The Billionaire’s Reluctant Bride

It wasn’t the sound of the eviction notice hitting the floor that broke Aria Monroe. It was the silence that followed. The kind of silence that wrapped around her like cold chains—cruel, inescapable, and loud in the wrong places. Her eyes burned as she stared at the letter. Final warning. Vacate in 48 hours. She sank to her knees on the cracked tiles of her studio apartment, the smell of cheap disinfectant and rusted pipes filling her lungs like failure. “Aria?” a soft voice rasped from behind the curtain that divided the room in two. Her ssister.l Aria scrambled to her feet, shoving the notice under a stack of magazines. “Go back to sleep, Lila. It’s just junk mail.” Lila’s cough was weak, but it still cut through Aria like a blade. Eighteen years old, with eyes too dim for her age and a body that had grown too frail for her dreams. The hospital had sent her home three weeks ago—“palliative care,” they said. That was code for: We’ve given up. But Aria hadn’t. Even if the world had. She forced her legs to move, walked to the corner where Lila lay curled up beneath thin blankets. “How’s the pain?” “Manageable.” Lila offered a tired smile, her skin pale against the pillow. “Did the clinic call back?” “They’ll call tomorrow,” Aria lied. The truth? The clinic had stopped answering her calls after she missed two payments. She had sold everything—her textbooks, her laptop, even their mother’s wedding ring—but it still wasn’t enough. She needed a miracle. And miracles didn’t come for people like her. That afternoon, Aria stood outside Wilder Industries, clutching a small paper bag with the last lunch delivery of the day. She had picked up the side gig two weeks ago—underpaid, overworked, and barely enough to buy medication. She stared at the glass building that scraped the clouds like it belonged in another universe. She didn’t belong here. Not with holes in her sneakers and a rejection letter in her backpack from the scholarship she had once bet her life on. But when she stepped inside, the world changed. Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. Men in suits who barely looked at her. Women with confidence and heels sharper than her wit today. She took the elevator to the top floor. “Delivery for… uh… Mr. Wilder,” she told the icy blonde at the desk. The receptionist arched a brow. “Mr. Wilder doesn’t take deliveries.” Aria hesitated. “I was told to bring it directly.” A voice behind her interrupted. “Let her in.” She turned—and froze. Knox Wilder. The man was myth, money, and menace wrapped in a custom suit. Tall, broad-shouldered, and cold as the January wind outside. His dark hair was slicked back with ruthless precision, and his eyes—gray, sharp, dangerous—rested on her like he was calculating her worth in seconds. And finding it lacking. “This is your delivery girl?” he said, not to her but to his assistant. “I—I’m from QuickEats,” Aria managed, holding up the bag like a peace offering. He took it, then turned his attention fully to her. “What’s your name?” “Aria.” He studied her. Not the way men usually looked at women. This was sharper. Strategic. As if she were a chess piece he hadn’t expected on the board. “Interesting,” he said quietly. She swallowed. “I—I have to go—” “Wait.” She paused mid-step. “Tell me something, Aria. What would you do to save someone you love?” Her breath caught. “Anything.” His lips curved—not into a smile, but something darker. “Good.” He handed the bag to his assistant without breaking eye contact. “Bring her into my office.” Fifteen minutes later, Aria sat across from the devil himself, trying to understand what she’d just heard. “A marriage contract,” she repeated. Knox Wilder sat with his fingers steepled, elbows resting on the edge of his sleek black desk. “One year. No strings. You play the perfect wife. In return, I’ll transfer five hundred thousand dollars to your account upfront. Another five hundred when the year ends.” Aria’s heartbeat was thunder in her ears. “Why me?” He shrugged, too casual. “You’ll do.” “But you don’t know me.” “I don’t need to.” He leaned forward, voice like velvet over glass. “This is business, Ms. Monroe. Nothing more.” She stared at him. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t her life. “You’re insane,” she said, standing. “I prefer effective.” His voice cooled. “You have nothing, Aria. No job. No insurance. And a sister who won’t survive the month without treatment. Am I wrong?” Her knees buckled. “How do you know—?” “I know everything I need to,” he said calmly. “I offer solutions. And I never repeat offers.” She clutched the doorknob. “I’m not for sale.” “No,” he said softly. “But you are desperate. Come back when you’re ready to admit that.” That night, Aria sat by Lila’s side as the girl shivered through another fever. She held her hand, whispering stories they used to dream up as kids. But dreams didn’t pay hospital bills. When Lila’s breathing grew more shallow, a noise escaped Aria’s throat—part sob, part scream. She opened her phone. Stared at the last number dialed. Knox Wilder. Her finger hovered… then pressed Call. He answered on the first ring. “Yes?” Her voice trembled. “I’ll do it.” A beat of silence. Then: “Be at my estate tomorrow. 9 a.m. Dress appropriately.” Click. No name. No comfort. Just a contract. Aria looked at her sleeping sister and whispered, “I’m doing this for you.” But even as she said it, part of her knew— She had just made a deal with the devil.