Contract Marriage with my Amnesiac Billionaire

02

AURORA

The supplier didn’t calm down. In fact, his voice kept rising, bouncing off the gallery walls like crashing waves. Customers, who had been browsing quietly minutes earlier, froze and stared as he ranted in the middle of the entryway.

“I want my money, Lila!” he shouted, waving the invoice on my face. “Two days. If I don’t get it, I’m going to the police. I’ll have this place shut down.”

Aunt Lila tried to lead him aside, but he kept pulling away from her.

“Please, Mr. Herdman,” she said softly, trying to keep her voice steady. “Just give us a little more time….”

“I’ve given you months!” he snapped. “Three months, to be exact. You’re using my supplies for free!”

I felt anger rise in my chest, sharp and hot. I stepped forward, clenching my fists.

“You don’t have to shout like this,” I said. “There are customers here.”

He glared at me. “Then pay your bills like a real business, and I won’t have anything to shout about.”

I felt my jaw tighten. I wanted to argue, tell him that he had no right to humiliate my aunt, that she was doing her best, that we were trying. But deep inside, I knew he wasn’t wrong. We were late. Very late.

And he was running a business too.

Aunt Lila placed a hand on my arm, silently asking me to stop.

“We will sort it out,” she said gently. “Please… just two more days.”

He muttered something under his breath, shoved the invoice into her hands, and stormed out. The bells on the door jingled violently behind him.

Grace let out a long breath. “Well… that went great.”

I didn’t answer. My chest felt tight. The gallery had been our life since I was five—since my mother’s accident left Aunt Lila raising me alone. She worked day and night to keep this place running, sold paintings at prices far lower than they deserved, and still used every cent to make sure I went to workshops, art training, and everything I needed.

And what had we gained?

A failing business and debts.

I looked at Aunt Lila. “You said you had a plan.”

She avoided my eyes too quickly. “I’ll figure something out.”

“Lila…” I whispered.

“I will,” she insisted, but her voice shook. “Don’t worry.”

But I did. Because I had seen her face—tired, pale, and scared.

We were drowning.

So I made a decision.

*

I packed seven paintings into the back of Aunt Lila’s car, wrapped them carefully, and drove to the city alone. Grace wanted to come, but I told her I’d be fine.

I wasn’t fine.

Street selling looked easy in movies, but in real life, the city barely looked at me. I stood with my paintings propped against a wall, smiling at people who walked past like I was invisible.

Hours passed. The sun grew harsh. My throat felt dry.

Finally, one woman stopped and pointed at my smallest canvas.

“How much?”

My heart leaped. “Eighty dollars.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Hm. I’ll take it for forty.”

Forty. For something that took me two days of work.

But I needed money. And she started walking away. My chest collapsed a little.

“Okay,” I said quietly. “Forty.”

She paid, took the painting, and left without another word.

That was the only sale I made.

When I finally walked back into the house that night, tired and aching, the news was on. Grace sat on the couch, eyes wide as she looked at the TV.

“Aurora,” she said. “Come here.”

The reporter’s voice echoed through the room.

“…Nathaniel Vale regained consciousness this afternoon after surviving a late-night crash…”

I froze. Three days. It had been three days since the accident. Since Eleanor Vale shoved money at me like I was a beggar. Since Nathaniel held my hand like he was afraid of letting go.

Grace looked at me carefully. “Are you okay?”

“I… I’m fine,” I said softly.

But I wasn’t sure. A part of me wondered what happened after they took him into surgery. If he remembered anything. If he wondered who brought him in.

I shook the thought away. They hadn’t called me. They probably never would.

*

The next day, Grace dragged me out early.

“We’re going to the city again,” she said. “But this time to the studio. We need to outsource the art. Even forty percent commission is better than nothing.”

I knew she was right. So we drove together to an art studio known for reselling local works. Inside, the space was bright and polished, the kind of studio that smelled like money.

We sat in the waiting area while the manager prepared the contract. Grace leaned close to me.

“So… Nathaniel still hasn’t sent you a thank-you card?” she whispered.

I pushed her shoulder. “Stop.”

“I’m just saying,” she grinned. “Maybe he’s still recovering. Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe he’s a mama’s pet who doesn’t do anything without permission.”

I snorted. “Please. I doubt he even remembers what happened.”

Grace placed a hand on her chest dramatically. “Ouch. Your hero forgets you.”

“He’s not my hero.”

“Sure,” she smirked. “Whatever helps you sleep.”

Before I could hit her again, the assistant called us in. We reviewed the documents. Forty percent to us, sixty percent to the studio. Not ideal, but it was our last hope.

We signed.

On our way out, the door swung open and a man walked in. Tall. Broad shoulders. Black hair. Eyes that felt like they pierced right through me.

Grace whispered, “Well, he’s intense.”

I shrugged it off, but I couldn’t shake the odd feeling he left behind.

Back at our gallery, Aunt Lila stood behind the counter with her hands pressed over her mouth.

“Aunt Lila?” I rushed toward her. “What happened?”

She slowly turned her laptop screen toward us.

A bank notification.

A deposit.

My heart stopped.

“Five hundred thousand dollars?” Grace screamed. “Aunt Lila, who…?”

Aunt Lila shook her head. “It came from an anonymous sender.”

Grace’s eyes widened. “Anonymous? Aurora, I swear, this has to be Nathaniel Vale.”

“No,” Aunt Lila said immediately. Too quickly. “It’s impossible. The sender used a masked account. No names.”

“But who else would send that much money?” Grace asked.

Aunt Lila crossed her arms. “We shouldn’t assume anything.”

I looked at the screen again.

$500,000. Enough to erase every debt, fix every problem.

Grace said, “It’s him. It has to be.”

Aunt Lila said, “Absolutely not.”

And I…

I didn’t know.

What if it really was him?