The pen trembles between my fingers like a dying bird, ink bleeding across the pristine white paper in stuttered marks. Five hundred thousand dollars. The number stares back at me, mocking every principle I thought I had, every boundary I swore I'd never cross. The leather chair beneath me creaks—expensive, cold—while Kyle's hospital bracelet burns against my palm where I'm gripping it, plastic edges cutting into my skin like a reminder of what I owe, what I've always owed.

The Blake family lawyer's voice drones through the terms, each word hitting like drops of acid on my conscience. "One year of marriage. Conception and delivery of one healthy child. Full medical care provided. Upon completion of the contract, Mrs. Blake will receive—"

"Blake." The name tastes like copper pennies in my mouth. "I'll be Mrs. Blake."

Across the mahogany table that probably costs more than my yearly salary, Damien Blake sits motionless. His dark eyes—God, those eyes haven't changed, still that same intensity that used to make me feel like he could see straight through to my bones—are fixed on some point past my shoulder. Like he can't bear to look at me directly.

Smart man.

"Miss Chen?" The lawyer's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "Do you need a moment?"

I don't look up from the contract. Can't. If I meet Damien's eyes, I'll see the boy who pushed me down the school stairs. The one who made my lunch money disappear, who turned my friends against me with whispered lies.

The boy who left me to burn.

"The terms are quite straightforward," the lawyer continues, his voice clinical in the way that expensive legal counsel perfects. "Following the birth, divorce proceedings will commence immediately. Custody arrangements are outlined in section twelve—"

"She keeps the money either way." Damien's voice is low, controlled, but there's something underneath it that makes my skin prickle with recognition. "Even if complications arise."

Finally, I look up.

Mistake.

Those dark eyes are fixed on me now, and there's something in them that looks almost like... pain? No. That's impossible. Damien Blake doesn't feel pain—he causes it.

"There won't be complications," I say, my voice sharper than intended. "I'm not that fragile little girl anymore."

His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath olive skin that's aged better than it has any right to. "I never said you were."

"You didn't have to."

The silence stretches between us like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap. The grandfather clock in the corner ticks away seconds that feel like eternities, each sound hammering against my skull. His cologne—cedar and something darker, more dangerous—invades my nostrils, bringing memories I can't afford to remember.

"Perhaps we should proceed with the signing," the lawyer suggests, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

"Why me?" The question escapes before I can stop it, and I hate how small my voice sounds. "With your money, your connections, you could have anyone. Why the girl you used to terrorize?"

Something flickers across Damien's face—too quick to catch, but it's there. His hands, resting on the table, curl into fists before he forces them flat again. I watch the movement, mesmerized by the contrast of his control and the tremor beneath it.

"Maybe because you're the only one desperate enough to say yes."

The words hit like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. My ribs feel like they're closing in, crushing my heart between them. I breathe through it the way Kyle taught me—count to five, remember what this is for, remember who needs you.

The hospital bracelet cuts deeper into my palm, and I welcome the pain. It grounds me, reminds me why I'm here.

"You're right." I pick up the pen again, grip it steady this time. My knuckles are white, but my hand doesn't shake. "I am desperate. So let's get this over with."

The pen scratches across paper, signing away a year of my life, and the sound takes me back—another pen, another signature. Kyle's shaking hand on discharge papers, his face pale as death, whispering my name like a prayer.

*The coffee shop is too loud, too bright, and Kyle's hand trembles as he reaches for his water. Six months after the accident, and the movement still looks painful. My fault. Always my fault.*

*"Two hundred thousand?" I stare at the medical bills he's spread across our small table, the numbers blurring together until they become meaningless. Until they become everything.*

*"The experimental treatment... it's the only option left." His voice breaks on the words, and I feel that familiar twist in my chest—the same feeling I've carried since I was eight years old, since the night he threw himself in front of a car to save me. "Without it, the nerve damage... I might never walk properly again."*

*I watch his face—the same face that smiled at me through childhood nightmares, that held me while I cried about Damien Blake's cruelties. The face of the boy who sacrificed everything for me, who still bears the scars of that sacrifice in the way he moves, the way he winces when he thinks I'm not looking.*

*"I'll find a way." The words come automatically, the way they always do when Kyle needs something. "I always do."*

*"Aria, no. You've already given up so much for me—"*

*"You saved my life." I reach across to squeeze his good hand, feeling the slight tremor that never quite went away. His fingers intertwine with mine, holding tight—too tight. "You've been saving it ever since. This is what I owe you."*

*He smiles then, soft and grateful, but there's something else in his eyes. Something that makes my stomach clench with unease I can't name.*

*"You're an angel, you know that?" He lifts our joined hands, presses a kiss to my knuckles that lingers just a moment too long. "I don't deserve you."*

*The words should be sweet. They're meant to be sweet. But something cold crawls up my spine, some instinct I can't name. His grip is tight—too tight—and there's something hungry in the way he watches my face...*

"—signed and witnessed."

