Carrie.
I looked at him, suspicion swirling in my chest. This, all of this, sounded far too good to be true. A man like him—rich, powerful, and devastatingly handsome—could have any woman he wanted with the snap of his fingers. The fact that he was sitting across from me, proposing marriage, felt unreal. Why me?
I waited, studying him, hoping he would finally break down the terms of the contract. But the way he hesitated, how he kept choosing his words like he was trying not to startle me, made something in me tighten. It was almost like he was dancing around something… something that would change everything.
Still, I reminded myself, I would do anything for Peter. If this man could give my brother a fighting chance, surgery, aftercare, everything, then what was a little freedom to sacrifice? It's not like I had much of it to begin with. And love? Romance? That had always been a dream too far for someone like me. I'd never even had a real relationship. No one would be hurt by my decision, no one, except maybe me.
I sat down on the edge of the bed, fatigue catching up to me like a weight on my shoulders. "What exactly is in the contract?" I asked again, my voice quieter now, a mixture of exhaustion and growing uncertainty.
"Nothing much," he replied, lowering himself into a chair across the room, deliberately far from me, like even the air between us was something he didn't want to share, like he did not want me touching him.
Not like I had any intention of touching him.
He leaned back, his expression unreadable. "You'd be supporting my public and professional image. That's it. Your character would need to be above question. You'd have to maintain a clean, respectable presence, especially around the press. No scandals, no surprises."
I nodded slowly; that was easy, but then he continued, and the words caught me off guard.
"If you take a lover," he said smoothly, as though it were just another line in a legal document, "he would have to sign a non-disclosure agreement. And any such relationship must happen discreetly, under my roof. I live in a penthouse, large enough that we may not even see each other unless absolutely necessary."
I blinked. "Take a lover?" I repeated, trying to keep my voice steady. It wasn't quite a question, not quite a statement, more of a stunned echo, and the way I said it, I made sure he wouldn't doubt it was a question.
"Yes," he said, entirely unfazed, like it was normal for married couples to keep lovers. "Of course. You'll be free to seek companionship if that's what you want. I have no intention of interfering with your personal life. But everything must remain discreet and controlled. For appearances. I don't want to be known as the man who was cuckolded."
I stared at him, trying to piece together what kind of man this was. Then I saw it, a flicker in his expression. His lips curled slightly, his eyes glinting with amusement. That smug, amused look.
"What?" I snapped, the heat rising in my cheeks, though I couldn't say if it was from anger or embarrassment.
"Were you expecting we'd sleep together?" he asked, a small chuckle escaping his lips. "You thought that would be a part of the arrangement?"
I clenched my jaw. If he dared to laugh out loud, I'd hurl something at his perfectly sculpted head. How could someone be so arrogant? "Why, then?" I demanded, my voice low, confused. "Why would you want to marry me if not for sex?"
His smirk faded, replaced by a matter-of-fact calm. "Business. That's all. This marriage is strategic. You help stabilize my reputation, and I help stabilize your brother's health."
My thoughts swirled in chaos. I had asked myself this before, but the words escaped my mouth before I could stop them. "Why me?" It was the question I hadn't wanted to ask because I was afraid of the answer, because it wasn't like I had one power or a reputation that was so good that it would automatically rub off on him; no one knows me, and I do not even have a good job.
The truth was, even if this arrangement was cold and transactional, I didn't see how I could refuse it. If he had said he wanted my body, I would've given it, no hesitation. But the fact that he didn't… that unsettled me more than I cared to admit.
What kind of man marries a woman he doesn't want to touch?
That question echoed in my head, bouncing around with the kind of sharp confusion that makes it hard to breathe. My whole life had been a series of things I never had, never could want, never dared to dream of. And now, suddenly, I was being offered everything: money, security, and comfort for the cost of pretending to love a man who didn't even want me.
It didn't make sense.
Men like him, they wanted models, heiresses, women with charm and polish and a thousand-dollar wardrobe. Not hotel maids who scrubbed toilets and hummed to keep themselves from crying. He wasn't wrong, though; my life was a mess. I was no one important. Just another girl fighting to keep her brother alive.
And maybe that's why he chose me.
Because he knew I'd say yes. Because he could see desperation painted on me like a second skin.
Would I still say yes if I weren't desperate?
Maybe not.
But I was. I was so desperate it hurt to admit it. Peter had no one else. I was his sister, his family, his caretaker, and his hope. The doctors said time was running out. And here this man was, offering not just the money for the surgery but the best care, a better hospital, post-surgery therapy, and even a private nurse.
If I said no, Peter might not make it. If I said yes, I'd lose whatever little freedom I had left.
But truth be told, I never really had any.
There was no boyfriend to hurt, no dream life waiting for me outside this hotel. Just long shifts, aching feet, sleepless nights, and a constant knot of worry in my chest. The only thing that had kept me going was the sound of Peter's laugh, the way he grinned even in pain, like he believed we'd be okay.
I had to make sure he was okay.
So what if this man didn't want my body? Maybe that was a blessing in disguise. At least it wouldn't be another wound to nurse in private. Still… something about the way he smiled, that arrogant glint in his eye, stirred something deep inside me. Annoyance. Curiosity. Maybe even a little fear. What exactly was I getting myself into?
But no matter how I twisted it, the answer always came out the same.
I had no choice.
I'll marry him.
Even if it costs me my pride. My comfort. My peace.
Because Peter's life was worth far more than all of that.
And then another thought hit me, unbidden, wild. Could he be… gay? And if he was gay, who cared? Not me. I wasn't here for love. I was here for Peter.
But then, what if he really is gay?
My eyes widened, betraying the storm of questions in my head.
He noticed. Of course, he noticed everything. He noticed the way my eyes widened, because why then did he reply to me with, "I am not gay." I almost denied that I did not have such thoughts.
He looked at me with an unreadable expression, but somehow, it felt like he could see straight through me, like every unspoken thought was laid bare in front of him. Then he said it again. Calmly. Casually. Like it wasn't the verbal equivalent of a slap to the face.
"I'm not gay. And the reason I think you'd be perfect for the position of my wife is because we're not attracted to each other; at least, I'm certain I'm not attracted to you," he said with a smirk on his face.
Ouch.