Because you are the only person who can help me.” “Help you do what?” “Get through the next year without losing control of my family's company.” It was an answer, but not the whole truth. Amara looked down at the contract again. The date printed in the corner was two weeks earlier. He had prepared it before visiting her. “You planned this.” “Yes.” “Did you know I was about to lose the shop?” “I knew you were struggling.” “And you thought that made me easy to buy?” “No,” he replied. “I thought it made you practical enough to understand a bargain.” She hated him for being right about one thing: she needed money. But she needed the truth more. “Leave the contract,” she said. Adrian nodded and walked toward the door. “Amara?” She looked up. “Once you enter my family's home, don't believe everything you hear. Not even from me.” Then he left. For several minutes, she stared at the contract. Her phone vibrated again. This time, the message came from an unknown number. DON'T MARRY ADRIAN ASHFORD. Before she could respond, another message appeared. YOUR MOTHER TRIED TO WARN HIS FATHER. LOOK WHAT HAPPENED TO HER. A photograph followed. Amara opened it with trembling fingers. The picture showed her mother standing beside a handsome older man outside a grand mansion. Elise looked younger, but unmistakable. The man was identified on the back of the photograph as Richard Ashford, Adrian's late father. A date had been written beneath the image. The same date Amara had been born. On the back, in handwriting she recognized from her mother's old letters, were the words: If Amara ever meets Adrian, tell her the truth about the night she was born. Below that was another sentence. The wrong daughter paid for everything. Amara read it twice. Her mother had disappeared from her life years ago. Her father had died in disgrace. And now the Ashford heir was asking her to marry him. A final message arrived. ASK ADRIAN WHY HIS FATHER KEPT YOUR MOTHER'S PICTURE FOR TWENTY-FOUR YEARS. Amara looked toward the window where the black car had disappeared into traffic. She had thought her family had been ruined by one terrible lie. Now she wondered whether the lie had only been the beginning. She picked up the contract and turned to the final page. There was a space for her signature. Amara took a pen. If marrying Adrian Ashford was the only way to discover what had happened to her parents, she would do it. But she would not become his victim. She would become the one person in his family who had nothing left to lose. And she would uncover every secret they had buried.