Chapter 2 — Seventy-Two Hours
870 Words
I didn’t sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the words printed in neat black ink.
Every night at exactly 12:00 a.m.
I checked my phone.
12:03 a.m.
My chest tightened irrationally, as if I’d already failed something I hadn’t agreed to.
I pushed the covers away and sat up, heart racing. The apartment felt smaller than it ever had—walls too close, ceiling pressing down. I’d lived here for five years, but suddenly it felt temporary. Already gone.
I walked into the kitchen and poured a glass of water I didn’t drink.
Marriage.
A year of my life traded for a debt I didn’t even know existed.
And the worst part—
I’ve known you for a long time.
The way he’d said it hadn’t been dramatic. No emphasis. No threat. Just a fact.
I grabbed my laptop and opened it on the counter.
If he was bluffing, I’d find it.
His name was on the contract. Clean. Typed. Untouchable-looking.
I searched it.
The first results were business features. Wealth rankings. Awards. Words like 'reclusive', 'private', and 'strategic'. No scandals. No photos newer than five years.
I scrolled.
And scrolled.
Then I found the court records.
Cases withdrawn. Charges dismissed. Lawsuits that never made it to trial.
People who went up against him simply… stopped.
My fingers hovered over the trackpad.
This wasn’t a man who threatened.
This was a man who waited.
I slammed the laptop shut.
“No,” I said aloud, to the empty apartment. “There has to be another way.”
I called my father.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
I left messages I didn’t remember recording.
Dad, where are you?
Call me back.
Please.
By morning, my voice was gone.
The second day passed in a blur of denial.
I went to work. Answered emails. Smiled at coworkers who had no idea my life had cracked open at the seams.
At 11:57 a.m., my phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
Have you reached a decision?
My stomach dropped.
I didn’t reply.
At 12:00 p.m. exactly, another message appeared.
Seventy-two hours includes nights.
I locked myself in the bathroom and pressed my palm against the mirror.
How did he know where I worked?
How did he have my number?
My phone buzzed again.
This time, it was a photo.
My breath caught.
It was my apartment building. Taken from across the street. My window visible. The light on.
I deleted the image immediately, hands shaking.
Then I replied.
Me:
Stop.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Then:
I haven’t started.
I didn’t eat dinner that night.
At 11:55 p.m., I sat on my bed fully dressed, lights on, heart pounding as if something were supposed to happen.
Nothing did.
Which was somehow worse.
By the third day, fear gave way to anger.
I took a cab to his office without an appointment. Without a plan.
The receptionist looked startled when I said my name.
“He’s expecting you,” she said quietly.
Of course he was.
The office looked the same as before—dark, controlled, immaculate. He stood when I entered, jacket buttoned, expression unreadable.
“You shouldn’t threaten people,” I said, voice trembling despite myself.
“I didn’t,” he replied. “I informed you.”
“You’re stalking me.”
“No.” A pause. “I’m observing.”
I laughed bitterly. “You think this is normal?”
“I think,” he said calmly, “that you’re running out of time.”
I stepped closer to the desk. “Why midnight?”
For the first time, he hesitated.
Barely. But I saw it.
“Because,” he said slowly, “it’s the hour people are most honest.”
I shook my head. “I won’t be owned.”
His gaze sharpened.
“You already are,” he said. “You just haven’t chosen by whom.”
Silence fell heavy between us.
“What happens if I say no?” I asked.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he reached into a drawer and placed something on the desk.
A phone.
He slid it towards me.
“Press play.”
My fingers felt numb as I did.
My father’s voice filled the room.
Panicked. Whispering. Broken.
I didn’t mean to involve her.
Please. She doesn’t know anything.
I dropped the phone as if it burned.
Tears stung my eyes. “Where is he?”
“Alive,” he said. “For now.”
I swallowed hard. “And if I sign?”
“You become my wife,” he said evenly. “And he goes free.”
My hands curled into fists.
“And the midnight rule?”
His eyes darkened.
“Non-negotiable.”
I stared at him, really looked at him—at the stillness, the patience, the certainty.
This man wasn’t asking.
He was offering the illusion of choice.
“I need the contract,” I whispered.
He placed the folder in my hands.
“You have until tonight,” he said. “Midnight.”
My heart skipped.
“Tonight?”
A slow, dangerous smile touched his lips.
“After all,” he said softly,
“It wouldn’t be right to miss the first one.”
- Writer
