THE OFFER
1236 Words
The soldering iron slipped.
Trinity Frost cursed under her breath as the burn blistered across her thumb. She didn't pull away fast enough. Story of her life, really.
"You good?" Connor's voice drifted from across the robotics lab.
"Peachy." Trinity sucked on the burn, tasting copper and stupidity. The circuit board mocked her from the workbench, half finished, deadline looming. State finals were in three weeks and their robot still couldn't navigate a straight line.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Past midnight now. The rest of Ashford Preparatory Academy had gone dark hours ago. Just her and Connor and machines that might actually work if she could focus for five consecutive minutes.
She couldn't.
Her phone sat face down on the bench after the third call from the hospital billing department. Seventeen thousand dollars. That's what they wanted this month. For medication that kept her dad alive but cost more than a decent used car.
"Trinity." Connor was closer now. "Go home. Sleep. The bot will still be broken tomorrow."
"Inspiring pep talk."
"I'm serious. You've been here since six. It's almost one in the morning."
Trinity finally looked up. Connor had that expression where he looked at her like she was a complicated equation he wanted to solve. Square jaw, dark eyes, objectively attractive. Captain of the robotics team, captain of the debate team, probably captain of being perfect at life.
He'd asked her out twice. She'd said no both times.
"I'm fine," she lied.
"You're not. Is it your dad?"
The concern in his voice made something crack in her chest.
"Connor. I appreciate it. But I really need to finish this tonight alone."
Silence. Then footsteps. The lab door closing.
Trinity exhaled. Picked up the soldering iron. Tried to pretend her hands weren't shaking.
The scholarship to Ashford Prep was supposed to change everything. Full ride, prestigious school, gateway to MIT or Stanford. Except scholarships didn't cover medical bills. Didn't cover the way her dad's hands shook now, tremors getting worse despite medication they could barely afford.
Multiple sclerosis. Three syllables that cost seventeen thousand dollars a month.
The lab door opened again.
"Connor, I swear to God."
"I'm not Connor."
Trinity's head snapped up.
The woman in the doorway looked like she'd stepped out of a gothic novel. Sixty something, silver hair in an elaborate updo, floor length burgundy coat. Her eyes were dark and sharp and focused entirely on Trinity's face.
Behind her stood a man.
Trinity's brain stuttered.
He was tall. Maybe six two, broad shouldered, wearing a charcoal suit tailored perfectly. Dark hair with a slight wave. Jaw sharp enough to cut glass. Eyes that looked black in the fluorescent lighting.
He looked like he'd never made a spontaneous decision in his life. Like every movement had been calculated three moves ahead.
He looked at her like she was a problem he was already solving.
"Trinity Frost?" The woman's voice had a European accent. Cultured. Expensive.
"The door was locked."
"Locks are suggestions when you have the right resources." The woman smiled without warmth. "I am Madame Morgana. This is Dominic Harrington. We need to speak with you about an unusual opportunity."
Trinity set down the soldering iron carefully. Every instinct screamed at her to run.
"How did you find me?"
"You're quite talented, Miss Frost. National robotics champion at sixteen. Perfect SAT scores. Published a paper on prosthetic limbs at seventeen." Madame Morgana moved into the lab like she owned it. "We've been looking for you."
Dominic Harrington hadn't said a word. Just watched with calculating eyes.
Trinity met his gaze and refused to look away first.
He raised one eyebrow. Barely.
"Looking for me why?"
"You have something we need." Madame Morgana stopped three feet away. "A birthmark, specifically."
Trinity's hand went to her left shoulder blade automatically. The mark had been there since birth. Small, intricate, like a crest. She'd never thought much about it.
"How do you know about that?"
"We have our sources." The woman's smile widened. "And that birthmark makes you extraordinarily valuable. Valuable enough that we're prepared to offer you fifty million dollars."
The lab tilted.
Trinity gripped the workbench. Fifty million. That wasn't a real number. That was a scam number.
"I'm calling security."
"Please don't." Dominic finally spoke. Deep voice, controlled, precise. "We're here to make you an offer. One that could solve your financial difficulties."
"You don't know anything about my finances."
"Your father's medical bills are seventeen thousand two hundred and thirty six dollars per month. You're two payments behind. Collections. You skip meals for medication copays. You take the bus because you can't afford parking." He paused. "Should I continue?"
Rage and fear twisted in Trinity's throat. "That's private."
"We had every right." Madame Morgana cut her off. "Because we're about to change your life. If you're brave enough."
Trinity wanted to run. But seventeen thousand dollars sat on her chest like a weight.
"What do you want?"
"We want you to marry him." Madame Morgana gestured at Dominic.
Silence.
Then Trinity laughed. Sharp, slightly hysterical. This was insane.
"Where's the camera?"
Neither of them laughed.
"This is not a prank." Dominic stepped forward. "I need a wife. You need money. Simple transaction."
"You want me to marry a stranger for fifty million dollars because I have a birthmark?"
"Yes."
Trinity stared at him. Early thirties. Handsome in that cold, sculpted way. No wedding ring. No warmth.
"Why?"
"My family has inheritance requirements. I must marry before my thirty fifth birthday. Eighteen months."
"Marry anyone else."
"It's not that simple."
"You keep saying that."
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
Madame Morgana moved closer. "The bride must be the reincarnation of our family's founder. Alistair Harrington. Died 1847."
Trinity sat down hard. "Reincarnation. You think I'm the reincarnation of some dead guy."
"We know you are. The birthmark matches the family crest exactly. You were born on the correct date. You appeared in my vision."
Trinity pressed her palms against her eyes. Stress hallucination. Had to be.
"I don't believe in reincarnation."
"You don't have to believe. You just have to participate."
Trinity looked up. He'd moved closer. Those dark eyes held something. Exhaustion. The kind from carrying too much weight.
She recognized it. Saw it every morning.
"Fifty million dollars. For how long?"
"One year. After inheritance is secured, we divorce. You get paid."
"And during that year?"
"You live at my estate. Attend functions. Play my wife publicly. Participate in family rituals." He paused. "Your father's medical bills covered separately. Immediately. Signing bonus."
Trinity's breath caught.
All of them. No more collections. No more choosing between medication and rent.
"Why me specifically?"
"My grandmother believes in reincarnation. She's seen your birthmark in visions. Anyone else, she'll know. The inheritance goes to my uncle. Who'll destroy everything."
"So your legacy depends on me pretending to be your dead ancestor."
"Yes."
"And you think this is reasonable."
"I think this is mutually beneficial." He pulled out an envelope. Cream colored, expensive. "Preliminary contract. Read it. Think. We return in forty eight hours for your answer."
Trinity took it. Heavy. Real.
This was actually happening.
"Forty eight hours," Madame Morgana said. "Then the offer expires."
"Destiny," Trinity echoed.
"The universe doesn't require your permission to unfold."
They left.
Trinity stared at the envelope.
Fifty million dollars.
Her dad's medical bills.
One year.
She opened it with shaking hands.
- Writer
