The wife he bought

chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

Zara's POV

I woke up to white everywhere.

Not heaven. Hospital. Again. But this time the pain was different. Not the deep bone-ache of my marrow dying. This was stitches and soreness and something new.

Damien was there. Of course he was. Asleep in a chair, head back. He looked wrecked. He looked like he hadn’t left.

When I moved, his eyes opened instantly. Like he’d been sleeping with one eye on me for days.

“Hey,” . My throat was sandpaper.

He was out of the chair and at my bedside before I finished the word. He didn’t touch me. Just stood close like a guarding angel

“Hey,” he said back. His voice was rough. Broken. “You’re awake.”

“Barely.” I tried to smile. It hurt. “Did it…?”

“It worked. The transplant took time. Kessler said you were stubborn. Said your body finally decided to fight.” He swallowed. “You scared me, Zara.” he said

“I scared me too,” I whispered. I thought I had died.

He got me water. Held the straw. His knuckles were bruised again not from fighting. From the wall in the waiting room, Kessler told me later.

Recovery was slow. It was ugly. It was three steps to the bathroom and I needed to sit down. It was hair falling out in clumps from the chemo they’d used to wipe my marrow. It was nausea and exhaustion and Damien in the chair every night, reading “The Count of Monte Cristo” out loud because I’d said I liked it once. I don't get why he likes reading it honestly.

He didn’t say he loved me. Not yet. But he said it in every possible way.

In the way he argued with Kessler about my pain meds. In the way he fired a nurse for calling me “the Voss contract” where I could hear. Yea rumors spread. In the way he held my hand when the nightmares came — Roman, the warehouse, my father’s face.

Bit by bit, I came back.

First, I ate solid food. He brought me porridge because it was the only thing I could keep down.

Then, I walked. Ten feet. Twenty. He was behind me, not touching, but close enough to catch me. He always caught me.

Then, I laughed. Really laughed. He told a terrible joke about a mafia accountant and I almost schoked on water. He smiled — that rusty, rare one and I decided right then I wanted to see it every day.

Weeks passed. The bruises faded. The color came back to my cheeks. Kessler used the word remission and Damien had to leave the room because he couldn’t breathe.

One morning I caught him looking at a calendar. His real calendar. Not the business one. A small one on his phone.

“What?” I asked. I was sitting in the sun by the window.

He locked the phone fast. Too fast. “Nothing.”

“Damien.”

He sighed. Ran a hand through his hair. “It’s… the date. The contract.”

Oh.

I’d forgotten. Almost. The year. The auction. Five million dollars and twelve months.

“It’s almost up,” he said. Quietly. “One year.”

The air went out of the room.

I’d been recovering. He’d been here. We've been… us. Whatever that was. I’d stopped counting days. I started counting smiles.

“Right,” I said. My voice was steady. I didn’t know how.

He stood. Paced once. Stopped. “Zara, I—” He cut himself off. Started again. “When we started this, it was a transaction. You needed your freedom. I needed…” He laughed, bitter. “I don’t even know what I needed. A wife for show. A shield. Something.” he said

I waited. My heart was in my throat.

“It’s not that anymore,” he said. He looked at me. Really looked. Gray eyes, Just wrecked and honest. “It hasn’t been for months.”

I nodded. Couldn’t speak.

“So,” he said. He pulled something out of his pocket. Paper. Folded. He set it on the table between us. “This is a dissolution. Signed. Notarized. You are free Zara”

Free.

The word hit me like a transfusion. Cold, then warm, then dizzy.

I stared at the paper. I didn’t touch it. “You’re… divorcing me?” I said

“I’m freeing you.” He said it carefully. Like each word cost him. “Because I love you.” I finally heard him say.

The world stopped.

He said it.

He said it and I wasn’t dying, I wasn’t in a warehouse, I wasn’t dreaming.

“You… what?”

“I love you, Zara.” He said it again, louder. Sure. “I’ve loved you since you fell asleep on my knee and bandaged my head like I was worth saving. I’ve loved you since the first day I saw you and I realized I’d rather carry you than breathe without you. I love you, and I’m not good at it, and I’m probably too late, but it’s true.” he said holding my hand in his

Tears were running down my face. I didn’t wipe them.

“So I’m ending it,” he continued. “The contract. The deal. The ownership. You get the money. All of it. You get to go wherever you want. College. Paris. A clinic in Switzerland if you want. No Voss. No me. No blood.”

He thought he was giving me a gift. He thought love meant letting go.

I picked up the paper. It was heavy. Final. The end

“Is that what you want?” I asked. My voice shook. “You want me to go?”

His jaw ticked. “That’s not for me to decide.” he said

“What?” half shocked

“Whether you stay,” he said. Hoarse. “That was not for me to decide, Zara. It never was. Not when I bought you. Not when you were sick. Not now.” He took a step back, hands in his pockets like he was holding himself together. “I can’t keep you. Not if freedom is what you need to heal. Not if I’m just another cage with a nicer lock.” he said

I stood. My legs were shaky but they held me. I crossed the space between us.

“You i***t,” I whispered.

His eyes flashed. “Zara—”

“You think I stayed because of a contract? You think I came back from death because of five million dollars?” I pressed my hand to his chest. His heart was hammering. “I stayed because of you. I fought because of you. I love you, Damien Voss. Cage and all. Armor and everything else” I let it all out

He grabbed my wrist. Not hard. Like he was afraid I’d disappear. “You don’t have to say that. You don’t owe me” he said to me

“I don’t owe you anything. That’s the point.” I went up on my toes. “I’m choosing. Me. Not the sickness. Not the debt. Not the contract. I’m choosing you.”

He made a sound. Broken. Relieved. He pulled me in, careful of my stitches, careful of everything. His forehead dropped to mine.

“Say it again,” he breathed.

“I love you,” I told him. “Remission or relapse. Voss or nobody. One year or a hundred. I love you.”

He kissed me. It wasn’t the first kiss. That had been careful. A question.

This was an answer.

It was slow and deep and certain. It tasted like salt and tea or the rest of our lives.

When we broke apart, he was smiling. That real one. The one that was mine.

He took the paper from my hand. Ripped it in half. Then again. And again.

“Contract’s void,” he said laughing. “New terms.”

“Yeah?” I was crying and laughing and alive. “What are the terms?”i asked.

He tucked my hair behind my ear. His thumb brushed my cheek.

“You stay,” he said. “Forever. That’s the only clause.”

I nodded. “I accept.”

Outside, the sun was bright. Just like us.