MARRIED TO ESCAPE

MARRIED TO ESCAPE

*Chapter 1: The Sale*

The first slap landed before breakfast.

"Crystal! Wash the dishes. And don’t break any this time."

My stepmother’s voice cut through the kitchen like glass. Sweet on the surface. Poison underneath.

I didn’t answer. I just lowered my eyes and grabbed the sponge. That’s what I did. For 2 years since Papa and Mama died, I’ve been invisible. The maid in my own house.

The plate slipped.

CRASH.

"Useless girl!" Her hand came fast. My cheek burned. "That was Mama’s china! Do you know how much that costs?"

"I’m sorry, Ma," I whispered. "I’ll pay for it."

"With what? The air you breathe?" She laughed. Behind her, my stepsisters Tasha and Linda snickered from the doorway, filming with their phones.

"Put it on t****k," Tasha said. "Caption: 'Our maid broke another plate.'"

I bit my lip until I tasted blood. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. If I cried, it got worse.

That night, Ma called me to the living room.

"Sit," she said.

I sat on the floor. Servants don’t sit on the couch.

"A man came to see me today," she said, flipping through her nails. "A very rich man. He’s 30. He doesn’t want a wife. He wants a contract."

My stomach dropped. "A contract, Ma?"

"Marriage. For 2 years. He’ll pay me 20 million naira." She finally looked at me. "And in return, you leave this house tomorrow."

20 million. To sell me.

I should have felt angry. I should have screamed.

But all I felt was... relief.

Anything. Anything to get out of this house.

"Yes," I said quietly. "I’ll do it."

Ma smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. "Good girl. Be ready by 7am. Wear something decent. Don’t embarrass me."

I went to my room that night. One small room at the back. One box of clothes. One photo of Mama and Papa.

That was all I owned.

The next morning, a black car came. Tinted windows. Driver in a suit.

"Miss Peters?" he asked.

I nodded, clutching my box.

The drive was 1 hour of silence. We stopped in front of a gate taller than our entire house. Then another gate. Then a mansion made of glass and marble.

The driver opened my door. "Mr. Cole is waiting."

My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would break.

Inside, the house was cold. Not temperature cold. Soul cold. White floors. White walls. No pictures. No warmth.

And then I saw him.

Damian Cole.

30 years old. Tall. Black suit. Hands in his pockets.

He wasn’t handsome like the actors on TV. He was... severe. Sharp jaw. Dark eyes that looked right through me. Like I was a document he needed to sign.

He didn’t smile.

"Crystal Peters," he said. My name in his deep voice. "Sit."

I sat.

A lawyer slid papers across the glass table.

"Contract marriage," the lawyer said. "2 years. You will live here. You will attend events as his wife. You will not ask about his business. You will not fall in love. You will not ask for more money. In return, 20 million will be paid to your guardian, and you will receive 500k monthly allowance."

I stared at the paper.

"Sign here," Damian said. Still no emotion.

I picked up the pen. My hand shook.

This was it. Escape. Freedom.

But as I signed my name — _ Crystal Peters_ — I looked up at him.

And for one second, his cold eyes flickered.

Like he was seeing me. Really seeing me.

"Don’t ask questions," he said finally. "And don’t expect me to be your husband."

I nodded.

The pen felt heavy.

Outside, the gate closed behind me.

I had just sold myself to escape hell.

I just didn’t know if I’d walked into something worse.