UnMarried

Chapter4

Adrian did not sleep.

He spent the night in his office, reviewing the files Marco had left on his desk. Candidate after candidate. Socialites with trust funds and empty smiles. None of them would work.

He needed someone with no leverage. No family who would ask questions. Someone who would sign whatever he put in front of her and disappear when the year was up.

He tossed the folder aside at four in the morning and stared at the ceiling. Thirty days. Twenty-nine now.

By seven, he was in his car, driving to the south side.

Marco had sent him an address. A laundromat on Vellum Street. The streets here were narrow and cracked, the buildings gray with decades of grime. He parked two blocks away and walked, his hands in the pockets of his coat, his eyes scanning the block out of habit.

Petrov's operation. He had heard the name before—a small-time loan shark operating under Marcus Thorne's protection. But Marco had found something interesting. One of Petrov's debtors was a waitress. No family. A younger sister in the hospital. A loan that had grown from five thousand to eight.

Perfect on paper.

Adrian stood across the street from the diner, watching. Her name was Clara Reed. She was moving between the tables, refilling coffee cups. Her dark hair was pulled back. Her apron was stained. She looked bone tired. But there was something in the way she moved. Steady. Controlled. She did not look like a woman who was about to break.

He crossed the street and went in.

The diner was mostly empty. A couple of old men at the counter. A mother with a toddler in a booth. Clara was behind the counter, wiping it down with a rag, her back to the door. She did not look up when the bell jingled.

"Be right with you," she said.

"Take your time," Adrian said.

She stopped wiping.

She turned around slowly, the rag still in her hand. Her eyes met his, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. There was something in her gaze—sharp, assessing.

"You're not from around here," she said.

It wasn't a question.

"No," Adrian said.

She set the rag down. "What do you want?"

"I want to talk."

"I'm working."

"It's important."

She glanced at the old men at the counter, who had both turned to watch.

"Fine," she said. "But if you're selling something, I'm not buying."

---

He waited while she finished her shift. It took another hour. At two o'clock, she hung her apron on a hook behind the counter and walked over to the booth where he was sitting.

"I'm off," she said. "Talk."

Adrian gestured to the seat across from him. She did not sit. She stood, arms crossed, watching him.

"I have a proposition," he said.

"I don't do propositions."

"This one comes with a lot of money."

She did not react.

"What kind of proposition?" she asked.

Adrian pulled a folded document from his coat and set it on the table between them. His fingers lingered on the paper a fraction of a second longer than necessary. There was a tightness in his chest. He ignored it.

"A marriage," he said. The word felt wrong in his mouth. He pushed past it. "One year. You will be compensated. Your debts will be cleared. Your sister's medical bills will be paid in full. And when the year is up, you will walk away with more money than you have ever seen in your life."

Clara stared at him.

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she laughed—a short, humorless sound.

"Is this a joke?"

"It's not."

She shook her head slowly. "You don't know me. You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough."

"Then you know I'm not the kind of woman who marries strangers for money."

"You're the kind of woman who does whatever it takes to protect her sister," Adrian said. He paused before he said her name. Just a beat. "Nina, isn't it?"

Clara went very still.

The mention of Nina landed exactly where he intended it to. The brief flicker of fear. The tightening of her jaw. He could see that she understood what she was doing. He had chosen her because she had no way out.

"You've been watching me," she said. Her voice was quieter now.

"I've been paying attention."

"Same thing."

Adrian did not deny it.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Adrian Knight."

The name meant nothing to her. She didn't follow the news. She didn't have the time. She was just a waitress with a debt and a sister in the hospital.

Clara looked down at the document. She didn't touch it. Her hands had been steady all through their conversation, but now he saw them tremble. She noticed him noticing, and she pressed her palms flat against her thighs to steady them.

"I don't know what you've heard about me," she said slowly, "but I'm not for sale."

"You're eight thousand dollars in debt to a man who will break your legs if you don't pay him by next week," Adrian said. He didn't mention Nina again. He didn't need to.

Clara flinched. For a second, the mask slipped—just enough for him to see the fear underneath. Then it was gone.

Adrian saw it. He straightened up, putting distance between them. When he spoke again, his voice was lower.

"I'm not Petrov. I don't hurt people for money. This is a contract. Nothing more."

Clara stared at him. She didn't thank him. She didn't soften. But something shifted behind her eyes—a recalculation, a small adjustment in how she was reading him. She was still afraid. She just wasn't sure she was afraid of him.

"You're a monster," she said. The words came out quiet, almost like a confession. Like she was admitting something she didn't want to believe.

Adrian felt the words land. Something in him recoiled—a recognition he didn't want to name. He pushed it down.

"I'm practical," he said. "And I'm offering you a way out."

He stood, buttoned his coat.

"Read it. Think about it. I'll be in touch."

He walked out of the diner without looking back.

Clara stood alone in the booth for a long time after he left.

The document sat on the table. She didn't pick it up. The cook was watching her from the pass-through window. The old men at the counter had gone back to their coffee.

She thought about Nina.

Nina, who was stable. Nina, who had asked for her. Nina, who still believed her sister could fix anything.

Clara walked to the window and watched the black sedan disappear around the corner. She stood there until the taillights vanished, until the street was just a street again.

She went back to the booth and opened the document.

The first line read: "This Agreement is entered into by and between Adrian Knight and Clara Reed, hereinafter referred to as the Parties."

No poetry. Just dry legal language.

Clara read it anyway. Every word. When she was done, she folded the document and slid it into her apron pocket, next to the photograph of Nina she always kept there.