The Contract Wife Who Came Back with His Heirs

Evelyn's Pov I adjusted the diamond earrings and necklace that Rhysander had gifted me for our second anniversary as I stared at my reflection in the mirror. It's been three years since I got married to Rhysander under the guise of a contract marriage. I had kept my promise; I never crossed into the room I was put in. I never embarrassed the Bert name, and I played the role of the devoted Mrs. Bert to perfection. But the world I had tried to save had crumbled anyway. One year ago, despite the capital Rhysander poured into Vance Shipping as regards to the promise he made to me, my father had gambled the entire recovery on a venture behind my back. He lost it all. My eyes glazed over as I remembered how he had taken me to Rhysander three years ago, asking Rhysander to fulfill the marriage that was planned between our families. That day was just like any other day, but to me, it was the day I had sold my freedom just to ensure that my grandfather's legacy didn't die out. -THREE YEARS AGO- “I came here to beg you to honour the marriage contract between your family and mine.” “What do you mean by this? Are you trying to force me into a marriage?” A booming voice echoed in the sitting room, vibrating through my body. “No, no. That's not what I mean, Mr. Bert…” My father’s voice was thin, it was the sound of a man who had already lost everything but his pride. “Then what is it that you're saying?” Rhysander Bert sat cross legged, and even while seated, he exuded a very dangerous energy. He was the eldest son, the shark of the Bert empire, a man who had turned a billion-dollar company into a trillion-dollar dynasty through sheer will and ruthlessness. “The arrangement,” my father stammered, wiping sweat from his brow. “Between your grandfather and my father is clear. It's a union between the Vances and the Berts to solidify the friendship between the two families. My daughter, Evelyn, is of age. Since your younger brother, Julian, has already taken a wife, the responsibility falls to the head of the house. It falls to you, Rhysander.” Rhysander finally turned. His eyes were grey, hard, and sparking with a dangerous annoyance that said that if my father didn't stop talking, he would regret it. He looked at my father with the same expression one might use for a persistent insect. “My brother is a fool for marrying for 'love' and complicating things,” Rhysander said, his voice dropping to a deadly, calm silk. “But I am not a fool. I do not honor debts signed by dead men. You aren’t offering a partnership; you’re asking for a bailout disguised as a wedding. The answer is no. Now, take your daughter and leave before I have security escort you out.” My father shrunk. His shoulders slumped, and for a moment, I saw the ghost of the man he used to be. The silence that followed was agonizing. It was the sound of a death bell for our family name. I looked at Rhysander. He was already reaching for his phone to leave. “Three years,” I said. The words were quiet, but in the hollow silence of the room, they rang out like the sound of thunder. Rhysander’s hand hovered above his phone. He didn’t look up immediately, but the tension in his shoulders shifted. My father turned to me, his eyes wide with shock and a frantic "hush," but I ignored him. I leaned forward, moving out of the shadows I had hidden myself in. “Three years, Mr. Bert,” I repeated, my voice steadier than I felt. “I am proposing a fixed-term contract. At the end of thirty-six months, we will file for a quiet, no-fault divorce. I will have no alimony, no claims to the Bert estate, and a non-disclosure agreement that would satisfy you.” Rhysander slowly straightened his back. He turned his head, his gaze finally landing on me with genuine focus for the first time. He didn't speak. He simply watched me, his eyes tracking the way I held my chin up, despite the fact that my heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I didn’t look away. I had spent my life being the "quiet daughter," the obedient one who never went east if told to go west. However, if I was going to be sold, I would be the one to write the invoice. “Continue,” Rhysander said. He leaned back against the mahogany table, crossing his arms. The dismissal was gone, replaced by a sense of intrigue. “You are currently facing a PR crisis regarding your expansion into the Eastern territories,” I said, laying out the facts like cards on a table. “The public sees the Berts as cold, ruthless and disconnected. A traditional marriage to a family with deep historical roots, even if we were a struggling one, softens your image. It provides a 'human interest' story for the board of directors. Furthermore, my family still holds the legacy permits for the deep-water ports in the North. As your wife, those permits become accessible to you through marital bypass laws, bypassing the two-year probate period you’re currently fighting in court.” I took a breath, seeing a flicker of something, was it respect? cross his face. “You get the permits, you get the PR boost, and you get the meddling elders of your family off your back about 'producing an heir' or 'settling down.' All for the price of a signature and a few appearances at charity dinners.” Rhysander stood from his chair and stepped closer. He was tall, imposing in a way that felt like physical pressure in the room. He stopped just a foot away from me. He smelled really nice, which was one thing I noticed. I subconsciously room a deep breath in order to figure out what scent of cologne he used. Bergamot and Lavender. That was the scent he used. We stared at each other for a long time. Up close, I could see the light flecks in his grey eyes. I stared back, matching his coldness with my own desperate resolve. “You’ve done your homework, Evelyn,” he murmured. His voice was lower now, vibrating in a way that made the hair on my arms stand up. “You talk like a CFO, not a bride.” “I’m offering you a merger, not a romance,” I countered. “I assume you prefer the former.” A small, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't a kind look; it was the look of a predator realizing the prey had some bite. “And what is the price for this... merger?” he asked. “What do you want in return for three years of your life?” “Survival,” I said bluntly. “When my family’s business needs help, capital , logistics, or protection from hostile takeovers, you will provide it. But only within the space of the marriage. Once the three years are up and the papers are signed, we are strangers again. You owe us nothing. You don’t have to see me, you don’t have to speak to me, and you certainly don’t have to love me. We will simply coexist until the clock runs out and our divorce is finalised.” Rhysander reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from my jawline before he pulled back, as if testing my reaction. I didn't flinch. “Three years,” he mused, the intrigue in his eyes deepening into something sharper. He looked at my father, then back to me, his gaze lingering on my lips before returning to my eyes. “Most women would ask for a permanent seat to become Mrs Bert. You’re asking for an exit strategy before the ink is even dry.” “I value my freedom as much as you value yours, Mr. Bert. I’m just more honest about the price.” Rhysander let out a short, dry laugh, the first sound of genuine emotion I’d heard from him. He walked back to his desk, picking up a silver pen and spinning it between his fingers. “Three years,” he said, his voice dropping into a tone that signaled the deal was struck. “I’ll have my lawyers draft the contract. If you break a single term, if you speak to the press, if you embarrass the name and if you try to overstay your welcome, I will ruin what’s left of your father’s company in just a day.” “I expect nothing less,” I replied as coldly as he spoke. “Good.” He sat down, already dismissing us by opening a folder on his lap. “My assistant will contact you with the date of the ceremony. It will be a private affair. Don’t bother with a white dress.” “Yes.” I stood up and bowed low, “thank you for your time.” Without another word, I turned and left the sitting room. As we walked out of the room, my father was shaking, whispering prayers of thanks, but I felt nothing but a strange, hollow coldness. I had saved the family, but as I glanced back at the closed doors of Rhysander’s sitting room, I realized I had just walked into a cage with a man who didn't believe in mercy. “Three years.” I muttered under my breath. I just had to survive three years. After three years, I'll be free.