The lawyer's voice jerks me back to the present. My signature sits at the bottom of the contract, bold and final. Done. No going back now. The ink is still wet, like blood from a fresh wound.

"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Blake." The lawyer begins gathering papers with practiced efficiency. "The ceremony is scheduled for Friday."

Damien stands, straightening his expensive suit jacket, and I catch a glimpse of something—a scar along his forearm, white against olive skin. Old. Familiar. My breath catches, but before I can examine the feeling, he's speaking.

"Three days." His voice is carefully neutral, but there's something underneath it that makes me look at him sharply. Something almost like... concern? "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

Am I? I think of Kyle, of the bills that keep coming despite the supposed insurance coverage, of the way he flinches when he thinks I'm not looking. Of fifteen years of debt I can never fully repay.

"I've been ready since I was eight years old," I lie.

But as I watch Damien Blake walk away, his broad shoulders rigid with tension, he stops at the door. Turns back. Those dark eyes find mine across the room, and for a moment, the carefully constructed mask slips.

"Aria." My name on his lips sounds different than it did fifteen years ago—rougher, hungrier. Like he's been starving for the taste of it. "I'll pick you up at seven tomorrow. For dinner."

It's not a question.

"That wasn't part of the contract," I manage, my voice barely steady.

Something dangerous flickers in his expression. He takes a step back toward me, and I feel my pulse spike. The lawyer has conveniently disappeared, leaving us alone in this room full of expensive furniture and expensive lies.

"A lot of things aren't in that contract," Damien says quietly, his voice dropping to something almost predatory. "But you're my wife now, in every way that matters. We're going to get to know each other... intimately."

The word hangs in the air between us, loaded with promise and threat. I should tell him to go to hell. Should remind him this is business, nothing more. But something about the way he's looking at me—like he wants to devour me whole—makes my mouth go dry.

"I'm not yours," I whisper, but the words lack conviction.

He moves closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough to count the gold flecks in his dark eyes. When he speaks, his breath ghosts across my ear, making me shiver.

"Aren't you?" His voice is silk over steel. "You signed the papers, Aria. You took my ring. You'll carry my child." His hand hovers just above my wrist, not quite touching, but the threat of contact makes my skin burn. "Tell me how you're not mine."

I can't. God help me, I can't form the words because some treacherous part of me is responding to the possessive heat in his voice, the way he says 'mine' like it's a prayer and a curse combined.

"Seven o'clock," he repeats, stepping back just enough that I can breathe again. "Wear something pretty. I have fifteen years of conversations to catch up on."

The contract lies on the table between us like a death sentence, and I realize with crystalline clarity that I've just sold my soul to the devil I know.

The only question now is whether I'll survive long enough to collect—or if I'll lose myself completely in the process.

The mirrors surrounded me like a hall of funhouse judges, reflecting a stranger from every angle. Her skin, pale and translucent as rice paper, was pulled taut over sharp cheekbones. The dark hollows beneath her eyes were a testament to sleepless nights, to a future that felt less like a dream and more like a sentence. The wedding dress—a pristine creation of ivory silk and French lace—hung on her frame like expensive armor. It was beautiful. It was cold. It was perfect for a transaction disguised as a sacrament.

"It's absolutely stunning on you, dear." The boutique assistant, Vivian, adjusted the bodice with hands that were too familiar, too possessive. "Mr. Blake certainly has exquisite taste." Her voice was a bright, professional hum.

I didn't respond, my gaze locked on the stranger in the central mirror. The neckline was lower than I’d ever choose, the silk hugging curves I’d always ignored. Every stitch seemed designed to transform me, to mold me into someone else's idea of a bride. A tremor ran through my hands. This was a costume. A very expensive costume for a play I was being forced to perform.

