Chapter 2: Twenty-Four Hours
1127 Words
Alina Grey stared at the ceiling of her apartment, watching a c***k slowly inch its way across the plaster like a vein in a dying body.
The building groaned with age and rain. Her mattress was flat. The air was freezing. But she couldn’t feel anything—not really. Not the cold, not the ache in her back, not the sting in her eyes from staying awake all night.
She’d barely moved since getting home from Damon Thorne’s office.
The contract folder sat unopened on the chipped kitchen table.
A million dollars inside. Or a million problems. Maybe both.
Her phone buzzed again—another message from her landlord.
Landlord: "Clock’s ticking, Grey. Forty-eight hours or you're out. Trash included."
Trash.
That’s what she was now.
She pulled the blanket over her head and tried to pretend the world didn’t exist.
When the sun rose, the apartment turned from cold to unbearable.
She couldn’t afford heat. She couldn’t afford groceries. She couldn’t even afford the time it took to panic. The only thing in this apartment that belonged to her anymore was a dented tin of coffee grounds and an urn on the windowsill.
Her mother’s ashes.
A small, brushed-silver container with a faded sticker that still read Westview Crematory. No flowers. No picture. Just ashes, like everything else in her life.
Alina sat down at the table, finally reaching for the contract.
The paper was thick. Expensive. Even the font looked rich.
Marital Agreement Contract: Damon A. Thorne & Alina M. Grey
Her fingers trembled as she skimmed the contents.
Clause 1: Legal marriage agreement between both parties.
Clause 3: Agreement duration: 12 months.
Clause 5: No physical intimacy required unless mutually initiated.
Clause 7: Immediate payout: $500,000 USD upon signature.
Clause 8: Remaining $500,000 after one-year completion.
Clause 10: Termination results in full repayment and legal penalties.
Termination results in full repayment...
Her stomach turned.
She stood abruptly, pacing the room, chewing her nail until she tasted blood.
She needed air.
Outside, the city was gray and pulsing.
Alina walked aimlessly through side streets and alleyways, tugging her coat tighter with every gust of wind. She passed bakery windows she couldn’t afford to look at, watched couples laugh from warm cafés she would never step foot inside.
The world had kept moving without her.
She stopped in front of a pawn shop and stared at her own reflection in the smudged window. Her hair was tangled beneath her hood. Her eyes were dull. Her cheeks hollow.
She looked... forgettable. Breakable.
Inside, she sold her last pair of earrings for twenty dollars.
Back in her apartment, she curled up under two blankets and let the TV play just to feel less alone.
That’s when she saw him again.
Damon Thorne.
On the evening news.
A press conference clip. Surrounded by cameras, security, and reporters.
He looked polished, untouchable. His voice calm as he dismissed a shareholder scandal with a smirk. There was power in every word, in every still breath between answers.
“Mr. Thorne, are you planning to settle down anytime soon?”
He laughed slightly. “Business first, always.”
Alina watched his smile. It wasn’t charming. It was calculated.
He was playing a game—and she was the next piece on the board.
She tried calling someone. Anyone.
Her cousin Mia picked up on the third ring. "Lina?"
Alina exhaled. "Hey... I—uh—I needed someone to talk to."
"Now's not great," Mia said. "Ben's sick, and I'm late for my shift."
"Oh. Okay."
"You good?"
Alina hesitated. "Yeah. Just tired."
"Rest up. Call me next week, okay?"
Click.
She stared at the phone, suddenly aware that she had no one left. No safety net. No home. No way out.
Except one.
She pulled the folder back onto her lap and reread every line again.
Her name, already typed out. Her signature line, waiting blank.
She touched her mother’s urn.
“I don’t know what else to do,” she whispered.
For a moment, she imagined her mother alive again. Sitting across the table. Frowning. "Alina, no man gets to own you." But then again... no man had offered her a million dollars, either.
By morning, the decision was carved into her bones.
She washed her face, pulled her hair back, and dressed in the same blazer and scuffed shoes. She had nothing else decent left.
The city hadn’t changed overnight—but Alina had.
She no longer felt like a victim.
She felt like a sacrifice.
9:59 a.m.
Thorne & Blackwell’s lobby was silent.
The same woman at the front desk didn’t even glance up. “He’s expecting you.”
The hallway felt shorter this time. Less intimidating. Maybe because she already knew how this story ended. Or maybe because she didn’t care anymore.
At the door marked D. Thorne, she didn’t knock.
She just walked in.
Damon was standing by the window, phone in one hand, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows.
He looked like he hadn’t slept either.
Their eyes met.
She held up the folder. “I’m here.”
“Did you read it all?”
“Yes.”
“Any questions?”
“Just one.”
He raised a brow.
“Why me?” she asked. “Why not someone prettier? Or smarter? Or... less broke?”
Damon set down his phone and walked toward her slowly.
“Because those women ask questions,” he said. “You don’t. You survive.”
Alina swallowed. That wasn’t a compliment—it was a warning.
He gestured to the table.
She sat, opened the folder, picked up the black pen, and signed.
Alina M. Grey.
Damon took the folder without a word, flipped to the last page, and counter-signed. His signature was bold and slanted—confident, like everything else about him.
The moment the pen left the paper, something shifted in the room.
It was done.
Her soul hadn’t been sold—but it had definitely been leased.
He stood and handed her a black envelope.
Inside: a sleek black credit card. A key fob. A phone. A slip of paper with an address.
“Your belongings will be moved to the penthouse today. My driver will pick you up at six.”
“For what?”
“There’s a gala. Press. You’ll be introduced as my wife.”
She blinked. “So soon?”
“There’s no point in delay. Wear black. Do not speak unless spoken to. And stay at my side.”
She nodded.
“Anything else I should know?” she asked, barely above a whisper.
Damon’s eyes narrowed.
“Just this,” he said. “You said yes to a contract, not to freedom. Remember that.”
- Writer
