FORCED MARRIAGE, CEO'S LITTLE WIFE

Chapter Two

Sophie, it’s another frustrating day. The alarm blares at seven a.m., but I’ve been awake for a long time, staring at the small crack in the ceiling and listening to the steady drip of the faucet in the kitchen. I drag myself out of bed and shuffle into the kitchenette where Maya is already perched on the counter, cross-legged, eating cereal straight from the box. Her hair is a wild halo of curls, and she’s still in her pajamas, scrolling through her phone as if she has all the time in the world.

I grab a glass from the small kitchen cabinet. “Do you ever sleep?” I mutter, reaching for the kettle. She grins around a mouthful of Cheerios. “Do you ever stop worrying, Sophie?” Touché. The kettle takes forever to boil, whistling with a groan that makes me fear it might finally give out and explode.

I pour myself coffee—black and bitter, the kind of taste that lingers like burnt regrets—and lean against the counter. Maya looks up at me, studying my face too closely. “You didn’t sleep much, did you?”

“I slept,” I lie, sipping my tea too quickly and burning my tongue.

“You slept maybe three hours,” she counters. “I heard you moving around at three a.m.” I set the mug down a little harder than I meant to. “You should worry about your classes, not my schedule.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t push further. She knows when not to press, and that is one of the many things I love about her. The morning rush begins: I iron a blouse that’s seen better days, apply concealer heavy enough to hide the dark circles under my eyes, and gather the stack of overdue notices I’ve been avoiding into a neat pile on the kitchen table. When Maya isn’t looking, I slide them into my bag. Out of sight—at least out of her sight.

By the time we’re both ready, I walk her halfway to campus before cutting toward the gallery. Maya skips behind me, arms swinging like she’s ten again, filling the silence with stories about her hero classmates and their upcoming dates. “You’d like Emma,” she says. “She’s kind of quiet, but when she talks, she’s brilliant. Like, makes you stop and think, brilliant.”

I nod, letting her voice wash over me, wishing I could bottle up this optimism, that spark she has. Maya believes in people. She believes in herself. I envy it more than I care to admit. When we reach the campus gate, she gives me a quick hug, her cheeks pressing against mine. “Don’t work too hard, okay?”

I force a smile. “Says the girl who pulled an all-nighter last week.”

She laughs and disappears into the swarm of students, swallowed by the energy of people who still think their future is theirs to shape. When I get to the gallery, it’s colder than usual, like the walls are judging me. Mrs. Carlisle is already in a mood, barking orders about an upcoming exhibit.

“Bennett, catalog these pictures by three,” she snaps without looking at me.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I spend the day hauling boxes, labeling displays, and standing around for hours while she rearranges the same painting five different times. At one point, a group of wealthy donors tours the gallery, their designer coats dripping from the rain onto the marble floor. I stand at the edges, clipboard in hand, feeling invisible as always.

“She’s just staff,” one of the donors mutters when I accidentally brush too close, making me feel more like a piece of furniture than a person.

At lunch, I sit back in the break room with a granola bar and an apple while the rest of the staff chatters at the front. I scroll through my phone, trying to pretend I’m busy until a notification pops up from the bank: BALANCE: NEGATIVE. My stomach sinks. I close my eyes and breathe through the panic, counting backward from ten. Rent. Groceries. Utilities. Everything is piling up; everything is slipping. I shove the phone away before I can spiral further. The more I look, the worse it feels, like staring at a wound that won’t heal.

The afternoon drags on, filled with endless menial tasks. By the time Mrs. Carlisle dismisses me, my legs ache and my blouse sticks to my back. Outside, the city buzzes with its endless rhythm—horns blaring, footsteps pounding, conversations overlapping. I let the noise carry me along.

The apartment is dim when I walk in, lit only by the flicker of our ancient TV. Maya is curled up on the couch, a textbook splayed open across her lap, her glasses sliding down her nose. She looks up, smiling as though seeing me is the best part of her day.

“How was work?” she asks.

I toe off my shoes and collapse beside her. “Exhilarating. I labeled boxes. And labeled some more boxes. And when I was done, guess what?”

“You labeled boxes?”

“Exactly.”

She laughs, bumping her shoulder against mine. Then her expression softens. “We’ll get through this, Soph. I promise. I’m certain that this isn’t it.”

I study her face—the certainty in her eyes, the way she speaks as if she has some secret knowledge I don’t. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because things don’t stay bad forever,” she says simply. “Something's always changing. We just have to hold on until it does.”

Her words should comfort me, but instead, they leave a hollow ache in my chest. Because I know some things don’t change. Sometimes, things just keep getting worse.