The One Year Husband.

I have been called many things in my life. Spoiled heiress. Ice queen. Workaholic. My stepbrother Rafael likes to call me "little princess who thinks she can run a company." But I have never been called a wife. Until today, when a lawyer told me I have 29 days to become one, or I lose everything my father built. "Miss Cruz, it's Clause 7-B," Atty. Lim said. He slid the paper across his desk. His office in Makati was freezing. "Your father added it two years ago. To inherit your 51% of Cruz Holdings, you must be legally married for one year. If you are not married within thirty days, your shares go to your brother." My brother. Rafael. Who is not really my brother, he's my stepbrother, and who has spent the last six months trying to sell my father's company to developers while I was trying to save it. I stared at the paper. My father's signature was at the bottom. His neat, small signature that I knew so well because he used to sign my school permission slips with the same pen. "My father would never do this," I whispered. Atty. Lim looked tired. "He told me, 'My daughter thinks she doesn't need anyone. I want her to learn that a partner is not weakness.' Those were his exact words." A partner. My father thought marriage was a business solution. He had been married twice and both ended in divorce. So much for his theory. I walked out of that building at 10 AM. BGC was busy, hot, loud. I was wearing my black blazer and I felt like I was going to throw up. My phone was vibrating nonstop. Rafael calling. Rafael texting: Heard about the clause, little sister. Good luck finding a husband in 29 days. I didn't answer him. I called my Lola. Lola Conching is 82 and she is the most dangerous woman I know. She plays mahjong every Thursday with women who own half of Manila. "Lola, Papa left a condition. I need to be married in 29 days or I lose the company." There was a pause. Then she said, "Perfect. I have a boy for you." "Lola, please don't—" "Alexander Sy. The Sy boy. Handsome, rich, needs a wife too. His Lola is my best friend. You marry him. Problem solved." My blood went from cold to hot in one second. Alexander Sy. I hated Alexander Sy. We went to De La Salle together. Architecture. He was the boy who sat in front of me, who always got higher grades than me, who once told the whole studio that my design was "pretty but structurally stupid, like most pretty things." I threw a rolled-up tracing paper at his head that day. He never forgave me. I never forgave him. "Anyone but him," I said. "Too late," Lola said happily. "I told him to come for merienda today. 3 PM. My house. Wear the red dress I like. Don't be late." She hung up. At 3:05 PM, I was in Lola's garden in Alabang, wearing the red dress I hate, holding tea I didn't want. The gate opened. And Alexander Sy walked in. He was not the boy from college anymore. In college he was tall and lanky, always in basketball shorts, hair wet from practice, frowning. Now he was... a man. He wore a charcoal suit, white shirt open at the collar, no tie. His hair was short and neat. He had a watch that probably cost more than my car. He was 31 now. He looked like a CEO. He looked like someone who could buy my company if he wanted to. He saw me. His eyes did a quick scan - red dress, crossed legs, angry face - and then his face went blank. The CEO mask. "Isabella," he said. "Alexander," I said. Lola Conching and Lola Sy were watching us from the table like we were a teleserye. "You know each other!" Lola Conching clapped. "We hated each other in college," I said sweetly. "We still do," Alexander said, but he was looking at my red dress again. "Sit, sit!" Lola Sy pushed him into the chair across from me. "Alex, tell her about your grandfather's condition." Alexander's jaw tightened. He doesn't like people talking about his business. "My grandfather will only name me CEO if I am married and stable. I have 41 days before the board meeting. If I'm not married by then, my cousin gets the position." Lola Conching beamed. "See? Isabella needs a husband, you need a wife! You marry each other!" The garden went silent except for the fountain. I choked on my tea. Alexander stared at his grandmother. "Lola, you cannot just—" I started. "It's practical," Alexander interrupted. He looked at me like I was a business proposal. "How many days do you have?" "Twenty-nine." "I have forty-one. You need a husband. I need a wife. We both have no other options. We both hate each other enough not to fall in love, which makes it safe." I hated that he made sense. That was the most