SHATTERED VOWS

I knew I was walking into a trap the moment Dante Marchetti smiled at me. We were standing in the library of the Ashford estate, though the bank would disagree and he looked like he belonged there more than I did. A dark suit that probably cost more than our monthly mortgage payment. Hair so black it seemed to swallow the lamplight. And those eyes. God, those eyes were the color of a winter sky just before snow, cold and impossible to read. "You have a beautiful home, Miss Ashford," he said, running his finger along the spine of a first-edition Dickens my grandfather had collected. He didn't ask permission. Just touched it like he already owned it. Maybe he did. "Thank you," I managed, clasping my hands together to keep them from shaking. "Though I imagine you didn't come here to discuss interior decorating." That smile widened. It was the kind of smile that made my stomach turn over, not from attraction but from warning. Like seeing a shark fin break the surface of calm water. "Perceptive. I like that." He moved away from the bookshelf and closer to where I stood by the fireplace. Three steps. That's all it took for him to invade my space without actually touching me. "I'll be direct, Isabelle. May I call you Isabelle?" "You're already doing it." "So I am." He tilted his head, studying me like I was a painting he was considering buying. "Your family is drowning. Three mortgages on this house alone. Your father's debts spread across seven states. Credit cards maxed. Collection agencies calling daily. Your mother's rehab bills. Your sister's college tuition due in six weeks. Should I continue?" Heat flooded my face. "How do you…." "How do I know?" He waved a hand dismissively. "I make it my business to know things, Isabelle. Information is currency in my world. And right now, the Ashford family is bankrupt in every sense of the word." I wanted to slap him. I wanted to throw him out of my house. But we both knew I couldn't afford either option. "What do you want?" The words came out harder than I intended. "To help you." I laughed. Couldn't help it. "Right. Because billionaires are famous for their charity work to failing families they've never met." "I didn't say it was charity." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded document. The paper looked expensive, cream-colored and heavy. "I'm offering a transaction. A simple exchange." My hands stayed at my sides. "I'm not interested in whatever….." "Marry me." The words hung in the air between us like smoke. For a moment, I thought I'd misheard him. Had to have misheard him. "Excuse me?" "Marry me," he repeated, slower this time, like I was a child who needed extra help understanding. "A legal marriage. Binding contract. You become Mrs. Marchetti, play the role of devoted wife in public, and in exchange, I erase every debt your family owes. I secure your sister's future. I restore the Ashford name to its former glory." "That's insane." "That's business." He unfolded the document and held it out to me. "Three years. That's all I'm asking. Three years of your life, and your family gets to keep their dignity." I didn't take the paper. Couldn't. My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. "Why? Why me? Why would you possibly want…" "My reasons are my own." His voice went cold. "You have seventy-two hours to decide. After that, the offer expires, and your family loses everything. This house, your sister's education, whatever scraps of reputation you have left. All of it. Gone." "You can't…." "I can. And I will." He placed the document on the mantle beside me. "Read it carefully. Have a lawyer look at it if you want, though I doubt you can afford one anymore. You'll find the terms are generous. More generous than you deserve, frankly." That last part stung more than it should have. More than I wanted to admit. He turned to leave, footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors my great-grandfather had installed a century ago. But at the doorway, he paused and looked back at me. "One more thing, Isabelle. Don't bother running a background check on me. You won't find anything I don't want you to find. And don't convince yourself this is romantic or that I'm some misunderstood soul who will fall in love with you. I won't. This is a transaction. Nothing more." "Then why marriage?" I called after him. "Why not just a business contract?" For the first time, something flickered across his face. Something that might have been anger or pain or both twisted together. "Because marriage is legal ownership," he said quietly. "And I always own what I buy." Then he was gone, leaving me alone with a contract that felt like a death sentence and the sound of my mother's bedroom door opening upstairs, her slurred voice calling my name, asking if I'd picked up her prescription yet. I picked up the document with shaking hands. Seventy-two hours to sell my soul. I wondered if it was even worth that much.