Contract Marriage, unexpected love

Chapter 3

Victoria’s POV

The car ride was a suffocating exercise in silence. Liam sat as far away from me as the leather interior of the Bentley would allow, staring out the window with an expression of pure boredom.

He had no idea.

Every time I glanced at him, I didn't see a handsome, rebellious heir. I saw the face of the man who had by proxy of his father systematically dismantled my life. I looked down at my lap, my fingers digging into the leather folder. Charles Sterling hadn't just saved my family; he had hunted us. He’d squeezed my father’s throat until he had no choice but to offer me up as a sacrifice.

"You’re going to burn a hole through that floorboard if you keep staring at it like that," Liam said, his voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts.

"I’m just thinking about the 'Mutual Respect' clause," I lied, my voice tight. "I’m wondering if it includes you keeping your unsolicited observations to yourself."

Liam let out a short, sharp laugh. "Ouch. The professor has claws. I like it. It’ll make the next twelve months slightly less mind-numbing."

The car began to slow down. I looked out the window, expecting a cold, modern penthouse or a sterile Sterling estate. But as we turned into a familiar, tree-lined driveway, my heart stopped.

I knew these oak trees. I knew the way the sunlight hit the wrought-iron gates.

"What are we doing here?" I whispered, my hand reaching for the door handle before the car had even fully stopped.

"My father said he bought a 'suitable' residence for us," Liam said, sounding genuinely confused as he looked at the house. "Why? You know this place?"

I didn't answer. I pushed the door open and stepped out onto the gravel.

There it was. My childhood home. The house my father said we were about to lose. The house is filled with my mother’s paintings and the height marks etched into the kitchen pantry.

"He bought it," I breathed, the horror sinking in. "He didn't just pay the debt. He bought the house."

"Wait, this is your house?" Liam stepped out behind me, looking up at the colonial-style architecture. "Damn. My old man really doesn't do things by halves, does he? I guess he figured you’d be more 'respectful' if you were living in your own memories."

I felt a surge of nausea. This wasn't a gesture of kindness. It was a trophy room. Charles Sterling had put me back in my own home, but now, he owned the walls. He owned the floor. He owned me.

Liam’s POV

I watched Victoria walk toward the front door as she was approaching a gallows. Whatever fire she’d had in the lawyer's office was gone, replaced by a hollow, haunted look that made me feel… strangely uncomfortable.

I wasn't used to seeing women look at me with anything other than fascination or annoyance. This was something else. This was grief.

I followed her inside. The house was beautiful, classic, warm, and utterly unlike the glass-and-steel mausoleum I grew up in. But Victoria didn't look like she was home. She looked like a ghost.

"Look," I said, catching up to her in the foyer. "I know this is weird. Trust me, marrying a stranger to keep my bank account isn't how I planned my year either. But we have a deal. You stay in your wing, I stay in mine. We show up to the boring dinners, smile for the cameras, and in 365 days, we both get what we want."

Victoria turned to face me. The hall light caught the hazel in her eyes, making them look like shattered glass.

"And what is it you think I want, Liam?"

"Security? Your family’s name back? A chance to use that fancy degree without worrying about the bills?" I shrugged. "That’s what everyone wants, isn't it?"

"You are so incredibly blind," she whispered.

She turned and headed up the stairs, her heels echoing through the empty house.

I stood there for a second, feeling a prickle of irritation. I was the one giving up my freedom for a year. I was the one being forced to 'clean up my act' for a father who didn't give a damn about me. She was the one getting her life saved.

I grabbed my duffel bag and headed toward the study on the first floor. If she wanted to play the martyr, fine. I had a bottle of expensive scotch and a private island brochure to keep me company.

I slumped into the heavy leather chair behind the desk, it smelled like old books and cigars and reached into my jacket for my phone. But as I pulled it out, a small, white envelope fell onto the rug.

It was addressed to Victoria’s father.

I frowned. It must have been tucked into the folder Victoria was holding earlier and slipped out when we were arguing in the car.

I should have put it back. I should have walked it upstairs and handed it to her. But curiosity has always been my biggest vice.

I opened the envelope.

It wasn't a legal document. It was a handwritten note on Sterling Global stationery.

>Arthur,

>The final payment has been transferred to your offshore account. The foreclosure was executed exactly as planned. Your daughter is the perfect candidate—highly educated, desperate, and loyal. Ensure she doesn't suspect the business failure was orchestrated. Consider this the dowry you never could have afforded.

The air in the room suddenly felt very thin. I stared at my father's initials—the elegant, cruel loops of his handwriting.

My father didn't just find a "suitable" bride. He had destroyed a man's life and bought his daughter like a piece of livestock. And Victoria’s father… he had *helped* him.

A floorboard creaked behind me.

I spun around, the letter still clutched in my hand.

Victoria was standing in the doorway, her eyes landing directly on the stationery. She didn't look surprised. She looked like she was waiting for me to catch up.

"Now you know," she said, her voice cold and devoid of hope.

"Victoria, I—"

Before I could finish, a sharp, electronic chirp echoed through the room.

We both froze.

It didn't come from my phone. It didn't come from hers.

I looked up at the smoke detector on the ceiling. A tiny, rhythmic red light was blinking. But it wasn't the slow pulse of a battery check. It was the rapid, frantic flicker of a lens adjusting.

Victoria followed my gaze, her face turning ashen.

"He isn't just waiting for us to fail, Liam," she whispered, her eyes wide with terror. "He’s watching us right now."

At that exact moment, the heavy oak front door of the house, the one I had personally locked, clicked.

The handle turned slowly.