Contractually Yours

Chatper Five : The Morning After

Emma woke up screaming.

The nightmare was already fading as she shot upright in bed, her heart hammering against her ribs. The sheets were tangled around her legs. Her skin was slick with sweat.

A hospital room. Tubes and machines. Her mother's pale face, her lips blue, her eyes—eyes that were already—

"Emma."

She didn't hear the door open. Didn't hear the footsteps.

But suddenly Alexander was there, standing beside her bed in nothing but low-slung sweatpants, his dark hair messy and his eyes sharp with concern.

"Emma," he said again. "Breathe."

She sucked in a breath.

"Good. Another one."

She breathed again.

"Now tell me what happened."

"Nothing." Her voice was cracked and hollow. "I'm fine."

"You're trembling."

"I said I'm fine."

He didn't argue. He just sat down on the edge of her bed.

The mattress dipped under his weight. She could feel the warmth of his body even through the sheets.

"Nightmare," he said. Flat. Matter-of-fact. Like he knew the word better than anyone.

Emma swallowed. "Yes."

"Same one?"

The question made her freeze.

"How do you know it's the same one?"

He was quiet for a long moment.

"Because you talk in your sleep. You've been doing it since you moved in. 'Mom.' 'Don't leave.' 'Please.'" His voice was careful. Almost kind. "You say them over and over."

Emma felt her eyes burn.

She never cried. She'd promised herself years ago, after her father left, after the debt piled up, after every single thing in her life had fallen apart—she never cried.

But now the tears were threatening to spill.

"Your mother," Alexander said. "The car accident. Her surgery. Your debt."

"It's all true," she whispered. "Every terrible thing. It's all true."

He didn't say "I'm sorry." He didn't offer empty comfort.

Instead, he simply stayed. He sat there, silent and steady, waiting until her breathing had evened out and her hands had stopped trembling.

"Why are you being nice to me?" she asked hoarsely.

"Because you look like you need it."

"Don't you need it too?"

The question hung in the air between them.

His jaw tightened. His eyes flickered—shadows of something dark and old passing through them.

"No," he said finally. "I gave up needing things a long time ago."

"Alex—"

"Don't."

He cut her off so sharply that she flinched.

"I don't want your pity, Emma. I don't want your sympathy. I don't want you to look at me like I'm broken. I'm not broken. I'm functional. I'm successful. I'm exactly what I chose to be."

"I don't think you chose it." Her voice was small but steady. "I think something happened to you. Something you didn't choose."

His eyes met hers.

For a moment—just a moment—she saw the mask slip.

Beneath the cold, untouchable billionaire was a man drowning in guilt. She could see it. Could taste it in the silence.

"You're dangerous," he said softly.

"How am I dangerous?"

"Because you see too much."

He stood up abruptly. Walked to the door. Paused with his hand on the frame.

"Get some sleep, Emma. We have another event tomorrow. This time it's with my family."

Her heart dropped. "Your family?"

"Family dinner." His voice was flat. "They're eager to meet you."

"I'm not ready for that—"

"It's not a choice." He turned his head, just enough to look at her over his shoulder. "It's part of the contract."

The door closed behind him.

Emma lay back against the pillows, her heart still racing, her mind spinning.

She'd signed a contract to play the role of his fiancée.

But she hadn't signed a contract to care.

And yet, sitting in the darkness of his penthouse, surrounded by all the money in the world, she couldn't stop herself from feeling something she shouldn't.

She cared.

And that was the most dangerous thing of all.