It happened on a Wednesday.
There was no warning. No flowers. No glimmer of romance.
Just a conversation that started with a contract and ended with a sentence that would alter the entire course of my life.
Richard had called me into his office—his real office this time. The one no one entered unless their job was about to change permanently.
The space was colder than I'd imagined. Sleek, minimal, everything in black and gray. No personal photos. No clutter. Just precision and silence.
He sat behind the desk, fingers interlocked, face unreadable.
"I've reviewed your quarterly performance," he said.
I nodded. "Of course. If there's anything I need to improve—"
"I'm offering you something else."
I blinked.
He stood, walked over to the large window behind him. His silhouette was dark against the city skyline.
"You're competent. Efficient. Reliable. You don't play office politics, and you keep your personal life separate."
He turned toward me.
"That's what I need in a wife."
At first, I thought I'd misheard him.
But the room didn't laugh. The moment didn't break. The silence only deepened.
"You're… joking?" I said, voice tight.
"No," he replied simply. "I don't joke."
My hands were cold. I stared at him, stunned. "You're asking me to… marry you?"
"I'm offering you a contract," he corrected. "Marriage is the structure. The benefits are mutual. You'll have financial security. I'll have a spouse on paper, which satisfies certain family and board requirements. There's no obligation of affection or intimacy."
His voice was clinical, like he was listing investment assets.
"Why me?" I asked.
"Because you're the only person I've met who doesn't try to impress me. Who doesn't want something I can't give. And because I know you're too smart to confuse this with a fairy tale."
I should've walked out.
I should've been angry.
But instead—I thought of the bills I couldn't pay. The job I was barely holding onto. The aunt who depended on me. The apartment that never felt like home.
And the years I'd spent scraping by, invisible and exhausted.
"What happens if I say no?" I asked quietly.
"Nothing," he said. "You'll keep your job. I won't hold it against you."
"And if I say yes?"
"You'll move into my estate. You'll sign a prenup. We'll attend a few public events together. And otherwise… you'll live your life."
He paused.
"I won't interfere with that."
I didn't answer that night.
I took the elevator down like a ghost. I walked through the streets like a shadow.
And when I finally opened the door to the apartment, Aunt Ramila was waiting.
"You're late again," she snapped. "What, they working you to death?"
I didn't answer.
She followed me into the kitchen. "I saw your phone buzz earlier. Another work thing? What, are you married to your company now?"
The irony hit me like a slap.
I turned, slow and quiet. "Would that be so bad?"
She scoffed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
I didn't respond.
I just walked to my room, shut the door, and stood there for a long time—staring at nothing.
By morning, I'd made my decision.
I returned to Richard's office at 8:01 a.m., heart in my throat.
He looked up from his screen, expression unchanged.
"I accept," I said.
He didn't ask me to sit. Didn't smile. Just nodded once.
"I'll have legal send the paperwork. The ceremony will be small. Private."
"That's it?" I asked.
His eyes flicked to mine. "Would you like more?"
I hesitated. "No."
"Good."
We were married three weeks later.
No guests. No vows. Just a judge, two signatures, and a quiet drive back to a house far too large for two people who barely knew each other
And when I stepped into the Calein estate for the first time, it felt less like a home…
And more like a deal I'd signed with my own silence.