Signed To Lucien Vale

Leyla's Pov By my fourth visit, I'm invisible. The secretary doesn't even look up; she just acknowledges my presence with a cold, silent stare before returning to her typing. I stand there a second too long, waiting for a "hello" that isn't coming. To her, I’m just the stripper sister of the man who killed Raymond Vale. I reek of cheap coffee and desperation, but it doesn’t stop me. George’s hearing is the morning after tomorrow. If I don't get to Lucien today, my brother is as good as dead. I’m his only hope, and I’m running out of time." “Mr. Vale is in a meeting,” the secretary says, dismissive. “I’ll wait.” She snaps her patience finally breaking. "Look, I’ve already told you already. There’s nothing more you can do for him." “Then stop telling me," I fire back, the frustration bubbling over me. That earns me a long, calculating look. She’s deciding between calling security or letting me stay. Finally, she sighs and points to the leather sofa. I sit, watching the power players of Woodsbury glide in and out of the hallway. They aren't here for miracles; they aren't begging for mercy. My phone buzzes in my hand: The court hearing is confirmed for Friday. No extensions were granted. I grip the phone until my knuckles ache. When a man finally exits Lucien Vale’s office, laughing as he buttons his blazer, I don't wait. I bolt upright. “Please, just five minutes!” “Wait your turn!” The secretary barks. “I just need him to know I’m here!” “I’m sure he knows,” she replies coldly, her eyes already back on her work. “Then why am I still waiting?” She ignores me. I sink back into the chair, watching the sun dip below the horizon as the minutes blur into hours. Finally, the intercom buzzes. “Miss Blackwood,” the secretary says, her voice suddenly professional. “He'll see you now.” My legs are stiff as I stand. For a second, the room seems to spin, but I get a grip of myself and walk in. Lucien Vale sits behind his desk like a god chiselled to perfection. Perfectly calm and composed. He looks… prepared. Like he's been expecting me. “You don’t give up, do you?” he says. “You know he's innocent," I blurt out. “He’s my only brother.” “I know nothing,” then, almost as an afterthought: “And I definitely didn’t ask.” The calm in his voice is worse than a shout. I move closer to his desk, my fists clenched. “You know everyone. The judge, the mayor. You could stop this.” “If I wanted it to stop,” he cuts in, “it already would have.” Neither of us says a word. The lights buzz above our heads, and a car horn blares somewhere in the street below, then fades. He doesn’t move. I wait for him to, even though I know deep down he won't. “There has to be another way,” I whisper. “Money. Influence... anything.” He stays silent. So I ask the one question I promised myself I never would. “What do you want from me?” His eyes sharpen with interest. He leans back slowly, the leather chair groaning softly as he takes his time. “You shouldn’t ask that, Miss Blackwood. Everything has a price.” “I'm asking anyway.” Silence stretched between us as I close my eyes, fighting back tears."Just name it." His gaze drops to my lips just long enough to make his point. “Marry me.” A harsh, ugly laugh escapes me. My twin, Alora, always told me how bad I sounded when I laughed like that, but I couldn't help it. “You’re insane.” He doesn’t smile. I patiently wait for him to tell me it was a joke or a trick, but he just sat there. “You don’t even like me,” I continue. “And you definitely don’t need me. You have women lining up for you. Models, heiresses...” “I don’t want them," he pauses for a moment. “I want you.” “Why?” “Because you’re desperate. And I like that.” The memory of this office flashes back suddenly. I could still feel the ghost of his hands on my waist. No kisses or tenderness. Just the heavy, firm weight of him. He had moved with such confidence, his hands sliding under my dress as if he’d done it a thousand times. Look at me, he had said. And I did. Afterwards, a heavy silence filled the room, a silence I never figured out how to break. It was the kind of feeling that clings to you and eventually turns into shame. “That doesn’t explain why," I say, forcing myself back to the present while goosebumps broke out over my skin. He stands and begins to pace. “I need a wife for appearances.” “How long?” “Two years.” “That’s not a marriage,” I whisper. “That’s a prison sentence.” “Think of it as a contract," he says, pushing the folder toward me. "You live where I say. You show up when I tell you to. And you don’t make me look bad.” He stops meeting my eyes. “Most importantly? Don’t catch feelings.” I roll my eyes and wave him off. “In your dreams.” I open the folder, my voice tightening. “And George?” “He walks free.” My head starts to swim. I grab the edge of the desk for support, and that’s when I realize. He's not threatening me. He’s offering a way out. “Why would I ever agree to this?” My voice shakes despite my efforts. He sits back down. "You already know what it’s like to be with me,” his voice drops. “And yet, you came back.” “You make me sick.” “Maybe so,” he replies, not even bothering to agrue. “But you're still here.” The truth stings more than the insult. “I need some time to think,” I whisper. “You have until tomorrow.”