"The measurements were perfect," Vivian continued, circling me like a hawk. "He knew your exact size—height, bust, waist, hips. He said he’d been... observing you for some time." She laughed, a light, tinkling sound that grated on my nerves. "Men in love notice everything, don't they?"

My breath caught in my throat, a sharp, ragged sound. "He brought in measurements?" My voice was a ghost.

"Oh yes, last week. Knew everything down to your shoe size." Vivian’s smile was beatific. "Most grooms just guess, but Mr. Blake... he was very specific. Very thorough."

The air in the fitting room suddenly felt too thick to breathe. He’d been watching me. Studying my body. Planning this moment while I was still drowning in Kyle's fabricated medical bills, still believing I had choices. The walls, once a soothing cream, now felt like they were closing in on me, trapping me in a box of his design.

I fumbled for the tiny pearl buttons that ran up the back of the dress. "I need some air." My fingers clawed at them, each one feeling like a shackle being fastened.

"But we haven't finished the final adjustments—"

"It's fine. It's perfect." The words were clipped, sharp with desperation. "Just... box it up."

The buttons were impossibly small, a delicate line of them from the base of my spine to the nape of my neck, designed for someone else’s fingers. I couldn't get them. My hands trembled with the effort, the tremors sending a familiar phantom scent to my nostrils—antiseptic and fear. The smell of a white room, a place where everything hurt and nothing made sense.

*White sheets. White walls. The burn unit at Children’s Hospital. I was so small the bed seemed enormous, drowning in starched linens that smelled of industrial soap and despair. The bandages on my hands felt like casts. But someone had been there in the white room with me. Not Kyle—he was somewhere else, recovering from his supposed heroic injuries. Someone else. Someone who held my bandaged hand when the nightmares came.*

*"Who are you?" My voice, a weak whisper, rasped in the stillness. I tried to see the face that belonged to the gentle voice, but smoke damage had left my eyes watery and weak. All I could make out was a silhouette—dark hair, careful hands that never let go even when the nurses tried to make them leave. "Are you an angel?"*

*"I'll stay with you, little star," the voice had murmured against my hair, the words a promise more potent than any medicine. "You're safe. I promise you're safe now." The hands, warm and certain, guided my shaking, bandaged fingers over the bedsheet. "I'm not an angel. I'm just… someone who owes you everything."*

"Miss Chen? Are you quite all right?"

I was back in the fitting room, somehow dressed in my street clothes though I didn't remember changing. Vivian hovered at my elbow, her professionally trained concern making me feel exposed.

"Pre-wedding nerves," the lie slid off my tongue with practiced ease. "Just overwhelmed by how... beautiful it is."

She beamed, completely missing the hollowness in my voice. "Oh, I completely understand. It's such a momentous occasion. But don't you worry—Mr. Blake seems absolutely devoted. The way he spoke about you when he ordered the dress..." She sighed dreamily. "It's clear you mean the world to him."

Mean the world to him. The man who had supposedly tormented my teenage years just by existing, who reminded him daily of whatever twisted game we'd been trapped in since childhood. The irony felt like dust in my mouth.

I signed the receipt with numb fingers—another signature, another step toward the altar where I'd promise my life to a man whose motives I couldn't begin to understand. The pen felt heavy, final, like a brand.

Outside the boutique, the afternoon sun assaulted my senses, too bright and harsh after the muted elegance inside. I fumbled for my sunglasses, my hands still trembling from the phantom touch of those pearl buttons.

My phone buzzed against my palm. Kyle.

**Kyle:** *How was dress shopping, angel? I've been thinking about you all day. You'll be the most beautiful bride. ♥*

Angel. The endearment should warm me, but instead, it crawled across my skin like ice. There was a possessive air about the way he used pet names, like he was marking territory.

**Aria:** *It's just a dress.*

His response was immediate, as if he'd been waiting by his phone.

**Kyle:** *Nothing about you is 'just' anything, Aria. You're special. You've always been special to me. Tomorrow changes nothing between us. ♥*

I stared at the message, at the heart emoji that felt more like a brand than affection. Tomorrow changes nothing? What did that even mean? I was getting married, moving into another man's house, carrying another man's child. Everything changes.

**Aria:** *Everything changes, Kyle. That's the point.*

**Kyle:** *No, angel. The important things stay the same. You and me. What we've been through together. What you owe me. That's forever. ♥*

What I owe him. Even now, on the eve of my wedding to another man, he was reminding me of the debt that chained me to him. The debt I was supposedly paying off by selling my womb to Damien Blake.

