The coffee shop was warm and bustling, the hum of voices blending with the hiss of the espresso machine. I stared into my half-empty latte, watching the foam swirl into meaningless patterns. I had spent three years of my life with Jake Lopez, and here we were a public breakup in a crowded café. Perfect.

“So, you’re saying it’s over?” I asked, my voice trembling despite my best effort to sound composed.

Jake had the nerve to look at me with pity, his hands wrapped around the steaming mug like it might shield him from the consequences of his actions. “Vielle, I’m sorry, but we’ve grown apart. This… this isn’t working anymore.”

“We’ve grown apart?” I repeated, my voice rising slightly. A few patrons glanced in our direction, and I felt my cheeks burn. “Jake, last week, you told me you loved me. Now, we’ve suddenly ‘grown apart’?”

He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting to the window.

Coward!

“I didn’t want to do this here,” he said, as though that made him noble. “But you kept asking me what was wrong, and I couldn’t keep lying to you.”

I clenched my fists under the table, trying to hold on to the shreds of my dignity. “Fine. You don’t want to be with me anymore. But what about the $30,000 you owe me? You promised you’d pay me back last month.”

Jake had the audacity to wince, as though I’d just insulted him. “Vielle, money isn’t everything. Do you really want to end things on that note?”

“You’re the one ending things,” I shot back. “And yes, I want my money back. I’m not exactly swimming in cash, Jake. That was supposed to cover my rent and studio supplies.”

He sighed, the kind of exaggerated sigh that made it clear he thought I was being unreasonable. “I don’t have it right now. Things are tight for me too, you know.”

I stared at him, stunned. He didn’t have it? Tight for him? The same man who’d just posted pictures of his new gaming setup on Instagram last week? My anger boiled over, and before I knew it, the words were spilling out.

“You don’t have it right now? Jake, you’re thirty-two years old. If you can’t manage to pay back a debt to your girlfriend ah! no Ex girlfriend, maybe you should rethink buying luxury items you don’t need.”

“Now you’re being dramatic,” he said, his voice low and placating. “I’ll pay you back when I can. But can we not make a scene?”

A scene? Oh, I was tempted to make a scene. My hands itched to throw his latte in his face, to stand on the table and declare to the entire café that Jake Lopez was a liar and a cheater who couldn’t pay his debts. But I took a deep breath instead.

“You know what, Jake? Keep the money,” I said, standing up and grabbing my bag. My chair scraped against the floor, loud enough to turn a few more heads. “Consider it a parting gift. I hope it’s worth more to you than I was.”

His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. For once, he had no smooth retort. I didn’t give him the chance to find one. With my head held high and my heart in pieces, I walked out of the café and into the crisp autumn air.

The streets of the city bustled around me, a stark contrast to the storm swirling in my chest. Three years gone, and nothing to show for it but a lighter bank account and a lesson I never wanted to learn.

As I turned the corner, I found myself muttering under my breath. “No more. No more liars, no more freeloaders, and definitely no more Jake Lopez.”

It was a declaration to no one and everyone. Little did I know, the universe was already plotting its next move—a twist that would change everything.

The thought of drinking my troubles away crossed my mind as I walked aimlessly through the streets. A stiff drink would dull the ache in my chest, if only for a little while. But when I fished a crumpled five-dollar bill and some loose change from my bag, reality hit harder than Jake’s betrayal. I couldn’t even afford a cheap cocktail.

“Figures,” I muttered, stuffing the money back into my bag. “Not even enough to drown my sorrows properly.”

With a resigned sigh, I decided to head home. My apartment wasn’t much, but it was the closest thing I had to a sanctuary. At least there, I could sulk in peace without an audience.

The elevator in my rundown building groaned as it climbed to the fifth floor, and when the doors finally creaked open, I stepped out, already fumbling for my keys. That’s when I saw her: Mrs. Gonzales, my landlady, leaning against my doorframe with her arms crossed and an expression that spelled trouble.

“Good evening, Mrs. Gonzales,” I said, forcing a smile. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t here to yell at me.

“Evening, Vielle,” she replied, her voice clipped. “We need to talk.”

"Oh? About what?” I asked, though I already knew.

She gave me a look that made it clear she wasn’t in the mood for games. "About your rent. It’s been two months, Vielle. I’ve been patient, but I can’t keep waiting forever.”

I opened my mouth to offer some excuse, but she cut me off. “One week. That’s all you have. If you can’t pay by then, I’m afraid you’ll have to find somewhere else to live.”

