CONTRACT OF CONVENIENCE WITH MY ENEMY.

Episode2

THE SIGNING

ELENA

The following morning, I am woken by the shrill sound of my alarm clock on the table beside my bed. I groan, reaching out to silence it. The room is still dark, the early morning light barely creeping through the curtains.

I sit up slowly, rubbing my eyes. My body feels heavy, my mind still clouded with the weight of everything that happened yesterday. But I cannot stay in bed. My mother has been to the hospital.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and kneel on the floor. I close my eyes and fold my hands together.

"Dear Creator," I whispered, my voice soft but steady. "Thank you for waking me up this morning. Thank you for your promises to us. Please watch over me today. Please give me strength. Please protect my mother. Amen."

I stay on my knees for a moment longer, letting the prayer sink into my heart. Then I stand and walk to the bathroom.

The water is cold against my skin as I wash my face. I look at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are puffy from crying, and there are dark circles under them. But there is also something else in my eyes. Determination. I will not break.

I hear Angel's voice from the kitchen. She is already preparing breakfast. The smell of toast and coffee drifts through the air.

I quickly finished getting ready, pulling on my work clothes—a simple blouse and black trousers. I brush my hair and pin it back, trying to look presentable.

"Elena!" Angel calls from the dining room. "Breakfast is ready!"

I take a deep breath and walk out of my room. "I am almost done preparing for work. I will join you soon."

I grab my bag and head to the dining room. Angel is standing by the table, a plate of toast and a cup of coffee waiting for me. She smiles when she sees me.

"Good morning, Mija," she says warmly. "Did you sleep well?"

I shrugged, taking my seat. "As well as I could. My mind would not stop racing."

Angel nods, her expression sympathetic. "I understand. But you need to eat. You need your strength for today."

I pick up a piece of toast and take a small bite. The food tastes like nothing. My stomach is too full of nerves.

Angel sits across from me, her eyes studying my face. "I hope you have prepared your mind for what is happening at the company today."

I freeze, my toast halfway to my mouth. "Eww," I mutter, setting the toast down.

"I know it is hard," Angel says gently. "But you have to be ready."

I look at her, my eyes filling with tears. "Yes. For the sake of my mother's health. I do not want to be motherless."

Angel reaches across the table and grabs my hand. "She will not die, Elena. She will be alive for us. I believe that with all my heart."

I squeeze her hand, drawing strength from her touch. "Thank you, Angel."

"It is okay," she says softly. "Eat up and go. You are running late already."

I take a few more bites of the toast and drink my coffee quickly. The warmth of the coffee settles my nerves just a little.

I stood up and grabbed my bag. "Thank you for the breakfast, Angel. I will be on my way. See you later. Bye."

Angel stands and walks me to the door. "Have a nice day, Elena. May our Creator bring everything to your favor. Amen."

I smiled, feeling a flicker of hope. "Amen. Thank you, Angel."

I walked out the door and headed toward my father's company.

The mahogany table in my father's boardroom is long enough to host a minor war, but today it will host a betrayal from my father.

I stood at the doorway, my heart pounding in my chest. My hands are clammy, and my stomach is churning. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.

I think about how the contract signing is going to happen. I imagine my father sitting at the head of the table, his face cold and unreadable. I imagine Arthur Major, greedy and satisfied. And I imagine Julian Major, the man who wants to buy me off from my ruthless father.

But I believe my father has gotten everything planned out. He has probably rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head.

I pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The room is just as I remember it—polished wood, leather chairs, cold and sterile. My father sits at the head of the table. Across from him is Arthur Major, his fat fingers drumming against the table. And beside Arthur sits his son, Julian Major.

They are already here. Waiting for me.

My father looks up as I enter. His eyes are cold, detached, like I am a stranger he is bartering with. "Elena. We have been waiting for you."

I do not answer. I do not even look at him. I just walk to my seat and sit down, my posture straight, my face expressionless.

The silence in the room is thick and heavy. No one speaks. No one moves.

Finally, my father clears his throat and breaks the silence.

"We are here to sign a contract," he says, his voice flat and emotionless. "Settling that if my daughter marries your son, I will retain my company."

He pauses, his eyes scanning the room. "I am obsessed with my company. I cannot let it go. It is everything I have worked for. Everything I have built."

I stare at him, my mind spinning. He is obsessed with his company. He is willing to sell his own daughter to save it.

I sit there, imagining what has gone wrong. I think about the man my father used to be. The man who carried me on his shoulders when I was a child. The man who taught me how to ride a bike. The man who kissed my forehead and told me I was his princess.

What happened to that man?

When did he become this stranger sitting across from me, ready to trade me like a piece of property?

I looked at him, my eyes filled with tears. But I refuse to let them fall. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.

My father clears his throat and opens the contract. He reads every word out loud, his voice flat and emotionless, like he is reading a grocery list instead of selling his daughter.

"Two years of cohabitation. Public appearances. No love. The bride agrees to attend all public and private functions as required by the groom. The bride agrees to present herself as a devoted wife in all social settings. In the event of dissolution, the bride forfeits all claims to the groom's assets."

Everyone around the table nods in agreement. Arthur Major nods enthusiastically, his fat fingers still drumming against the table. Julian nodded slowly, his gray eyes fixed on me. My father nods, satisfied with his own words.

But I do not nod. I sit still, my hands clenched in my lap, my jaw tight.

"I cannot be interested in such arrangements against my wishes," I say, my voice sharp and clear. "This is not a marriage. This is a prison sentence."

