"No physical contact unless required in public. No emotional attachment. No questions about my personal life."
Alexander Knight's voice echoed in the high-ceilinged room like a courtroom verdict. He stood near the fireplace, not even looking at me as he spoke. To him, this wasn't a marriage. It was a merger.
I sat on the edge of a leather couch, hands folded tightly in my lap. Every part of me screamed to run. But running wouldn't save my brother.
"You'll move into my penthouse next week," he continued. "A stylist will be sent to prepare you for public events. You will act like the perfect wife. I don't care what you do when we're behind closed doors—as long as you show up beside me when needed."
I blinked slowly. "You're talking like I'm a prop."
He finally looked at me. His eyes were like steel—polished but unyielding.
"Because you are."
I swallowed hard, but didn't flinch. He wanted to provoke me. I wouldn't give him that.
"And what do I get, exactly?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Not warmth. Amusement.
"Five million dollars. Full payment once the divorce is finalized in twelve months. And your brother's surgery begins the day you sign the contract."
"And if I back out?"
"Then your brother dies. And you owe me the legal fee for wasting my time."
The air around us froze. It wasn't just cold—this man weaponized silence like a sword.
I stood up slowly, holding his gaze. "Why are you so angry at the world?"
"I'm not angry. I'm focused. There's a difference."
I shook my head. "There's a story behind this. Men don't wake up one day and decide marriage should come with rules like a business manual."
"And yet here we are."
He turned away, dismissing me like a file he was done reading.
"The car will pick you up at noon tomorrow. Be ready. Or don't."
I hated him. Not because he was cruel. But because he made me feel small for needing help.
I walked out without another word.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I stared at the ceiling of my tiny apartment, replaying every word of that conversation. My phone buzzed. A message from the hospital.
"Patient: David Pierce. Surgery approval pending. Sponsor: Alexander Knight Group."
I read the message twice.
It was real. He'd already put things in motion.
My brother didn't even know I was about to sell my freedom for his life.
I stood and walked to the mirror. My reflection looked back — tired, scared, and entirely too young for this kind of decision.
"One year," I whispered. "Twelve months. Then I walk away."
But deep down, a voice whispered:
You don't walk away from fire without getting burned.