The wife he bought

chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

Damien POV

I don’t do close. Close gets people killed. Betrayed. Close got my mother buried and Claudia in my father’s bed.

But Zara —-- zara.

It started three days after the dock mess. She fell asleep on the couch watching some documentary about the ocean. I found her there at 1 AM, blanket half off, mouth slightly open. I should’ve woken her. Sent her to her room. _Business_, I reminded myself. _No intimacy. My rules._

I covered her instead. Stood there like an i***t watching her breathe. She has a dot, a birthmark close to her nose, another behind her ears. I tell myself it’s strategy — know your assets. It’s not strategy. It’s obsession, quiet and f*****g inconvenient.

Since then, there are moments. She makes coffee exactly how I drink it without me asking. Black, no sugar. I leave meetings early cause I know she’s eating alone. I didn't want that. She doesn’t talk about the auction. I don’t ask why she was there. We exist in this truce, and I’m starting to think I don’t want the year to end.

Then I notice the pills again.

During Breakfast. She takes them with water, quick, like she hopes I won’t see. I do. I always do. Three white tablets. The bottle’s unmarked, pills transferred to a plain case.

“Still not telling me what those are?” I keep my voice down.

Zara doesn’t look up from her toast. “Still not your business, Damien.” she said to me.

“They are if they make you a liability.”

She gives me a glare. “I’m not. I can do the job. Smile for your cameras. Play wife..” she said eating her toast.

She has a new bruise on her wrist. Finger-shaped. Not mine. I didn’t give it to her. The thought makes my jaw tight

“Get it checked,” I say. “That’s an order.”

“It’s my skin. Some people bruise easy.” She stands, plate in hand. “You wanted a wife beneath you. This is what that looks like, right? Pretty, damaged, doesn’t talk back too much.” she said boldly

She leaves before I could answer. Pretty. Yeah. Damaged. That part I’m starting to doubt. She’s the strongest person in this house. Yet the weakest at the same time.

Two days later, Enzo calls me. “D. Your wife left the house. Said she had errands.”

“Where?”

“City General. Hospital.”

City General. Not the private physicians my family owns. The public clinic. Where people go when they can’t afford not to.

I was already halfway to the car before Enzo finished. “Follow her. Don’t let her see you. I want to know what doctor she sees.”

I tell myself it’s because she’s an asset. Because if she collapses at a function, it blows my cover with the shipping routes. Because Old Voss would use any weakness.

Lies. All of it.

I end up there myself. I use the excuse of checking on a cop we have on payroll — got grazed during the Roman thing. But I’m watching the hospital entrance. And there she is.

Zara. Jeans, hoodie up. No makeup. She looks smaller without the armor she wears for me. She looks sick.

She disappears inside. I wait ten minutes. Then I go in.

I don’t find her. I find her chart. Money opens doors at City Genera hospital, the same as anywhere else. The nurse didn't look me in the eye when I asked.

“Aplastic anemia,” she says finally. “Severe. She’s been coming here six months”. She said. That was before the auction. Before I bought her.

The words don’t make sense. At the same time they do, all at once.

Bruises I thought were from her falling or pumping into something. Petechiae on her legs. She said skin reaction to a cheap cream. Fatigue she blamed on stress. Pills she hides. And says not my business.

“She’s transfusion dependent,” the nurse keeps going because I haven’t told her to stop. “Her counts are critical. She needs a bone marrow transplant. It’s why she’s not on the official lists — no donor, no money. She’s been buying meds. She’s almost out. That's why she's here for another, Without them, she has weeks. Maybe months if she's lucky enough” the nurse finally concluded.

Weeks.

She signed a year contract with me. She doesn’t expect to see the end of it.

I walked out of the hospital and the city was too loud. Too bright. Enzo’s saying something about the car. I couldn't hear him.