My father's eyes snap at me, cold and hard. "Elena, you do not have a choice. You must carry on with the contract."

I open my mouth to argue, but the words die in my throat. He is right. I do not have a choice. My mother is dying. Her only hope is the money from this arrangement.

I murmur under my breath, barely audible. "He is right. I need to save my mother."

My father slides the contract across the table to Julian. "Sign."

Julian picks up the pen, his eyes never leaving mine. He signs his name with a smooth, practiced stroke. J-U-L-I-A-N. A-L-E-X-A-N-D-E-R. M-A-J-O-R.

Then he slides the contract across the table to me.

The pen is cold and heavy in my hand. I press it onto the paper and sign without looking up. E-L-E-N-A. I-S-A-B-E-L-L-A. V-A-S-Q-U-E-Z.

I drop the pen and push the contract away.

My father snatches it, his eyes scanning the signatures. A smile spreads across his face—cold, triumphant, cruel. "It is done. Everything is final."

He looks at Julian, his voice dripping with false pride. "Julian, my daughter is now yours."

Julian's lips curve into a slow smile. "We have a wedding to plan," he says, his gray eyes fixed on me like I am a prize he has won.

I feel sick. My stomach churns, and I want to run, to scream, to disappear.

My father does not care about me. He is already celebrating, pouring drinks for himself and Arthur Major. They clink their glasses together, laughing like they have just won a great victory.

I cannot stay in this room. I stood abruptly and walked toward the door.

The hallway is cold and empty. I walk quickly, my heels clicking against the marble floor, each step a desperate rhythm. Get out, get out, get out.

I am halfway to the elevator when a hand closes around my elbow.

Not rough. Not painful. But firm enough that I cannot pretend I haven't felt it.

"Running already?" Julian's voice curled around my ear like smoke. "I thought we were just getting started."

I stop. Turn slowly. Let him see the ice in my eyes before I let him see anything else.

"I am not running," I say, my voice flat. "I am prioritizing. There is a difference."

Julian releases my elbow but does not step back. He is taller than I remember—six-two at least, broad-shouldered and lean, the kind of build that says he has never done a day of manual labor but has certainly paid someone else to. His gray eyes study me with the same clinical detachment he wore in the boardroom, but there is something else flickering beneath the surface now.

Amusement.

Or maybe hunger.

"You are angry," he observes. "Good. Anger is better than resignation."

I laugh—a sharp, brittle sound that echoes off the marble. "You think I am angry about the marriage? Julian, I do not even know your middle name. I do not know your favorite color, your mother's birth name, or whether you snore. You are a stranger in an expensive suit who just bought me

"Alexander."

I blink. "What?"

"My middle name. It is Alexander." He tilts his head, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "My mother's maiden name is Fitzgerald. I do not snore—I have been told I am disturbingly quiet. And my favorite color is black, but only because it makes other colors nervous."

I stare at him.

He stares back.

And for one ridiculous, infuriating moment, I almost smiled.

Almost.

"Congratulations," I say coolly. "You know how to recite facts. That does not make you a person."

Julian steps closer. Close enough that I caught his cologne—cedar and smoke and something expensive I cannot name. Close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to hold his gaze.

"No," he agrees softly. "It does not. But you do not need me to be a person, Elena. You need me to be a checkbook. And I can do that very, very well."

His hand comes up—slow, deliberate—and brushes a strand of hair from my face. I flinch before I can stop myself.

Julian's smirk deepens.

"There she is," he murmurs. "The woman who slapped my father's lawyer at the Christmas gala two years ago. The woman who told my mother her diamonds were garish. The woman who walked out of a million-dollar deal because she did not like the color of the carpet." His thumb traces my jawline, feather-light. "I have been watching you for a long time, Elena. You think I do not remember. But I remember everything."

My breath catches.

Not because I am afraid.

Because I am seen.

And that terrifies me more than any contract ever could.

I slap his hand away—a real slap this time, sharp and satisfying. Julian's head snaps back a fraction of an inch, and then he laughs. A low, genuine laugh that rumbles from his chest and makes my stomach flip.

"Good," he says again, rubbing his jaw. "I was worried you had gone soft. If you had let me touch you without fighting, I might have called off the wedding myself."

"You would not dare," I shot back. "Your father would disown you."

"He would." Julian's eyes glittered. "But so would yours. And then where would your mother be?"

The air leaves my lungs.

He knows. Of course, he knows. Julian Major probably has files on everyone in this building—including my mother's medical records, her treatment schedule, her odds of survival.

My hands clench into fists at my sides.

"Say her name again," I whisper, "and I will make sure your favorite color becomes the inside of a hospital room."

Julian steps back. Not in fear—in respect.

"Now that is the woman I am marrying," he says softly. "The one who fights back. The one who threatens and means it."

He straightens his tie, all business again.

"The wedding is in three weeks. You will have a personal shopper, a stylist, and a budget that would make your father weep. I expect you to look like you want to be there, even if you do not. And Elena?"

I do not answer. I cannot.

Julian leans in one last time, his lips brushing my ear.

"When you finally decide to stop fighting me—" his voice drops to a whisper, rough and dark—"I will be waiting. I have been patient for two years. I can wait a little longer."

Then he is gone, striding back toward the boardroom like he had not just detonated a bomb in my chest.

I stood in the hallway, my heart hammering, my skin burning where his fingers touched me.

My mother's life hangs in the balance.

My father has sold me to the highest bidder.

And Julian Major—cold, calculating, dangerous—has just told me he has been watching me for two years.

I do not know whether to run.

Or to find out what happens when I finally stop fighting.