“One week?” I repeated, my voice rising in panic. "Mrs. Gonzales, I just need a little more time. I’m working on it, I swear.”

Her expression softened slightly, but her resolve didn’t falter. “I’m sorry, Vielle. I like you, but I have bills to pay too. One week. That’s all I can give you.”

Before I could argue further, she turned and walked away, leaving me standing in the hallway, my heart pounding in my chest. One week. Seven days to scrape together rent money or face the reality of losing the one place I had left.

I unlocked my door and stepped inside, the weight of the day pressing down on me like a lead blanket. My tiny apartment felt smaller than ever as I sank onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.

“No more liars, no more freeloaders,” I whispered again, the words hollow now. But as I sat there in the silence, a new resolve began to form.

If the universe wanted to throw me into the deep end, then so be it. I’d find a way to swim. I had to.

While staring at the ceiling, my phone rang, the sharp sound cutting through my thoughts. I grabbed it off the coffee table and glanced at the screen.

Maven.

A small smile tugged at my lips despite everything. Maven had been my best friend since childhood, the one constant in a life full of chaos. I hit the answer button.

“Hey, Maven,” I said, my voice cracking slightly.

“Vielle, are you okay?” Maven’s voice was warm and familiar, a balm to my frayed nerves. "I just had a feeling I needed to call you.”

“You and your weird intuition,” I said, laughing softly. “It’s been a day, Maven. A really, really bad day.”

“Tell me everything,” Maven said without hesitation.

And so, I did. I told him about the breakup, about Jake's betrayal, about the money he refused to repay. I told him about Mrs. Gonzales and the looming eviction that threatened to uproot my already fragile existence.

Maven listened without interrupting, his occasional hum of acknowledgment the only sign that he was still there. When I finally finished, the silence on the other end stretched long enough for me to wonder if the call had dropped.

“That’s a lot, Vielle,” Maven finally said, his voice heavy with concern. “You shouldn’t have to deal with all of this alone. Let me help you.”

“Maven, no,” **I said immediately. “You’ve done enough for me over the years. I can’t keep running to you every time my life falls apart.”**

“This isn’t running to me,” he countered. “It’s me offering because I care about you. I can lend you the money for rent or help you figure something else out. Whatever you need, I’m here.”

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. Maven’s offer was tempting—so tempting—but accepting it felt like admitting defeat. “I appreciate it, Maven. Really, I do. But I’ll manage. I’ve always managed.”

“Vielle…” he began, but I cut him off.

“I mean it. I’ll get through this,” I said firmly. "Thank you, though. For always being there for me.”

There was a long pause before he finally relented. “Fine. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“I know,” I said, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Goodnight, Maven.”

“Goodnight, Vielle. And take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will,” I promised before ending the call.

I set the phone down and leaned back against the couch, exhaustion finally catching up to me. Despite the chaos of the day, Maven’s call had brought a small measure of comfort. For a moment, the storm in my chest felt a little less overwhelming.

I closed my eyes, letting the stillness of the room wash over me. Sleep came slowly, but when it did, it brought dreams of better days—days where the weight of the world didn’t feel quite so heavy.

The following morning, I sought comfort in the one passion that had consistently grounded me: painting. My small studio was a cluttered jumble of canvases, tubes of paint, and brushes, yet it felt like a refuge. I faced an incomplete artwork, the shades of blue and green merging into a tumultuous ocean.

I became lost in the cadence of my brush strokes, with the outside world fading away as I channeled my frustration and doubt onto the canvas. That was until a sharp knock on the door shattered my focus. I set down the brush with a heavy sigh, wiped my hands on my apron, and made my way to the door.

In the doorway stood a man in his thirties, impeccably clad in a black suit that seemed far too costly for my neighborhood. His polished shoes made soft clicks as he entered uninvited, surveying the studio with mild interest.

**“Yes? Can I help you?”**I asked, crossing my arms defensively.

He turned to me with a faint, confident smile. *“*Yes. I’m looking for a painting, the most expensive one.”

I blinked, certain I had misheard him. “You’re in the wrong place. I don’t sell paintings like that.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unfazed by my response. “Oh, I’m in exactly the right place.” Without waiting for an invitation, he walked over to the small couch I kept for guests and sat down, perfectly at ease.

I trailed behind him and put on a forced smile before saying, "Sir, if you’re in search of a costly painting, I have one available, but it’s priced at 10,000 for this piece." I gestured towards the lavender field painting I had created.

I glanced at him and managed another forced smile. He examined the painting with a serious expression before turning to look at me and let out a light chuckle, which caused my smile to falter.