I remember the auction. How she didn’t fight when when others were. How she looked resigned, not terrified. I thought it was defeat. It was math. My money erases her father’s debt. My name keeps her father alive. And when she dies in three months, six months, I get what I want anyway — a dead wife, a tragedy, Old Voss off my back.

She chose it. She chose to be sold because she was already dying.

I went home. Found her in the mansion kitchen when I get back. She’s making tea. The unmarked pill case is on the counter. Empty.

“You went to the hospital” I said. Not as a question.

Her spine goes straight. She doesn’t turn around. “Enzo told you.” she asked.

“I told Enzo to follow you.”

Now she turns. She’s pale. Always pale, I realize. I thought it was her skin. It’s her blood. Or the lack of it. “So you know.” she asks. “I did tell Enzo I was only getting vitamins”

“Aplastic anemia.” The words taste like metal. “ vitamins really?” “You’re dying.” I finally said

Zara lifts her chin. No tears. God, she’d be terrible at begging. “I’m sick. There’s a difference.” she shot back at me.

“You have weeks. The nurse told me”

“Maybe.” She shrugs. “Maybe more if I’m lucky. Is that a problem for the deal? Do I need to die on schedule for your shipping routes, Damien?” she shot at me

I cross the room before I decide to. Her back against the counter. She doesn’t flinch. That’s what undoes me.

“You let me buy you,” I said, low. “You signed the contract. You slept in my house. You take meds in my kitchen. And you were never going to tell me?” my voice was sounded angry.

“Would it have changed anything?” Her eyes are dark, defiant. “Would you have still bid if you knew you were buying damaged goods? Goods with an expiration date?” she said. Now with her voice raised.

No. God knows I wouldn't have. But that's not the issue right now.

“You think I care about the deal right now?” My voice breaks. . “You think I give a f**k about my father or the routes?” I said to her. My voice cold and deep as ever but…..with emotions.

“Then what do you care about?” she asks.

You. The word stuck in my throat. I swallowed it. Obsession isn’t love. It’s not supposed to be this. This clawing thing in my chest.

I picked up the empty pill case instead. “You’re out.” I throw it into the trash bin

“I’ll manage.” she said

“No, you won’t.” I pulled out my phone. “Dr. Kessler’s on my payroll. Best hematologist in the state. He’ll see you tonight.”

“I don’t want your doctors.” she cries out.

“I don’t care what you want.” you're in my space, breathing my air. “You don’t get to die. Not in my house. Not on my watch. Not after you let me—” I paused.

“Let you what?” she looks at me. Hopefully in a way.

_”Let me start to need you.”_ I didn't say it.

“Get changed,” I said instead. “We’re going. Now.”

She studies me. That same look from the night I bandaged my head. Like she’s seeing past the cold. The armor. Like she’s not scared of what’s underneath.

“Why?” she whispers. “Why do you care, Damien?”

Because I checked her meds last week to make sure she wasn’t poisoning me, and instead was searching for the drug's name to know what drugs she takes. Because I know she doesn't like coffee and takes her tea with honey. Because I tucked a blanket around her three nights ago and haven’t slept right since. She's being in my head right from the very first moment I saw her.

Because the thought of a world without her in it makes me want to put Roman, Old Voss, and every man at that auction in the ground.

“Because you’re mine,” I said. It comes out wrecked. Possessive. True. “For a year, Zara. You signed. And I don’t let what’s mine go.” I reminded her.

It’s not the right thing to say. I know. But It’s the only thing I have.

She holds my gaze for a long count. Then she nods. One sharp jerk of her chin.

“Fine..” she said after giving me a long stare.

“Good,” I say, but I’m almost smiling. Almost.

She walks past me to get her coat. Her shoulder brushes mine. I watch her go, and I know two things with absolute clarity:

One: She wasn’t put up for auction. She walked into it. A dying girl selling herself to save a father who didn’t deserve it.

Two: I’m not letting her die. Routes be damned. Old Voss be damned. Roman and everyone else be damned. I couldn't care less.

If aplastic anemia wants her, it has to go through me first.