Alexander Sy thing ever - making sense when you want him to be stupid. "Rules," I said. If this was happening, it was happening my way. "We need rules." He pulled out his phone. "Go." "One year. Exactly 365 days." "Agreed." "No feelings. No jealousy. No real couple things." He raised an eyebrow. "No real couple things?" "You know what I mean," I snapped. "No s*x. Ever," I added, my face burning. The red dress was a bad idea. He looked at me for a second too long. Then said, "Agreed." "No one can know it's fake. Only our Lolas and lawyers." "Agreed." "We live together but separate rooms. Your penthouse is big enough." "Four bedrooms. You take the master." "And after one year, we divorce. Clean. No alimony. You keep Sy Group, I keep Cruz Holdings." "Agreed." We stared at each other. The contract was already printed. Lola had planned this. Atty. Lim came out from inside the house with a folder like magic. "Is this legal?" I whispered to him. "Very legal. Very common in your circle," he said. Alexander signed first. Without reading. He always signed without reading, like he owned the world. Then he held the pen out to me. His hand was big. Warm. There was a small scar on his knuckle from college, when he punched a wall after I beat him in a design contest. I took the pen. My fingers touched his for half a second. I signed. Isabella Cruz. In 29 days, I would be Isabella Sy. The wedding was on Day 29. 9 AM, Makati City Hall. It was not a wedding. It was a signing. I wore a white pantsuit, not a wedding dress. I refused to wear a wedding dress for a fake wedding. Alexander wore his charcoal suit. Only our Lolas, two lawyers, and a judge. "Do you take this man—" the judge started. "Yes," I said quickly. "Do you take this woman—" "Yes," Alexander said. No kiss. We agreed: no kiss. Outside, the sun was too bright. My head hurt. "Congratulations, Mrs. Sy," Alexander said, opening the car door for me. His Alphard was waiting. "Don't call me that," I said, but I got in. "We are married, Isabella. I will call you Mrs. Sy when people are around." "And when people are not around?" "Cruz," he said. "Like in college." I hated that I liked that better. The drive to his penthouse in Grand Hyatt BGC was silent. I looked out the window. Manila rushing by. My phone buzzed. Rafael: CONGRATS ON YOUR MARRIAGE, LITTLE SISTER. I turned it off. His penthouse was on the 57th floor. It was exactly what I expected. Cold, perfect, empty. Black and white and gray. No photos. No plants. No mess. Just floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the whole city. "Four bedrooms," he said, putting my one small suitcase down. I only brought one. "You take the master. I take the one opposite." "You take the master, it's your house." "It's our house for one year," he said. "And you are my wife. You take the master." He said "my wife" like it was a job title. I walked into the master. It was bigger than my whole condo. King bed, white sheets, perfectly made. Empty closet waiting for me. I sat on the edge. My white pantsuit was wrinkled. Alexander stood in the doorway. He didn't come in. "House rules are on the fridge," he said. "I wake at 5:30, black coffee, gym, leave at 7, home at 8. Sometimes 10. Don't wait." "House rules?" I raised an eyebrow. "I made them this morning." Of course he did. "What are my rules?" "You have none. Just don't bring men here." I stood up. "Excuse me?" "It's in the contract. No dating while married. For image." "I'm not going to bring men here, Alexander! I'm married! Fake married but still—" "Good. Same goes for me. No women." "Like you would," I muttered. "What does that mean?" "Nothing. Just your girlfriends were always tall and model-like." "There are no girlfriends," he said. "Right." "There are no girlfriends, Cruz," he said again, like it mattered. I looked away. "Whatever. I'm going to order food. I don't know how to use your stove." "I'll have helper come." "No. I want to learn. It's my house for one year, right?" He nodded. "Our house." He left. Door closed. I was alone in the big white bed, in my white pantsuit, married to the boy I hated in college. I lay back and looked at the ceiling. Perfect, cold lights. My phone buzzed. Lola: How is married life? Did you kiss? I typed: No kissing. House rules. Lola: House rules are meant to be broken. Goodnight, Mrs. Sy. I turned off the light. At 10 PM, I heard his door open and close. He went to the kitchen for water. He paused outside my door. He didn't knock. He walked away. Day 1 of 365 was over. I was his wife. And I had no idea that 365 days would never be enough.