Married to my Enemy

Chapter 2

The Contract from Hell

By the time I finally got home from the hospital, the sun was coming up.

And by “home,” I mean a third-floor apartment with thin walls, a questionable stain in the hallway, and a neighbor who thinks playing the drums at 6 a.m. is a spiritual experience.

I didn’t sleep. I just stared at the water stain on my ceiling, trying to imagine a world where I could magic fifty thousand dollars out of thin air.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Ethan pale and sweating in that hospital bed. And—annoyingly—I also saw Liam Kane, leaning against the doorframe like some smug devil auditioning for a cologne ad.

---

By noon, I had convinced myself I was going to tell him no.

By twelve-oh-five, I was in the backseat of a sleek black car with tinted windows, heading to his office.

The receptionist on the top floor looked me up and down like she’d been trained by the valet at the gala. My dress was clean but old, my hair in a hasty twist, my heels two seasons out of date.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked, her tone implying I did not.

“Tell him Aria Blake is here,” I said.

Her brows rose, but she picked up the phone. Thirty seconds later, she hung up and gestured toward the frosted glass doors. “He’ll see you now.”

---

Liam Kane’s office was exactly what you’d expect from a man who could probably buy a small country on a whim.

Floor-to-ceiling windows with a skyline view. A desk big enough to land a helicopter on. Everything in black, chrome, and glass. It smelled faintly of leather and danger.

He was sitting behind the desk, jacket off, tie loose, sleeves rolled up. The sleeves, unfortunately, revealed forearms I refused to find attractive.

“You look tired,” he said without looking up from whatever document he was signing.

“You look smug,” I shot back.

“Part of my charm.” He finally glanced up, gesturing toward the chair opposite him. “Sit.”

“I’ll stand.”

“Suit yourself.”

---

He slid a folder across the desk.

Inside: a marriage contract. Neatly typed, legal jargon everywhere, and—yes—my name next to his in bold print.

I flipped to the last page. The terms hit me like a slap:

One year marriage.

Public appearances required.

No divorce before the year ends without penalty.

Discretion clause.

Financial settlement at the end: enough to cover Ethan’s treatment plus a small fortune.

I looked up at him. “Do you propose to all your enemies this way?”

“Only the ones worth keeping close.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.” He leaned back in his chair. “So? Yes or no?”

“I haven’t decided if you’re worth the lifetime of therapy this will require.”

“You’re running out of time, Aria.”

---

I stared at him. “Why me? Why not some willing socialite with better manners?”

His gaze sharpened. “Because they don’t matter. You do.”

That wasn’t an answer. It was an infuriating, loaded grenade of a statement.

“Cryptic,” I said. “Very Bond villain.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

---

I stood, closing the folder. “I’ll think about it.”

“You don’t have that luxury,” he said smoothly. “Your brother doesn’t have that luxury.”

I froze.

“Sign it,” Liam said, “and Ethan gets the best care money can buy. Don’t sign it… and we both know what happens.”

The worst part?

He wasn’t threatening me. He was telling the truth.

---

I didn’t sign then and there. My pride wouldn’t let me. But as I left his office, clutching the folder like it might burn me, I knew.

By the end of the week, I’d be Mrs. Liam Kane.

And God help us both.