Emily Carter learned very early in life that silence was safer than questions.

Silence didn’t anger people. Silence didn’t remind them that she existed.

She stood at the sink in the small Brooklyn apartment, washing dishes that weren’t hers, listening to the muffled sound of her uncle’s voice drifting from the living room. The television was on, some financial news channel, the anchor’s voice sharp and urgent.

“…markets reacting to Blackwood International’s latest acquisition—”

Emily flinched slightly at the name, though she didn’t know why. She dried her hands on her jeans and turned down the faucet, her heart beating a little faster for no clear reason.

“Emily,” her aunt called.

Her voice was flat. Controlled.

Emily wiped her hands again, even though they were already dry, and walked into the living room.

The apartment felt smaller than usual. The air was heavy, as if something invisible was pressing down on her chest.

“Yes, Aunt Linda?” she asked softly.

Her uncle, Richard, sat on the armchair with his phone in hand. He didn’t look at her. He hadn’t looked at her properly in years. Linda stood near the window, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“Sit,” Linda said.

Emily obeyed.

She sat on the edge of the couch, knees together, shoulders slightly hunched. She had learned how to sit like that—small, careful, unnoticeable.

Richard finally spoke. “Do you know how much debt I’m in?”

Emily blinked. “I… I didn’t know you were in debt.”

Linda let out a short laugh. “Of course she didn’t. She’s always in her own little world. School. Books. That useless café job.”

Emily’s fingers curled into her palms. “I help with rent,” she said quietly.

Richard waved a hand. “Spare change.”

Emily went silent again.

Richard stood up and began pacing. “Two million dollars,” he said. “That’s how much I owe.”

Emily’s breath caught. Two million was more money than she could even imagine.

“Who… who do you owe?” she asked.

“The wrong people,” Linda answered. “And they don’t like waiting.”

Fear crept into Emily’s chest, cold and sharp. “What does that have to do with me?”

Richard stopped pacing.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Linda said the word that changed everything.

“You’re getting married.”

Emily stared at her. “Married?”

The room spun slightly. “I—I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to,” Linda snapped. “You just need to cooperate.”

Emily stood up abruptly. “No. I can’t. I’m in college. I don’t even—who is it?”

Richard exhaled slowly, as if already tired of her reaction. “Alexander Blackwood.”

The name hit her like ice water.

Emily had heard it before—everyone had. Alexander Blackwood was everywhere. News headlines. Business magazines. Social media clips showing a tall, expressionless man walking through crowds of executives like a king among servants.

The youngest billionaire CEO on Wall Street.

Cold. Untouchable. Dangerous.

Her legs felt weak. “Why would someone like him want to marry me?”

“Because he doesn’t want you,” Richard said bluntly. “He wants a wife.”

Linda nodded. “A clean one. No scandals. No past. No demands.”

Emily shook her head, tears burning her eyes. “You’re talking about me like I’m an object.”

Richard’s eyes hardened. “You are, in this situation.”

Her heart cracked.

“You’ll be married for six months,” Linda continued. “A contract marriage. After that, you’re free.”

“And if I say no?” Emily whispered.

Richard looked at her then. Truly looked at her.

“Then we lose the apartment. I go to jail. And you?” He shrugged. “Good luck surviving on your own.”

Emily’s throat closed.

She thought of her parents—their smiles, their voices, the way her mother used to brush her hair before bed. They were gone. Had been gone for ten years. Since then, this apartment, this family, had been all she had.

Even if they never loved her.

Tears slid down her cheeks. “When?”

“Tomorrow,” Linda said.

Emily gasped. “Tomorrow?”

“Blackwood Tower. Nine a.m. Be presentable.”

Emily felt numb.

She barely remembered walking back to her room. Barely remembered closing the door and sitting on her bed, staring at the cracked wall across from her.

Her phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

Her hands trembled as she opened the message.

> This arrangement has been approved.

Be on time tomorrow.

— Alexander Blackwood

There was no greeting. No explanation.

Just a command.

Emily hugged her knees to her chest as sobs finally broke free.

She didn’t sleep that night.

---

The next morning, New York felt louder than usual.

The city roared around her as a black luxury car pulled up in front of the towering glass building that pierced the sky—Blackwood Tower.

Emily stepped out slowly, her borrowed dress clinging to her thin frame. It was pale blue, too elegant for her, making her feel like a child playing pretend.

Inside, everything was marble and glass and silence.

A woman in a sharp suit approached her. “Emily Carter?”

“Yes.”

“Follow me.”

They rode the elevator in silence. Emily’s reflection stared back at her in the mirrored walls—wide eyes, pale face, fear written all over her.

The elevator doors opened.

“Wait here,” the assistant said, gesturing to a leather couch. “Mr. Blackwood will see you shortly.”

Emily sat.

Minutes passed.

Then the doors to the office opened.

And Alexander Blackwood walked in.

He was taller than she expected. Broad-shouldered. Impeccably dressed in a dark suit that looked like it had never known a wrinkle. His face was sharp, handsome in a way that felt dangerous, his eyes dark and unreadable.

He looked at her.

Not with curiosity.

With assessment.

Like she was a product.

“You’re late,” he said.

Emily flinched. “I—I’m sorry. The traffic—”

“I don’t care.”

Her voice died in her throat.

He walked to his desk and sat, steepling his fingers. “Sit.”

She did.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Good.” He slid a folder across the desk. “Sign.”

Emily stared at the papers. “Can I read it?”

His eyebrow lifted slightly. “You can try.”

Her hands shook as she flipped through the pages. Legal words blurred together. The message was clear enough.

Marriage. Six months. Absolute discretion.

No emotional expectations.

No refusal.

Her signature would change her life.

She looked up at him, tears in her eyes. “Do I have a choice?”

Alexander Blackwood met her gaze.

“No.”

Her heart shattered.

Slowly, she signed her name.

The pen felt heavier than anything she had ever held.

“Good,” he said, standing. “Welcome to your new life, Mrs. Blackwood.”

Emily Carter realized, in that moment, that innocence did not protect you from cruelty.

It only made you easier to own.