"You really take me by surprise, Ms. Vielle," he said, and I was taken aback to hear him say my name.

"Pardon me, sir? Have we crossed paths before? How did you know my name?" I continued to bombard him with questions, still forcing my self to smile.

I took a small step back, pondering if we had crossed paths before, my eyes widening at the thought, or if he was one of those individuals to whom my mother owed money. I scanned him from head to toe and thought, surely such an attractive man couldn't be one of the debt collectors, could he? I nodded, attempting to reassure myself that he was merely a potential customer.

He remained silent and simply gazed at me while seated, rubbing his chin, as though he was deciphering each emotion displayed on my face.

my forced grin fading and giving way to a sense of protectiveness. I finally asked, "Who are you, and is it truly my artwork that you want?" I demanded, my unease growing by the second.

Instead of answering, he reached into his suit and pulled out a brown envelope. “Vielle October,” he said, his tone as smooth as silk. “Twenty-six years old, born September 9, 1998. Graduated with a Bachelor of Fine Arts, majoring in painting. An unknown artist. Father died in a car accident. Mother imprisoned for kidnapping.”

I felt my blood turn to ice. “Stop. You still haven’t answered my question. Who are you?”

He ignored me, continuing as though reading off a checklist. “You’re behind on rent and drowning in your mother's debt. Your life has been one struggle after another, hasn’t it?”

“Who are you, and what do you want from me?” I snapped, anger flaring in my chest.

Finally, he met my gaze, his expression calm and composed. “My name is Aldrich Huxley. I’m here to offer you an opportunity. Not to buy a painting, it was just an excuse. I'm here to propose a contract that could change your life.”

So what he said earlier about buying the most expensive painting was just an excuse? I chuckled a bit, but there was a hint of annoyance in it.

The weight of his words hung in the air, and for a moment, all I could do was stare. My pulse quickened as a mix of fear and curiosity tangled in my chest. "What kind of contract?" I finally asked, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

Aldrich leaned back slightly, adjusting his perfectly tailored suit as though settling in for a long conversation. "It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement," he began, his tone measured and deliberate. *"*One that requires a certain… partnership."

I crossed my arms, glaring at him. "Cut the cryptic act and just say what you mean."

He smirked, amused by my defiance. "Very well. I need a wife."

I blinked twice, certain I had misheard him. "Excuse me?"

"A wife," he repeated calmly. "For appearances only. Think of it as a performance—a role you’ll play to help me secure my inheritance and, in return, I’ll pay off your debts and ensure your financial stability."

A sharp laugh escaped me, bitter and disbelieving. *"*Is this some kind of joke? Did someone put you up to this? if this is some kind of joke then it's not funny at all!"

Aldrich’s expression didn’t waver. "I assure you, Ms. October, I’m entirely serious. You’re in a difficult situation, and so am I. This arrangement could solve both our problems."

I shook my head, pacing the small space of my studio. "This is insane. You barge into my life, recite my entire biography like a stalker, and then propose a fake marriage? Do you realize how ridiculous you sound?"

"I do," he said simply. "But desperation often leads to unconventional solutions. And you, Ms. October, seem to be in need of one."

Is this man out of his mind? Does he even hear what he's saying?

"You don’t know anything about me," I shot back, pointing an accusing finger at him. "Just because you have some file doesn’t mean you understand what I’m going through."

Huh! Who does he think he is, just because he had me looked into. He thinks he knows me already

"On the contrary," he replied, his tone softening just enough to catch me off guard."I understand far more than you think."

I looked at him in confusion, questioning why would this guy choose me when there are so many women in the entire city. I even have no idea who this person is or where he came from.

For a moment, silence settled between us, heavy and charged. Finally, I broke it. "Why me? Out of all the people you could’ve chosen, why come to me?"

Aldrich stood, his imposing figure casting a long shadow in the morning light. "Because you have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Think it over, Ms. October."

He placed the envelope on the edge of my worktable, his gaze steady and unreadable. "Inside, you’ll find the details of my proposal. If you’re interested, call the number listed. If not, we’ll part ways, and I’ll find someone else."

Without another word, he turned and walked out, leaving the faint scent of cologne and a whirlwind of questions in his wake.

I stared at the envelope, my mind racing. Every instinct screamed that this was too good to be true, but another voice—a quieter, desperate one—whispered that it might be my only way out. The unfinished painting on the easel seemed to mock me, its chaotic strokes a mirror of my thoughts. What had I just gotten myself into?