CONTRACTED HEARTS

At twenty-four, I was broke and out of patience. Working as a salesgirl at a supposedly glamorous fashion company had sounded fun at first. Reality? Standing on my feet all day, pretending to care about overpriced dresses, all while dodging my boss’s death glare, a man who clearly thought my only purpose was to inflate his ego. I coped with gum. Blink. Pop. Blink. It drove everyone nuts, but it kept me from screaming or crying, especially during Fashion Week, ironically, in London’s elite fashion scene. My uniform fit perfectly, my blond hair neatly tied back, but none of it mattered with $12 in my account and my mom’s hospital bills piling up like a brick wall. Thousands. Way more than I had. Every smile I faked, every bow I made to people richer than I could imagine, felt like acting in a cruel play. The city shimmered with wealth I could barely grasp. The Starks, Judes, Edwards, their influence stretched from politics to real estate, stitched into Manchester’s streets like an untouchable tapestry. I… wasn’t part of that world. I was just another name tag, another girl behind a counter, destined to be forgotten. And then it happened. A glass of red wine leapt from my hand as if possessed, landing squarely on Julius Stark. Not just any Julius Stark, he was a billionaire, mayor’s son, golden boy of Manchester, and apparently a Messi fanatic with a shrine in his penthouse. Stories painted him as ruthless, charming, unpredictable… dangerous. Oh no… His eyes widened, then narrowed. Sir! I’m so sorry! I stammered, chewing gum like a panicked rabbit. My hands shook, my heart thudded, and time slowed just enough for me to drown in humiliation. Enter my boss, face red, veins popping. Arya! Focus! You’ve ruined everything! His voice cracked like a whip. The hall’s onlookers murmured with amusement. You’re fired. Get out. NOW. I blinked at him, blinked at Julius, blinked at the spilled wine. Maybe if my job was just serving wine, and maybe if I got paid enough to eat breakfast, I wouldn’t faint on my feet and ruin billionaires, I muttered. My voice trembled, but the words carried. The hall fell silent. Julius blinked, not angry, just curious. That look billionaires wear when they’re about to complicate your life. Embarrassed and fired, I dashed for the restroom, chewing gum, wishing for a wall, or the earth, to swallow me. My shoes slipped on the marble; shame clung like wet clothes. Then, disaster number two. Two guys tangled at the sink, making noises that should never exist in public. I froze. Blinked. Cursed. Blinked again. My jaw nearly dropped. Then Julius walked in. He froze. One of the other guys froze. His gaze turned icy toward the shorter one. Wayne? His voice was deadly calm, terrifying. I bolted. Ran like the floor was lava. Julius followed, not a villain, but calm, calculating, terrifying. His footsteps echoed, steady, confident, as if he knew I couldn’t outrun him. Wait! he called. I turned, ready to glare. What now? Iron my suit with my tears? I snapped, sarcasm my shield. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. No. You’re bold. Reckless. And I like that. Ribbon? I asked. No, he said. Proposal. I blinked. Excuse me? I need a partner, he said, locking eyes with me as if that explained everything. You need money. We help each other. Contract marriage. No strings. Three days from now, you sign, I pay, we move on. I laughed bitterly. Insane. Do I look like someone signing up to be Mrs. Billionaire-for-Hire? Yes, he said, unfazed. Because you’re desperate. And deep down, you know you don’t have a better plan. That night, I went home heavy-hearted. Questions swirled. Am I trading myself? Doing the right thing? Helping my mom or feeding my own desperation? I cried into the ceiling, walls pressing in, muffled sobs blending with the city’s hum. I thought of my mom in her hospital bed, her smile brave despite pain. I thought of the relentless bills. I thought of my future, dreams of study, travel, significance, crushed beneath survival. But something about Julius lingered. That moment in the restroom… when he didn’t yell, didn’t mock, didn’t turn away… he watched, calm, assessing. There was power there, yes, but a flicker of something else. Protection? Judgment? A strange understanding? I didn’t trust it, but it made my chest tighten. Three days later, I signed the paper making me Arya Stark. The pen felt heavy; the ink permanent. Each letter a piece of myself handed over to fate. The room smelled of old ink and paper, like a deal with the devil. The ink hadn’t dried when my phone buzzed. The hospital. My hands trembled. Hel… hello?