Contracted Bride

Chapter 13

The laughter around Ella rang like bells, loud yet hollow, bouncing off the high-vaulted ceiling of the Charles mansion’s grand ballroom. The chandeliers blazed with a golden light that turned everyone into a walking portrait of wealth and privilege. Yet, she felt like a ghost in a world of strangers.

The party was still in full swing. Elegant women in gowns that looked like they’d been spun from stardust twirled between men in perfectly tailored suits, champagne flutes in hand. The string quartet’s music floated over the murmur of voices and the occasional burst of polite laughter. Everyone was here for one reason: the engagement of Charles and Ella.

An engagement Ella wasn’t even sure she wanted.

Ella smiled when she was supposed to, nodded when someone complimented her dress, and kept her back straight because I’d learned that the higher your chin, the less people notice your trembling hands.

But inside? She wasn’t here.

She was in a small, hospital room where the air always smelled of antiseptic and wilted flowers. She was holding her mother’s frail hand, watching her chest rise and fall with effort, wondering if she would wake again tomorrow. Wondering if she would ever look at her the way she used to—clear-eyed and steady.

Charles had assigned the best doctors in his family’s circle to care for her. They were meticulous, attentive, and cost more than she could make in a decade. But even their skill couldn’t erase the question that haunted her—what would she say if she knew the truth?

Would she be grateful that Charles was paying her bills? Or would she be horrified that Ella’d agreed to marry him under a contract that felt more like a transaction than a promise?

Would she ask her to tear it apart?

“Ella.”

The sound of her name snapped her out of her thoughts. Charles stood beside her, one hand holding a champagne flute, the other resting lightly on the small of Ella's back. He looked calm, as always—handsome in a dark suit. Only she could tell from the tightening around his eyes that he was watching her more closely than he wanted to admit.

“You’ve been quiet all evening, you’re making the gossip columns wonder if you regret saying yes.” He muttered

Ella forced her lips into a smile. “Do I have a choice in what they write?” She asked.

His mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Not really. But you have a choice in how you play the part.”

Play the part.

That was what this was, wasn’t it? A role. A stage. A script neither of us had written but both of us had agreed to perform.

“I’m fine,” Ella said, turning her head just enough to meet his eyes. “Just… distracted.”

“Your mother?” Charles asked.

The single question hit her harder than she expected. Her throat tightened. “Always.”

For a moment, something shifted in his expression. Ella couldn’t name it—was it sympathy? Or guilt? Maybe both. He didn’t press further, but he didn’t take his hand from my back either.

“Ella!”

We both turned as a woman in her fifties, draped in emerald and diamonds, swept toward us. Her lipstick was the perfect shade of power red, and her perfume reached us before she did.

“Mrs... Mrs” Charles greeted her smoothly.

She ignored him and clasped Ella's hands. “Darling, you look absolutely divine. That gown—it’s Valentino, isn’t it?”

I managed a polite smile. “Yes.”

“Charles knows how to pick more than just business partners, it seems,” she said with a wink. Then, lowering her voice, she added, “I hope you realize what a rare man you’ve caught. The entire city thought he’d never settle down.”

Rare man. Settling down. As if this was some fairy tale ending.

Ella murmured something polite and excused herself under the pretense of getting a drink. Charles didn’t stop her.

Ella slipped out to the balcony, where the night air was softer. The city stretched before Ella in a haze of lights, glittering like spilled jewels. For a moment, she just breathed.

Could her mother survive this long enough to see the end of it?

Could she even survive long enough to wake and tell her what she thought?

The sound of footsteps behind Ella made her turn. It wasn’t Charles—it was his sister, Lily. She was younger than him by three years, with the same dark hair but softer features. She was dressed in midnight blue, her eyes assessing.

“You look like you’d rather be anywhere but here,” she said bluntly.

Ella blinked. “That obvious?”

“To me? Yes.” She joined her at the balcony railing. “I’ve been watching you all night. You’re not… the usual type Charles brings into his world.”

Ella wasn’t sure if that was meant to be an insult. “I’m aware.” Ella answered.

“You care about someone who isn’t here.”

It wasn’t a question, but Ella answered anyway. “My mother.”

“He’s doing what he can. You know that, right?”

“I know, I just… don’t know if she’d want her to accept it under these terms.”

“The contract?” Lily asked.

“You know about it?” Ella whispered.

“I know my brother. I also know he doesn’t do anything without a reason. Whatever this is between you, it’s not just business for him.”

Ella wanted to believe that. She wanted to believe there was something more than cold logic in the way he’d stepped in, offered to save my mother’s life, and in exchange, tether her to his name.

But belief didn’t erase reality.

Inside, the music shifted to something slower, and Ella could hear the swell of voices. Lily gave her an almost sympathetic glance. “You should go back in. People are starting to notice.”

Ella lingered a moment longer before returning.

Charles found her near the dessert table. His eyes swept over her briefly, as if checking for cracks in the mask. Then he extended his hand. “Dance with me.”

Ella hesitated, then took it. His fingers were warm, steady.

We moved together under the golden light, the rest of the room fading into a blur. For the first time all evening, Ella felt anchored—until he spoke.

“I’ll take you to see your mother tomorrow morning,” he said quietly, his breath brushing my ear. “Before the press comes.”

Her chest squeezed painfully. “Why?”

“Because she know you’ll never be able to stand here with her if you don’t.”

Ella didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

We danced until the song ended, but my mind was already miles away—in that hospital room, in the quiet beeping of machines, in the hope that maybe, just maybe, she could still make it.

And if she did… would she bless this… this arrangement?

Or would she look at her and see betrayal?

Ella wasn’t sure which answer I feared more.