THE 365-DAY CONTRACT BRIDE

Chapter 1: The Contract The hospital bill in my hands was shaking. $480,000. Due in 7 days. Or they pull the plug on my little brother. I was 24 years old. $3.02 in my bank account. Two jobs. And still, it wasn't enough. Ethan was 12. Leukemia. Stage 3. The only thing keeping him alive was the trial treatment at St. Mercy Hospital, and the insurance had run out 3 months ago. "Miss Vale?" I looked up from the hospital bench. A man in a $5000 suit was standing over me. No umbrella, even though it was pouring in New York. "Mr. Hawthorne would like to see you. Now." My stomach dropped. Damian Hawthorne. Everyone in the city knew the name. 29 years old. CEO of Hawthorne Global. Net worth $14 billion. And the coldest man in New York real estate. His face was on the news last week. Buying out his third competitor. No smile. No mercy. "I... I don't know him," I stammered. The assistant just held out a black card. No name. Just a number. And an address. 90th floor. Hawthorne Tower. "He knows about your brother," he said quietly. "Please. For Ethan." For Ethan. Two hours later, I was in an elevator that felt like it was going to space. Glass walls. The entire city below me, drowning in rain. The doors opened. His office was bigger than my entire apartment building. White marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows. And in the middle of it all, behind a black desk, sat him. Damian Hawthorne. He didn't look up when I walked in. He was signing papers. Gray suit. Black watch. Hair that looked like he’d run his hands through it once and decided that was enough. He was beautiful. And terrifying. "Close the door," he said. His voice was low. Like gravel. I did. The click echoed. Finally, he looked up. Gray eyes. Ice cold. They scanned me from head to toe. My thrift store coat. My worn boots. The dark circles under my eyes from working night shifts. He didn't flinch. "Sit," he commanded, pointing to the chair across from him. I sat. My hands were shaking. "You need money," he said. Not a question. "How do you know about Ethan?" "I know everything about you, Miss Vale. Aria Vale. 24. Two jobs. Diner waitress from 6am to 2pm. Barista from 4pm to 11pm. No father. Mother died 5 years ago. Brother, Ethan Vale, 12. Hospital debt: $480,000." He recited it like he was reading a grocery list. "And you can solve that problem for me," he continued. He slid a thick, black folder across the desk. It stopped right in front of me. "What's this?" "Open it." My fingers were numb. I flipped it open. The first page hit me like a punch. 365-DAY MARRIAGE CONTRACT Party A: Damian Hawthorne Party B: Aria Vale Compensation: $500,000 upfront + full medical coverage for dependent: Ethan Vale Terms: Legal marriage. Cohabitation. Public appearances. Obedience to household rules. Possession clause activated on Day 365. Termination: Party B receives $0 upon early termination. All medical coverage voided. I couldn't breathe. "Marriage?" My voice cracked. "You want me to marry you?" "For 365 days," he said. "You will be my wife. In name. In public. In my home." "Why?" I whispered. "You could have anyone. Models. Actresses. Why me?" He leaned back in his chair. The city lights reflected in the window behind him. "Because you have nothing to lose," he said simply. "And I need a wife. Not for love. For business." "My board thinks I'm unstable. Unmarried. They think I can't run the company without a 'family image.' 365 days. You play the part. I pay the bills. On Day 366, we divorce. You walk away rich. Or..." "Or what?" His lips curved. It wasn't a smile. It was a promise. "Or on Day 365, the possession clause activates. You stay. Completely. By choice or by contract." The room felt 10 degrees colder. "That's... that's insane," I said. "This is illegal. This is—" "This is the only way your brother gets his treatment," he cut in. "The $500,000 hits your account the second you sign. The hospital gets paid tomorrow." He pushed a pen across the desk. Montblanc. Heavy. I looked at the contract. Then at the window. 90 floors down. I thought of Ethan. His pale face. The tubes. The way he smiled at me yesterday and said, "Sis, don't worry about me." I thought of the $3.02 in my bank. My hand reached for the pen. "What are the household rules?" I asked quietly. "No dating others. No leaving the estate without permission. No speaking to press. You will attend all events with me. You will wear what I tell you to wear. And you will never, under any circumstances, fall in love with me." Fall in love? With him? The man who looked at people like they were numbers on a spreadsheet? Impossible. "And you?" I asked. "What are your rules?" For the first time, something flickered in his gray eyes. "I don't fall in love either," he said. "This is business, Miss Vale." Business. Right. I signed my name. Aria Vale. The ink was still wet when he picked up his phone. "Transfer the funds. And call the hospital. Tell them the Hawthorne Foundation is covering Mr. Vale's treatment. In full." He hung up and looked at me. "Congratulations, Mrs. Hawthorne. Your 365 days start now." He stood. Came around the desk. He was tall. Taller than I expected. He smelled like cedar and money. He held out his hand. I took it. His grip was warm. And possessive. "One more thing," he murmured, right by my ear. "On Day 1, I already want to break rule number 6." I pulled back. "Which one is rule 6?" "No falling in love." My heart slammed against my ribs. And just like that, I sold myself to the billionaire for 365 days. I had no idea that he was planning to make sure I never wanted to leave on Day 366.