The New York Romance: The Contract Bride

Chapter.3

Isabella was so startled that she almost dropped the water bottle in her hand, and a little water spilled out, splattering on the bare skin of her feet. She quickly placed the bottle on the side table, her hands subconsciously wringing together, like a schoolchild who had done something wrong.

"I... I'm just... a little thirsty, I went down to get some water." She explained haltingly, her voice barely audible.

Leonardo rose from the piano bench and walked towards her step by step. With each step he took, Isabella's heart sank a little more. This man had a powerful presence, like a moving iceberg, bringing a chill wherever he went.

He stood in front of her, looking down at her with a gaze like an X-ray, trying to see through her from the inside out. Isabella felt like a small rabbit being hunted, her entire body stiffened, too afraid to move.

"Thirsty?" Leonardo repeated, his voice devoid of any emotion, "So you just went ahead and touched my things?"

"I... I didn't know that was yours," Isabella rushed to explain, "I thought... the stuff in the fridge was all fair game to drink..."

"The refrigerator?" Leonardo raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a half-smile, "You're really... quite familiar."

He walked to the refrigerator, opened the door, pointed to the lonely Greek yogurt, and asked, "This, did you touch it?"

"No!" Isabella quickly shook her head, "I saw the label, I didn't touch it."

"Leonardo slammed the refrigerator door shut, turned around, looked at Isabella, and said, 'Good. Remember, in this house, except for the room you live in, you'd better not touch anywhere else without my permission.'"

Her voice was very calm, but each word was like a nail, piercing Isabella's heart. She felt like an intruder, warned by the owner not to cross the line.

"I know."

Leonardo did not say anything else, turned and walked back to the piano, sat down, and started playing again. This time, he was not playing "Für Elise," but a piece that Isabelle had never heard before, with a low-pitched melody tinged with a touch of sadness.

Isabella stood there, caught between leaving and staying. She felt like an outsider, as if she didn't belong there.

She quietly turned around and prepared to go upstairs.

"Wait a moment," Leonardo suddenly called out to her.

Isabella stopped in her tracks, turned around, and looked at him with a puzzled expression.

"Take that away."

Isabella was stunned for a moment, but then she reacted. She walked over, picked up the bottle of mineral water, and said in a low voice, "Thank you."

She ran up the stairs as if fleeing, returned to her own room, and "bang" shut the door, leaning against the door, panting heavily.

What a situation! She's only been here for a short time and already feels suffocated. This mansion, this man, it all feels oppressive to her. She's even starting to miss her small apartment in Brooklyn, though it was dilapidated, at least it was free.

She walked to the window, opened the window, and let the fresh air blow in.

In Manhattan's early morning, the sunshine is a bit too bright.

I must persist, no matter how difficult it is. I still have a mother to take care of, and dreams to realize.

She took out her phone and flipped to the only contact in her address book - Mom. She hesitated for a moment, but still dialed the phone.

The telephone rang a few times and was answered.

"Hey, Bella?" The voice of my mother came through the receiver, with a hint of weakness.

"Mom, I'm okay." Isabella said hurriedly, "I just... missed you."

She tried to make her voice sound light and happy, not wanting to worry her mother.

"Silly child, have you missed me after just a few days?" Mom smiled and said, "Take good care of yourself, don't get too tired."

"Yes, I know." Isabella nodded, but tears couldn't help but flow down.

She and her mother chatted for a few minutes, then hung up the phone. She knew that her mother's medical expenses still required a lot of money. She must find a job as soon as possible to earn money.

She opened the computer and began searching for job opportunities related to jewelry design. She was confident that with her talent and hard work, she would definitely find a good job.

She didn't know that her fate was closely linked to the man named Leonardo. Their story was only just beginning.

They started their "contract marriage" today.

"Please hurry, I have another conference call in ten minutes." Leonardo took off his sunglasses, revealing a handsome yet impatient face, and said to the staff. He tossed the sunglasses on the table with a "bang," as if mocking this absurd wedding.

The Manhattan Marriage Registry, a place that should have been filled with romance, is now as cold as an icy cellar. Isabella stands next to him, feeling like a randomly placed commodity. She looks down at her toes, which have curled slightly due to nervousness, and her white canvas shoes clash with the solemn setting.

Leonardo was 35 minutes late, and Isabella's legs were numb from standing. When he showed up, he even brought a "souvenir" from Central Park - a few pink cherry blossom petals, lazily hanging from his custom-made dark gray suit, like some kind of ironic medal.

The judge began to read the oath, but Leonardo's thoughts had already flown far away. He stared at the phone screen the entire time, his fingers rapidly sliding, handling a cross-border merger and acquisition case. Isabella caught a glimpse of the dense numbers and charts on the screen, and felt dizzy.

"Are you willing..." The judge's voice was solemn and sacred.

"I do," Leonardo didn't even lift his head, answering casually. Isabella noticed that he had just signed his name on a document, a red one with the chilling words "Layoff List" printed on it.

"I do" is the coldest and most perfunctory promise in the world.

There was no exchange of rings, no sweet kisses, not even a symbolic embrace. This "contractual marriage" was like a cold, commercial contract, hastily concluded in just a few minutes.

Isabella felt like a fool for selling herself to a heartless business machine in order to pay for her mother's medical expenses. She didn't even dare to look into Leonardo's eyes, those eyes that were as deep as an abyss with not a single trace of warmth.

"Got it, time to wrap up." Leonardo closed his phone, his tone as light as if he had just completed a trivial transaction. He turned and left, completely ignoring Isabela, who was still standing in place.

Isabella quietly followed him out of the marriage registration office. The sunlight in Manhattan was dazzling, but she felt a chill throughout her body. She thought this must be the ultimate level of "social death" - marrying a man who doesn't love you at all, and the whole world knows it.

Isabella's white dress is exactly the same as the one in the engagement photo of Leonardo's ex-fiancée Vivian from five years ago. Even the pleated white camellia flower at the waist looks like it was copied and pasted. The photographer kept shouting, "Get closer, get even closer! Yes, that's the feel, the groom embracing the bride's waist..."

Isabella was stiff as a board, like a marionette, at the mercy of others. She felt the hand on her waist, like an iron vise, squeezing the breath out of her.

"Click-clack"

The paparazzi's shutter clicks, the reporter from the New York Post. Isabella knows that tomorrow, her face as the "substitute wife" will be on the front pages of all the major gossip magazines.

Just then, Leonardo suddenly pinched her chin with astonishing force, compelling her to raise her head.

"Smile, Miss Carter," he lowered his head, his thin lips almost touching her earlobe, his voice as cold as ice chips, "at least you should pretend to be happy, shouldn't you?"

The somber atmosphere in the Rolls-Royce on the way back was suffocating. Leonardo tossed her a black card, which traced a cold arc through the air and landed on Isabela's lap.

"Two million dollars a month should be enough for you," he said casually, as if discussing an insignificant expense. "That includes the cost of playing the 'perfect wife.'"

Isabella clenched her skirt, her fingertips turning pale. She knew that these twenty thousand dollars, the buyout, were not just for her "performance", but also for her dignity.