FORCED MARRIAGE, CEO'S LITTLE WIFE

Chapter Three

Sophie By Wednesday morning, the city feels heavier, like it knows exactly how much weight I’m already carrying and wants to add more. The subway is late. Again. I stand pressed between a man arguing on his phone and a woman elbowing through the crowd like she owns the space. My blouse sticks to my back, and the air smells like too many bodies and not enough oxygen. In my head, that stupid chant starts again. Past due. Final notice. Amount owed. It’s almost a rhythm now. A cruel mantra I can’t silence. When the train screeches into the station, I shove my way inside with the rest of the herd. My heels catch on the platform, and for a second, I almost lose my balance. A stranger steadies me, but his eyes flick by past me immediately, like I don’t matter enough for even a nod. By the time I reach the gallery, Mrs Carisle is already waiting. Her heels click against the polished floors, sharp as gunfire. “Bennet,” she says clipped and impatient. “The shipment was logged hours ago. Where were you? “The subway was—” She cuts me off. “Excuses. Do you know what excuses buy you here? Nothing.”I swallow the sting in my throat, now my head, and say the only safe word I know. “Yes ma’am.”She hasn’t responded. Doesn’t nod. Just walk past me. The day unspools in the usual blur of invisible labor. I haul crates down narrow stairs, slap sticky labels on paperwork no one reads, and smile at the donors who barely look at me. My stomach grumbles, but I ignore it. Skipping breakfast was way cheaper than grabbing a bagel. At noon, I’m rearranging boxes in the storage room, and a pair of polished loafers appears in my line of sight. I glance up. One of the gallery's major donors, a man whose cuff links must cost more than my rent, studies me like I’m out of place. “Is she supposed to be back here?” He asks mrs Carisle, who has just walked behind him. “She’s a staff,” she replies smoothly. “Pay her no mind.”My face burns. I bow my head again, huffing the humiliation that crawls under my skin like fire ants. Out of place. Always out of place. By the time the gallery closes, every muscle in my body screams. My flats have rubbed raw blisters into my heels, and my smile feels like it has been carved in stone. Outside, the rain pours again. Same as yesterday. And another day to regret not having a better coat and another day to clutch the one I have tighter. When I get on the train, I don’t bother to check my phone because I already know what I’ll find. So I just sit still and wait for my stop. As I finally stumble into my apartment, Maya is waiting with takeout cartons spread across the table. Her smile is bright and hopeful as always. “Surprise!” She says. “My class was canceled, so I picked up dinner. Lo mein and dumplings. Don’t yell— it was on sale today, so I thought, why not?”The smell is warm and savory, and guilt hits even harder. “Maya we can’t—”“It was ten bucks,” she interrupts, waving the chopsticks like it’s no big deal. “Relax, Sophie. We deserve one good meal.”I don’t have the energy to argue. I sink into the chair, and she piles noodles onto my plate. She talks while we eat, filling the silence with stories about her professors and classmates. Her voice is so animated, her laughter spilling into the kitchen. I try to smile and nod but my mind drifts back to bills like it always does. I can’t listen without thinking about deadlines and debts, endless weight pressing down on me. Halfway through the dinner, Maya stops mid-sentence. “You’re quiet. What’s wrong? “Nothing.” I lie. Her brows knit together. “Soph.”I twist my noodles with my chopsticks, staring at the glossy sheen of oil. “It’s just… everything. Dad. Money Work. All of it. It’s too much.”Her expression softens, though worry flickers beneath it. She reaches her hand across the table and holds mine. “We’ll figure it out. Like we’ve always done.”I want to believe her. I really do. But belief doesn’t pay bills and I know that better than anyone. Later, when she’s gone to bed, I crawl up on the windowsill like I do every night with my knees tucked to my chest. Outside, the city glittered like a jeweled crown— untouchable and mocking. Mocking me for the things it will never let me have. Tears sting my eyes, hot and unwelcome. I hate crying. It feels like surrender. But tonight the weight is too much, and it cracks me wide open.The tears fall silently, streaking my cheeks as the city blues beyond the glass. I think of dad, the company he’s lost, of the debts that fell on us like an avalanche. I think of the way he used to look at me, desperate and ashamed, and the way it made me feel like I had to fix it all. Failure wasn’t an option for me because everything depended on me. But I have been failing. Haven't I? Every day I slip further behind. My phone buzzes again on the windowsill. Another debt collector. Another demand. My hands hover over it, trembling. And for one reckless moment, I imagine answering— hearing a stranger’s voice promise me a way out, no matter the cost. But I don’t answer. Instead, I press the phone to my chest and close my eyes. Imagine an alternate version of myself, one who doesn’t live paycheck to paycheck, one who walks through the city without flinching at every billboard flashing a luxury brand I’ll never touch. I imagine what it will feel like to be free of all financial and emotional burden. The thought is both dangerous and intoxicating. I sit there until the city fades into streaks of light and my body finally sags with exhaustion. When I crawl into bed, the sheets are cold and cold against my skin, one thought beats louder than all the rest: Something has to change. Because if it doesn’t, I’m not sure I can keep holding everything together. And I’m the silence of the apartment, I whisper a promise to myself — though I don’t know how or when. Or at what cost: I will find a way out of this. Even if it means stepping into a world I don’t belong in.