The Moretti Marriage Contract

The Moretti Marriage Contract

George’s POV

The Bentley’s interior was a vacuum of silence, shielded from the filth of the shipyard by three inches of reinforced glass. Outside, the world was a blur of gray rain and rusted shipping containers, but inside, it was all polished wood and the scent of quiet power.

I sat as far from her as the leather bench allowed. I made sure my $20,000 charcoal wool coat didn’t brush against the seat she was sitting on. Who knew what kind of shipyard grime was clinging to that cheap polyester waitress uniform? The thought of her apron touching the hand-stitched interior of my car made my jaw tighten.

My head of security, Marcus, had sent me a background check an hour ago. I had spent twenty minutes reading through the digital file on the drive over. It was a pathetic read, really. A laundry list of lower-class struggles: Debt, a struggling brother, a dead-end job that barely paid for the air she breathed. She was a predictable cliché.

I knew everything I needed to know: she was desperate, she was beautiful enough to pass as a Moretti, and she was currently staring at my suit like it was made of solid gold. I didn't need to know her favorite color or her hopes and dreams. I just needed her to sign the document and look "otherworldly" in front of a camera. I thought I had bought a simple pawn. I didn't realize Marcus had missed the fine print of who Ruthlyn Bennett actually was.

"You're wearing such an expensive suit to a shipyard dive bar," she whispered. Her voice had a tremor that I found... irritatingly fragile.

"I don't dress for the venue, Ruthlyn. I dress for the position," I replied, not bothering to look at her. I tapped the tablet, the blue light reflecting off my cufflinks. I slid the device across the console toward her. "Read the highlighted sections. You don't need to understand the legalities; you just need to know that as of five minutes ago, the men waiting to traffic you at the back door are no longer your concern. I’ve paid your debt. Which means, effectively, I’ve bought you.”

I stared at her then, the glow of the tablet illuminating the sharp, "otherworldly" angles of her face. She was a failed art student working double shifts to keep the wolves at bay, yet she looked like she belonged on a pedestal in a museum I owned.

Ruthlyn’s POV

I collected the tablet from him, but I didn't look at the contract first. My hands were steady as I opened a browser and immediately googled his name. It sounded fancy. George Moretti. The first result was a Forbes article: "The Ice Heir: Can George Moretti Save the Family Empire?" The second was a gossip column: "Valerius City’s Most Eligible Bachelor: Why No Woman Can Melt the Moretti Heart." He wasn't just a rich guy. He was the guy. And according to the internet, he had the emotional range of a teaspoon.

He looked at me like I was a cockroach that happened to have a pretty face. George Moretti didn't just have money; he had the kind of arrogance that came from never having to check a price tag in his entire life. He sat there in a suit that cost more than my parents’ house, smelling of sandalwood and power, radiating a condescension so thick I could almost taste it.

He told me he "needed a wife" for his image and that he was my only shield against the men who wanted to sell me across the border.

"You need me alive and well," I said, my voice low. "That's why you're doing this. It's not charity."

"Charity is for people with hearts, Ruthlyn," he snapped, finally looking at me. His silver eyes were like ice. "This is a transaction. I need a warm body to stand beside me for two years. You need to not be sold to a cartel. It’s a match made in hell. Now, sign the tablet before I change my mind and let those men have you."

He thought he was the only one playing a game.

"I'll sign," I said, taking the stylus. I made sure to let my hand shake just enough to satisfy his ego. "But I have a condition. I want my own room. Locked. And you never enter without my permission.”

George actually let out a sharp, mocking laugh. It was a sound of pure, elitist amusement. "Deal. I have no intention of spending more time with you than the contract requires. I’ve already told the staff to prepare the west wing. It’s far enough away that I won't have to hear whatever music people of your... demographic... listen to."

The insult stung, but I didn't let it show. I had to be smart. "And I want a lawyer to go through the contract before I sign, to know exactly what I'm getting into,” I added, holding the stylus just out of reach of the screen.

George smirked, his eyes scanning my messy hair and stained apron. "You can't even afford a public defender."

My face darkened. The air in the car felt heavy, suffocating.

"And I don't have all day," George continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous level. "You sound like there's anything anybody would want to take from you, when you're not worth much. Maybe in human trafficking you are…"

"Don't talk to me like that!” I cut him off.

George was taken aback. I saw the slight widen of his eyes, the way his breath caught for a micro-second, but he hid it very quickly, sliding back into that mask of billionaire indifference.

“If you want to insult me like that, I'm not interested. Open the door, let me leave,” I said, my heart pounding against my ribs so hard I thought he could hear it.

Silence filled the car. It was a battle of wills, a test of who would blink first.

George reached forward and pressed a button on the console. The heavy thud of the locks disengaging echoed through the cabin. He looked at me, a challenge in his silver gaze. But I didn't leave. I didn't even move. We both knew the men in the shadows of the bar were waiting.

"That's what I thought," George said, his voice smug. "But if you want a lawyer so bad… there's not even enough time. I want you to sign now!"

I looked at the tablet, then at the man who thought he had figured me out. “Ok, but I want to be able to make adjustments later, and just so you know, I don't see myself getting pregnant anytime soon.”

"Deal," George said, his voice dismissive.

I signed. The Moretti Marriage Contract was official.

George signaled the driver through the intercom. "To the estate. And tell the tailor to meet us there. We need to burn that apron before it contaminates the leather."

I leaned back into the expensive seat, my heart hammering. George thought he was saving a damsel in distress. He had no idea that I wasn't looking for a savior—I was looking for a way to burn his world down from the inside.