Chapter 8
Elara woke up at 6 AM to her phone alarm blaring.
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She went through her morning routine on autopilot. Shower. Brush teeth. Stare at her reflection and wonder when everything had gone so wrong. Her cheek still hurt from where Luca had slapped her, a faint bruise forming near her jawline that concealer barely covered.
Was this the right choice?
The question had kept her up most of the night. Marrying Marcus Thorne for money. Two years of her life signed away in a contract. It felt wrong. Desperate. Like something her father would do.
But what other option did she have?
She pulled on her usual work clothes. Black slacks, white blouse, blazer. Professional. Put together. The kind of outfit that
said she had her life under control even when she absolutely didn’t.
It was 8:47 AM. She had thirteen minutes to get to the office.
Elara grabbed her bag and coffee thermos, rushing out the door. She made it three steps down the hallway before she saw
him.
Victor was leaning against the stairwell wall, arms crossed.
“Jesus Christ.” Her heart slammed against her ribs. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for your father.” Victor pushed off the wall. “Luca hasn’t shown his face at the casino in two weeks. Man owes me more than just your family debt.”
The casino. Right. That’s where Luca spent most of his time when he wasn’t passed out drunk somewhere. Victor owned half the underground gambling dens in the city, and word on the street was he dealt drugs on the side. Mafia connections too, though no one was stupid enough to say that out loud.
“I don’t know where he is.”
“Your twenty–four hours are almost up, Elara. House goes to collateral by noon if I don’t see payment.”
“He stole my money yesterday.” The words came out bitter. “Three thousand dollars. Everything I’d saved. So if you’re looking for Luca, you should ask him what he did with it.”
Victor’s expression didn’t change. “You’re telling me your father robbed you?”
“Yes,”
“And you expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t care what you believe.” Elara stepped past him, heading for the stairs. “I have somewhere to be.”
“Noon, Elara. Don’t forget.”
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She didn’t look back.
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The morning air was cold, biting through her blazer as she walked toward the subway station. Her mind was already
racing ahead to the meeting with Marcus. The contract. The money. Two years.
Two boys were fighting on the sidewalk ahead, shoving each other while their mothers yelled at them to stop. Elara tried to walk around them, but one of the kids stumbled backward, crashing into her.
Her coffee thermos flew out of her hand.
Hot liquid splashed across her white blouse, soaking through the fabric instantly. The thermos clattered to the ground, rolling into the gutter.
“I’m sorry!” The kid looked terrified. “I didn’t mean to!”
Elara stood there, staring down at the brown stain spreading across her chest. Of course. Of course this would happen today.
“It’s fine.” Her voice came out flat. “Just go.”
The kid ran off before she could say anything else.
She turned around and headed back to her apartment. There was no way she could show up to sign a marriage contract
looking like she’d been in a food fight. She needed to change.
Her apartment was still a mess from last night. Drawers half–closed, clothes scattered. And when she opened her closet, the reality hit her.
She hadn’t done laundry in two weeks.
Every work blouse was dirty. Every pair of dress pants had coffee stains or needed ironing. She’d been too busy with hospital visits and late nights at the office to care about laundry.
Elara grabbed the only clean things she could find. A pair of jeans. An old grey sweater that had seen better days, the sleeves stretched out and the collar slightly frayed.
This would have to do.
She left immediately, practically running to the subway station. The train was packed. Bodies pressed against her from all sides, the smell of sweat and morning breath making her nauseous. And then, because the universe apparently hated her,
they hit traffic.
The train sat in the tunnel for fifteen minutes. No explanation. No announcement. Just stopped between stations while
Elara watched the clock on her phone tick forward.
One obstacle after another. Like something was trying to prevent her from making this terrible decision.
By the time she reached Thorne Dynamics, it was 9:32 AM.
Thirty–two minutes late.
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Elara didn’t stop at her office. Just went straight to the elevator, pressed the button for the top floor, and tried to ignore
the way her hands were shaking.
The elevator doors opened.
Marcus’s office door was closed. She knocked once, then pushed it open without waiting for a response.
Marcus was standing by the window, hands in his pockets. But he wasn’t alone.
Another man sat in one of the leather chairs, legs crossed, looking entirely too comfortable. He was around Marcus’s age,
maybe a year or two older, with sharp features and an expression that suggested he found most things amusing.
Both of them turned to look at her.
Marcus’s eyes swept over her outfit. The jeans. The old sweater. The complete lack of professionalism. His jaw tightened.
“You’re late.”
“Traffic.” Elara stepped inside, closing the door behind her. “The subway stopped.”
The other man grinned. “And the coffee shop exploded?”
She looked down at herself. Right. She’d forgotten about the faint brown stain still visible on the sweater. “Long morning.”
“This is Dante,” Marcus said. “My lawyer. He’ll be handling the contract.”
Dante gave her a small wave. “Nice to meet you, Elara. I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you, which in Marcus’s world means you’re either very important or very temporary.”
“Dante.”
“Right. Being serious now.” Dante pulled out a folder from his briefcase. “So. Marriage contract. Two years. One million dollars. Pretty straightforward, but there are clauses.”
Marcus walked closer to her. Too close. She could smell his cologne. The same scent from the fire exit. It made her
stomach twist.
“You move in this week,” he said. “My penthouse. We’ll be seen together in public. Attend events. Play the part of a married couple.”
“And if people find out it’s fake?”
“Then the deal is over.” His voice was cold. Final. “No one can know this is a contract. Not your family. Not your friends. No
one.”
“Wow,” Dante said. “So romantic. I’m tearing up over here.”
Marcus ignored him. “Do you understand?”
Elara looked up at him. This close, she could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his dark eyes studied her like she was a problem he needed to solve. It was unfair how someone this annoying could be this attractive. Sharp jawline. Broad
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shoulders. The kind of face that belonged on magazine covers, not in boardrooms making people’s lives miserable.
She hated that she noticed.
“understand.”
“Good.” Marcus stepped back. “Dante will go over the details. You’ll sign today. The first payment will be transferred to your account by tomorrow morning.”
Dante slid the contract across the table. “It’s all standard stuff. Duration, financial terms, public appearance requirements, confidentiality clauses. You’ll attend charity galas, business dinners, the occasional family event. Basically, you smile, look pretty, and pretend you’re madly in love with this emotionless robot.”
“I’m right here,” Marcus said.
“I know. It’s more fun this way.”
Elara picked up the contract. The pages felt heavy in her hands. Two years of her life reduced to legal terms and conditions.
Half a million upfront. The rest at the end.
She thought about her mother in that hospital bed. About Leo trying to afford textbooks. About Victor and his twenty–four hour deadline.
She picked up the pen.
She signed her name at the bottom.
Marcus took the contract, his fingers brushing hers for just a second. “Welcome to the family, Mrs. Thorne.”
The words felt like a prison sentence.
Elara left the office twenty minutes later, contract signed, her life officially sold. She walked through the lobby in a daze, past Emeka who tried to ask her something she didn’t hear, into the bathroom where she locked herself in a stall.
Was she really doing this just for her mother?
Or was there something else? Something she hadn’t admitted to herself yet?
The memory of the fire exit flashed through her mind. His hands. His mouth. The way he’d looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered.
Mo
This was about the money. About survival. Nothing else.
She repeated it to herself until it almost felt true.
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Chapter 9
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