His Forgotten Bride

His Name Was Kane

Amara Bells' POV

I stared at the envelope like it might bite me if I touched it.

"What kind of offer needs a lawyer stalking someone for two weeks?" I asked.

"Open it," Mr. Bennett said. "It will explain itself faster than I can."

My hands shook a little as I picked it up, the paper thick and expensive under my fingers, nothing like the flimsy envelopes I was used to from bill collectors.

I slid my thumb under the flap and pulled out a stack of papers, my eyes catching the bold letters at the top before anything else registered.

MARRIAGE AGREEMENT.

"Is this a joke?" I said, looking up at him.

"I assure you, it is not," he said, folding his hands on the table.

"You want me to marry a stranger?"

"You would be compensated generously," he said.

"Your mother's medical expenses, cleared in full. A monthly allowance during the marriage, and a lump sum at the end of the contract term."

I set the papers down like they'd burned me.

"Why me?" I asked. "You don't even know me."

"The family needs someone discreet," he said. "Someone who can appear convincingly in public. Someone who needs the money badly enough not to ask too many questions."

"That's insulting," I said.

"It's honest," he said. "I find honesty saves time."

I looked back down at the papers, flipping through them without really reading, my eyes catching fragments, living under the same roof, appearing as a devoted couple, no outside relationships permitted, forfeit all compensation if divorce is requested before the term ends.

"This is insane," I muttered.

"It is also one hundred thousand dollars for your mother's care alone," he said quietly. "Before we even discuss the rest."

My head snapped up.

"One hundred thousand?"

"Upfront," he said. "The moment you sign."

I thought of the stack of unpaid bills on the kitchen counter, the way my mother's hands shook more each month, the specialist we couldn't afford to see even once.

I thought of the torn paper still folded in my bag, the crest, the name Kane burned into my memory since the night I found it.

"This family," I said slowly. "What's their name?"

"I'll get to that," he said.

"Tell me now."

"All in good time, Miss Bells."

I pushed my chair back an inch, ready to walk out, and he raised a hand quickly.

"Wait," he said. "Please. I understand this is a lot to take in."

"You have no idea," I said.

"Take the papers home," he said. "Read them fully. Think it over. I'll return in two days for your answer."

I didn't sleep that night, the papers spread across my bed, my mother's soft snoring drifting through the thin wall between our rooms.

I read every line twice, my hand resting on my stomach the whole time, thinking about the child growing up there, a child with no father's name to put on any form, a child I would have to explain someday.

If I married into money, no one would ever ask too many questions about a baby that came a little too early.

If I married into this family, whoever they were, I would have access, files, connections, a way to finally chase down the answer that had haunted me since I was a teenager.

Two days later, I sat back down across from Mr. Bennett, the same table, the same untouched coffee between us.

"I have questions," I said.

"Ask them."

"If I sign this, I want access to everything in that household. Every room. Every file."

"That can be arranged," he said, though something flickered behind his eyes, surprise maybe, or caution.

"And I want the payment for my mother's care released before the wedding, not after."

"Also arranged," he said. "You drive a hard bargain for someone who hasn't even asked who the groom is yet."

"I'm getting there," I said.

He slid the pen across the table toward me, along with a clean copy of the contract, my name already typed neatly into the blank space at the top.

"Sign here," he said, tapping the line at the bottom.

I picked up the pen, my fingers cold around it, my mind flashing through my mother's face, the bills, the baby, the torn crest hidden in my bag.

I pressed the tip onto the paper.

"Wait," I said, pulling back before the ink touched down. "You still haven't told me his name."

Mr. Bennett paused while folding his hands together on the table.

"Does it matter?" he asked. "The terms remain the same either way."

"It matters to me," I said. "I want to know who I'm about to marry."

He studied me for a long moment, like he was deciding how much to give me, then finally leaned back in his chair.

"The groom's name is Xavier Kane," he said.

I froze, the pen hovering just above the page, my whole body going still.

I had heard that name before, torn and half faded on a paper I found buried in my father's things.

I was about to marry the son of the family that destroyed him.