I deleted the entire conversation and shoved my phone deep into my purse. The wedding dress waited in its pristine white garment bag, beautiful and perfect and designed to transform me into a bride. Tomorrow I'd put it on and walk down an aisle toward a man whose eyes held secrets I wasn't sure I wanted to uncover.

But tonight, I'd dream of gentle hands and a cracked voice whispering comfort in a white hospital room, and wonder why my heart recognized a melody my mind had forgotten.

The roses were white—bloodless, perfect, expensive. They filled the Blake family chapel with their cloying sweetness, a cloying scent that tried and failed to mask the scent of old wood and older money. I stood at the back of the small sanctuary, my hand heavy on Richard Blake's arm, and tried to pretend this was anything other than the most elaborate business transaction in history. The lace of my veil felt like a net, catching the air before it could reach my lungs.

"You look beautiful, dear." Richard's voice was gentle, paternal in a way that made my chest tight with an unexpected pang. His weathered hand covered mine where it rested on his sleeve, his grip warm and steady. "My son is a lucky man."

Lucky. The word tasted like a lie on his tongue. I almost laughed, but it would have come out bitter, and Richard Blake didn't deserve my bitterness. He had been nothing but kind since I signed the contract, treating me like a daughter-in-law instead of a temporary house guest.

"Thank you for walking me down the aisle," I said, my voice as steady and professional as a legal contract. "I know it means a lot to Damien."

Something flickered across Richard's weathered face—guilt? Regret? His grip on my hand tightened just slightly, and when he spoke, his voice was rougher than before. "Aria… if there's anything you need to know, anything at all..." He trailed off, looking toward the altar where his son waited. "Sometimes the past casts long shadows. Sometimes we think we're protecting people by keeping quiet, but all we're doing is letting them wander in the dark."

Before I could ask what he meant, the organ began to play. The slow, solemn notes of the processional hung in the air, and it was time. The sanctuary was small, intimate, filled with people I didn't know wearing expressions of polite joy. Damien's family, his friends, his business associates—all here to witness what they thought was a love story. The irony burned in my throat like bile.

At the front, Damien stood perfectly still in his black tuxedo, hands clasped behind his back. He looked less like a groom and more like a man facing a firing squad. When his eyes found mine, something passed between us—not love, not even affection, but a kind of grim, shared acknowledgment. We were both here under duress, just different kinds.

Eleanor Blake sat in the front pew, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. She had been nothing but warm to me, telling stories about Damien as a child, showing me photo albums filled with a boy who looked nothing like the cruel teenager I remembered. But grandmothers saw their grandchildren through rose-colored glasses. They didn't see the monsters their sweet boys could become.

Kyle sat three rows back, his presence a constant weight on my consciousness. He had insisted on coming despite the awkwardness, despite the way Damien’s jaw had tightened when I mentioned it.

*“I need to be there for you,” Kyle had said, gripping my hands with that familiar intensity. "After everything we've been through together... I can't let you face this alone."*

*Now he watched from his seat, his face a mask of supportive sorrow. He played the part of the devoted friend who was losing the woman he loved to necessity. It was a good performance. It always had been.*

The words of the ceremony washed over me like white noise, empty phrases for an empty ceremony. I responded when prompted, my voice clear and hollow. Damien's responses were equally mechanical, like we were both reading from a script neither of us had written.

"Do you, Damien Michael Blake, take Aria to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer..."

"I do." His voice was steady, but I caught the slight tremor underneath, a vibration in the air that only I seemed to feel. When he looked at me, there was something desperate in his eyes, like he was trying to tell me something he couldn't say aloud.

"Do you, Aria Rose Chen, take Damien to be your lawfully wedded husband..."

The words stuck in my throat, a dry lump of fear and resignation. This was it. The point of no return. I thought of Kyle's medical bills, of his pale face when he talked about his future, of fifteen years of guilt and obligation that had led me to this exact, terrifying moment.

*“Please don't leave me. Please don't go where I can't follow."*

*The voice, small and filled with a heartbreak that wasn't mine, echoed in my mind. The memory was a fragment, a glimpse of a different time, a different boy, a desperate plea I couldn’t place.*

I took a breath. "I do."

