Contract wife of the ruthless CEO..I Refuse to break

Inside, the walls closed in before I even took a breath. Tick. Tick. My shoes clicked on stone floors, sharp as alarms in empty halls - out of tune with these shiny halls, out of step with rich air. Nothing showed wear, no smudges, no grief stains, nothing marked by loss or unpaid debts. I stood apart. Just like Noah’s invoice stuck in my coat, thin and stubborn, refusing to vanish into thin air. She stayed staring at her desk. A polished finger aimed down the hallway, as if years had taught her how desperation grips fabric near the chest. Running would have made sense. But then - Noah’s skin, colorless, wires trailing from his limbs, that flat voice saying survival measured in months - and my feet moved anyway. Sound of time marking steps echoed along the passage, beside artwork priced beyond anything I’ll ever own, when the room exhaled its entrance wide. There he stayed, just sitting. Still seated, Adrian Voss kept still. His eyes stayed fixed. Not one flicker of expression crossed his face. A long gaze came my way - measured, almost weighing each second. It wasn’t fear that twisted inside me. Heat rose instead. Anger lit up. Who gave him the right to stare as if I belonged to him already? "You're late." "Traffic." Liar.” A whisper, not a shout, as if he tucked the falsehood into his pocket for later. That dark gray suit fit too well, the knot of his tie down by barely any at all, then there were the eyes - pale, empty, worn - nothing like the rest of him. Maybe thirty-five at most, yet inside that stare lay dirt-covered graves. I crossed my arms over my chest. "You wanted to see me. I'm here. What do you want?" A silence came. Then movement - a paper pushed forward. Heavy stock, trimmed in gleam. Words soaked into it like stain. One line mattered most. His voice cut low: Seven's what you need "I don't take orders from you." "Clause seven. Now." Something stiffened in my neck. Still, my fingers moved - what made them? His words did not request. They settled. Deep inside my back, a memory woke: landlords speaking slow, bosses tapping watches, men stating facts about women like me. Page seven turned. "The signee agrees to full legal and financial dependence on Adrian Voss for the duration of the contract. No outside employment. No outside contacts. No outside life." My throat closed up. "You want to own me." He sat back, the chair groaning beneath him. Using you isn’t the same thing. Leather cracked like old bones "What's the difference?" "Ownership has emotion attached. This is a transaction. Clean. Simple. No one gets hurt who didn't agree to it first." Laughter would’ve been better. Tearing up the papers, storming off with a gesture nobody forgets. Yet inside my coat, Noah’s medical invoice stayed tucked like proof of weakness. Adrian didn’t need to ask - he’d counted on it being there, which explained the invitation, my arrival, and how two people ended up pretending fairness mattered at all. "How much?" A figure slipped out of his mouth. My breath froze, then kicked into a sprint. Tenfold the sum I’d counted on. A ticket to pull Noah free. Space after to vanish - new identity, pale strands, miles between me and this place, its polished stone mirroring my worn soles like a joke without punchline. "What's the catch?" Cold smile. One that leaves the eyes untouched. Say yes, otherwise vanish Shaking started in my hands, right where they touched the page. Not a decision - more like dying under bright lamps. Refuse, and Noah gets hurt. Agree, and pieces of me vanish one by one, each moment chipping away until only ink and metal remain. Staring at Adrian changed things. Past the tailored jacket, past the calm breaths - he stood coiled, ready for something to snap. Tension lived in his neck, muscles jumping without warning. His eyes… they didn’t land on me. Instead, they passed right through, as if he’d set a trap meant only for breaking someone like me. A man like that has no use for a pretend marriage. One snap of his fingers brings dozens rushing to claim his name. Then again, why choose me? Need makes someone silent. Silent ones never probe too deep. Truth is, he does not want a partner - he wants something sharper, colder, built to aim without feeling, then strike when told. "I'll sign." A flicker crossed his brow. Not quite shock, but close. Closer to letdown - maybe. A hint of ease crept in, though unclear. Reading it was impossible. That uncertainty weighed heavier than any answer. "Then sign." The pen felt heavy in my fingers. Not shaking mattered less now, since breaking changes how fear works once you’re past it. Each line I wrote sounded loud - Lena Vale traded off, name inked down for money, handled like mail waiting on some shelf until someone remembered to care. Back across the table went the contract. I let it go without a word. His gaze stayed fixed on me, cold and grey. Not once did he glance away. A quiet voice broke the silence. You’re wrong to do this "Maybe." "You'll regret this." "Probably." He rose. The space closed in - six feet of quiet threat dressed in a suit worth five thousand dollars. For one reason only: he meant it What made me wonder? The word stuck in my chest, never reaching sound. Could he truly wish for her to feel sorrow over those vows? Not power - no, worse than that. A deeper hollow. In a breath - in just a single still moment - I noticed it. A shake ran through his fingers where they lay. There sat Adrian Voss - known for crushing firms by nine a.m., silencing competitors midday - and yet now, stillness broken only by that unsteady quiver. Close he came, inch by inch, his movement quiet, careful. A whisper touched my ear, not quite sound, more like air shaped into words. The devil you now belong to, Lena Back he stepped, a grin spreading across his face. It was the first moment I noticed sorrow hiding inside that dull gray stare. What Have I done ...?