His Contract Her Heart

The doctor wouldn't look her in the eyes. Isabella Hart knew that was never a good sign. She sat stiffly in the plastic chair outside Room 417, her fingers locked around a paper cup of untouched coffee. The hospital corridor was too bright, too cold, and far too quiet for the storm raging inside her. Her phone vibrated in her hand. She looked down. BANK BALANCE: $213.17 A bitter laugh almost escaped her. Two hundred and thirteen dollars. That was all she had left. And her mother needed eighty-five thousand. The door to Room 417 opened. Isabella immediately stood. “Doctor?” Dr. Miller removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Isabella, we need to talk.” Her heart sank. “What happened?” “Your mother's condition has worsened.” She stared at him. “But you said the medication would stabilize her.” “It might. But she needs the treatment immediately.” “Then start it.” He hesitated. “There's an outstanding balance.” Isabella's jaw tightened. “I know. I'm trying to get the money.” “I understand.” “No, you don't.” Her voice cracked. “I'll get it. Just start the treatment.” “Isabella—” “I'll get it.” The doctor lowered his voice. “The hospital requires the payment before we can proceed.” Her eyes burned. “How much?” He looked down at the folder in his hands. “Eighty-five thousand dollars for the initial treatment.” Isabella felt the floor disappear beneath her. Eighty-five thousand. She had spent the last month calling relatives, borrowing from friends, working extra shifts, selling anything she could live without. There was nothing left to sell. “Please,” she whispered. “There has to be another option.” Dr. Miller's expression softened. “There is one thing you need to understand.” “What?” “Your mother doesn't have much time.” Isabella stopped breathing. “How much?” The doctor didn't answer immediately. “Possibly days.” The paper cup slipped from her hand. It hit the floor. Coffee spread across the white tiles. Isabella barely noticed. “Days?” “I am sorry.” “No.” She shook her head. “No, she's not dying.” “Isabella—” “She can't.” Her voice broke. She pressed a hand against her mouth, fighting the sob threatening to escape. Her mother couldn't die. Not after raising her alone. Not after sacrificing everything for her. Not after promising they would one day take a vacation together. Not before Isabella could give her the life she deserved. “Please,” she whispered. “Just give me a little more time.” “I wish I could.” The doctor walked away. Isabella stood motionless. Then she looked through the small glass window in her mother's door. Elena Hart was sleeping. Pale. Weak. But alive. Isabella wiped her tears. “No,” she whispered. “I won't let you die.” She pulled out her phone and started calling everyone she knew. One call. Then another. Then another. No one had eighty-five thousand dollars. By the tenth call, Isabella was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall. Her phone suddenly rang. UNKNOWN NUMBER. She stared at it. She almost ignored it. Then she answered. “Hello?” “Ms. Hart?” “Yes.” “My name is Daniel Reed. I'm calling on behalf of Mr. Adrian Blackwell.” The name meant nothing to her for approximately two seconds. Then she froze. Adrian Blackwell. The Adrian Blackwell. Billionaire. CEO. One of the most powerful men in New York. Isabella frowned. “Why is a billionaire calling me?” “He isn't calling you directly.” “Then why are you calling me?” “Mr. Blackwell would like to meet you.” “Why?” “I can't discuss that over the phone.” “I don't have time for games.” “It concerns your mother.” Isabella went completely still. “What about my mother?” “Mr. Blackwell knows about her medical situation.” Her heart began beating faster. “How?” “I suggest you meet him.” “I don't know him.” “You don't need to.” “Then tell him I'm not interested.” “Ms. Hart.” “What?” “He can pay for your mother's treatment.” Silence. Isabella's fingers tightened around the phone. “Where?” --- One Hour Later The elevator doors opened onto the sixty-second floor of Blackwell Tower. Isabella stepped out. She immediately felt out of place. Everything around her screamed wealth. Marble floors. Glass walls. Expensive artwork. Employees dressed in clothes that probably cost more than her monthly rent. A receptionist looked up. “Ms. Hart?” “Yes.” “Mr. Blackwell is expecting you.” Isabella followed her through a set of enormous glass doors. Then the receptionist left. Isabella stood alone. At the far end of the office, a man stood facing the windows. Tall. Broad shoulders. Black suit. One hand in his pocket. The city stretched behind him like it belonged to him. Perhaps it did. He turned. Isabella's breath caught. Adrian Blackwell was younger than she expected. And far more intimidating. His dark eyes moved over her face with an unsettling intensity. Not attraction. Recognition. As if he'd seen her before. Isabella frowned. “Have we met?” “No.” His answer came too quickly. She narrowed her eyes. “Then why are you looking at me like that?” “Sit.” She didn't move. “Why am I here?” Adrian walked toward his desk. He picked up a black folder. “Your mother's treatment will cost approximately eighty-five thousand dollars.” Isabella's stomach tightened. “You said you could pay for it.” “I can.” “Why?” He placed the folder on the desk. “Because I want something from you.” She laughed bitterly. “Of course.” Adrian's expression remained cold. “I'll pay every medical expense your mother requires.” Isabella stared at him. “In exchange for what?” He opened the folder. “Marriage.” She blinked. “What?” “Marry me.” For a moment, Isabella genuinely wondered if she had misheard him. Then she laughed. “You're serious.” “Completely.” “You want me to marry you?” “For twelve months.” She stared at him. “Why me?” Adrian's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Because you fit the requirements.” “That's not an answer.” “It's the only one you're getting tonight.” Isabella shook her head. “You're unbelievable.” She turned toward the door. “Wait.” She stopped. Adrian's voice was quieter this time. “If you walk out, your mother may not receive the treatment she needs.” Isabella slowly turned around. He pushed the contract toward her. “Five hundred thousand dollars when the marriage ends.” Her eyes dropped to the document. Five hundred thousand. Her mother's treatment. One year. She hated everything about this. She hated him. Most of all, she hated that he had found the one weakness she couldn't protect. She looked up. “What are the rules?” Adrian leaned back in his chair. “Separate bedrooms.” She nodded. “No interference in each other's private lives.” Another nod. “No jealousy.” “Fine.” “No questions about my past.” She paused. “And in public?” “You'll be my wife.” Isabella stared at him. “And that's it?” His eyes held hers. “No feelings.” Something about those two words made her chest tighten. She picked up the pen. Adrian watched her carefully. Before signing, Isabella looked directly at him. “You don't get to own me because you can afford me.” For the first time, something almost resembling emotion crossed his face. “I don't want to own you.” He leaned forward. “I only need you to pretend you belong to me.” Isabella signed. Isabella Hart. The moment the ink dried, Adrian closed the folder. “Congratulations, Mrs. Blackwell.” She stood. “Don't call me that yet.” His eyebrow lifted. “Why?” “Because I haven't married you yet.” She walked toward the door. Behind her, Adrian watched her leave. The second the door closed, his expression changed. He opened the drawer of his desk. Inside was an old photograph. A much younger Isabella stood beside her father. Adrian picked it up. His thumb brushed over the photograph. Six years. Six years of anger. Six years of unanswered questions. Six years of believing her family had destroyed everything he loved. He stared at Isabella's face. “She doesn't remember,” he murmured. His phone rang. Adrian answered. “Did she sign?” “Yes.” “And she doesn't know why you chose her?” “No.” A pause. “Good.” Adrian's eyes hardened. “Make sure it stays that way.” He ended the call. Then he looked at the contract again. Twelve months. He had wanted revenge. He had planned to use Isabella to get the truth. But he hadn't expected one thing. The moment she walked into his office, something inside him had recognized her. And Adrian Blackwell had learned a long time ago— the things that could destroy him were always the things he wanted most.