But as the words left my mouth, something else surfaced—a fragment of memory, sharp and sudden. A young voice, desperate and pleading: *"Please don't leave me. Please don't go where I can't follow."* The memory was gone before I could grasp it, leaving only the echo of heartbreak that wasn't mine.

The rings were platinum, simple, beautiful. Damien's hands shook slightly as he slid mine into place, his fingers gentle against my skin. For a moment, our eyes met, and I saw something raw and vulnerable in his dark gaze—the boy from my fragmented memory, the one who used to watch me with such longing it made my chest ache. But that boy was gone, replaced by the man who had made my teenage years a living hell.

"You may kiss the bride."

The moment stretched between us, loaded with years of history I didn't fully understand. Damien stepped closer, his hands framing my face with a surprising tenderness that made my skin prickle with recognition. His thumbs brushed across my cheekbones, and I caught my breath at the gentleness in his touch.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, so quietly only I could hear. "For all of it. I'm so fucking sorry, Aria."

Before I could process his words, his lips touched mine. The kiss was soft, careful, nothing like I expected. There was no possession in it, no claim of ownership. Just… sadness. Regret. And something else I couldn't name—something that tasted like longing and felt like coming home. My body responded before my mind could object, a warmth spreading through my chest that had nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with recognition. Like my soul knew something my brain refused to accept.

Applause filled the small chapel, and we broke apart. Damien's eyes searched mine for something—forgiveness? Understanding? But I had nothing to give him except confusion and the bitter taste of what might have been.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Blake." His voice was formal again, the brief moment of vulnerability locked away.

Mrs. Blake. The name felt foreign on my tongue, like trying on someone else's clothes. I wasn't Mrs. Blake—I was Aria Chen, Kyle Morrison's debt, a borrowed woman playing a role I never auditioned for.

___**__

The Wedding Reception

The reception was a blur of congratulations and champagne I didn't drink, of Richard's emotional toast and Eleanor's proud beaming. Kyle hovered at the edges, always within sight, his presence both comfort and reminder. When he pulled me aside during a quiet moment, his grip was firm, possessive.

"How are you holding up?" His voice was gentle, concerned, but his fingers dug into my wrist just a little too hard.

"I'm fine." The automatic response, the one that had kept me functional for years.

"You don't look fine. You look..." He studied my face with an intensity that made me uncomfortable. "You look like you're having second thoughts."

"It's done, Kyle. The contract is signed, the vows are said. There's no going back now."

"There's always a choice, Aria." His voice dropped, became urgent. "You know that, right? No matter what anyone tells you, no matter what you think you owe... there's always a choice."

But that's where he was wrong. There were no choices when you were drowning in debt, when every decision had been made for you by circumstances you couldn't control. There were only consequences and the people who paid them.

"I know what I'm doing," I lied.

Kyle's face softened, and he reached up to touch my cheek. "I just want you to be happy. You deserve that much. But remember—" His thumb traced along my jawline, too intimate for the setting. "No matter what happens, you're mine first. You always have been."

Before I could respond, a shadow fell over us. Damien stood behind me, close enough that I could feel his body heat, smell his cologne. When I turned, his face was a careful mask of politeness, but there was something sharp and dangerous in his dark eyes.

"Morrison." His voice was cordial, but there was an undercurrent of barely leashed violence.

"Blake." Kyle's response was equally false, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Congratulations. You're a lucky man."

"Yes," Damien said quietly, his hand settling possessively on the small of my back. "I am."

The two men stared at each other, and I felt caught between them like a bone between two dogs. There was history here, something I didn't understand, something that went beyond Kyle's obvious disapproval of this marriage.

"Well." Kyle's smile turned predatory. "I should let you get back to your wedding. Take care of her, Blake. She's... precious. And she knows where home really is."

The words hung in the air like a threat disguised as well wishes. Kyle squeezed my hand once more before disappearing back into the crowd, leaving me alone with my new husband and the bitter taste of possession on my lips.

"Everything okay?" Damien's voice was carefully neutral, but his hand was still warm against my back.

"Fine." I turned to face him, putting on the same polite mask he was wearing. "Just fine."

But nothing was fine. I was married to a man I barely knew, indebted to a man who owned pieces of my soul, and trapped between them both in a game I didn't understand the rules to. The wedding cake sat untouched on the table, white frosting roses that matched my bouquet. Beautiful. Perfect. Fake.

Just like everything else about this day.