THE WIFE HE RENT

The Bride on Loan I got married on a Tuesday morning. Not because I was in love. But because I was out of options. There were no bridesmaids. No music. No smiling relatives taking pictures. Just a lawyer. A priest. And a contract worth fifty million dollars. The man I was about to marry stood across from me like I was signing a lease, not becoming his wife. Adrian Vale. Billionaire. Cold. Untouchable. His expression didn't change when I walked down the aisle alone. He didn't look nervous. He didn't look excited. He looked bored. And somehow… that hurt more than it should have. The lawyer slid the contract toward me. "One year," he repeated. "After that, both parties walk away peacefully." One year of pretending. One year of sharing a last name. One year of belonging to a man who doesn't believe in love. I picked up the pen. My hands didn't shake when I signed. They couldn't afford to. Because somewhere across the city, men were already planning to take my house. My father's debts were not patient. And desperation is louder than dignity. Adrian signed next. His signature was smooth. Confident. Like this was just another deal closed before lunch. The priest cleared his throat. "Do you take—" "Yes," Adrian said before the question finished. Just like that. No pause. No hesitation. I swallowed hard and answered when it was my turn. "Yes." The rings were simple. Cold. When he slid it onto my finger, his touch barely brushed my skin. Intentional distance. After the ceremony, there was no kiss. He extended his hand instead. "For the record," he said calmly, "this marriage is strategic. Nothing more." I stared at his hand for a second before shaking it. "Of course," I replied. "I prefer it that way." That was our first lie as husband and wife. That night, I moved into his mansion. It was bigger than my entire old neighborhood. The staff lined up to greet me. "Welcome home, Mrs. Vale." Home. The word felt foreign. Adrian dismissed everyone with a glance. Then he handed me a thin black folder. "Our agreement," he said. "My rules." I raised an eyebrow. "Rules?" He nodded. "You will attend public events with me when necessary. You will not interfere in my business. You will not enter my private office. And most importantly…" He stepped closer. Not romantically. Not gently. Just enough to make a point. "You will not mistake this arrangement for affection." His eyes were dark. Careful. Guarded. Like a man who has already survived something that killed his belief in love. I crossed my arms. "Trust me, Mr. Vale. I'm not here for your heart." A flicker of something passed through his expression. Amusement? Challenge? "Good," he said. Then he turned and walked away, leaving me alone in a bedroom bigger than my entire old house. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the ring on my finger. One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days. That was the deal. What I didn't know… Was that falling in love doesn't ask for permission. And sometimes, The heart breaks the contact first.