MILA
The first thing my eyes land on when I open the contract are my mother's medical details, highlighted in pale red.
A wave of nausea seizes me. I scan through the medical clause, the terms and conditions. Every detail is precise, calculated. Visconti clearly spent months preparing this. Everything is organized meticulously: the legal language, the color-coded tabs, the Visconti Imperium watermark centered on each page.
"You'll transfer my mother to Riverside Medical Center?" My voice is barely a whisper.
Uncertainty buzzes in my mind. How did he even know about her condition? Only my father's inner circle knows this, and Damian Visconti has never been part of that world.
"If you comply with the terms of the contract, yes," he says, his voice dry and emotionless.
"Keep reading, Ms. Thorne. There's a lot to uncover."
I flip through the pages until I find it. Page 3. The Medical Clause.
"The Husband agrees to provide comprehensive medical care for Elena Thorne..." I pause, looking up at him.
He's still watching me, expression unreadable.
"You want me to marry you. In exchange for my mother's treatment."
"Yes."
One word. Direct. Final.
"You're insane," I say, staring at him.
He sets down his glass deliberately. A predator watching his prey.
I inhale sharply. A tightness squeezes my chest.
"I'm practical. Keep reading. Page twelve. The termination clause."
My fingers trace the edge of the document before flipping to page twelve. The details stop me cold. My face goes pale.
"If I violate any term, funding stops immediately," I whisper, my voice breaking under the weight of his predatory presence.
The rumors about him were true. Damian Visconti breathes nothing but chaos. His heart must be colder than ice.
"Correct." He angles his head slightly, studying me.
Despite everything, I can't help but notice how perfectly his tailored three-piece suit fits, charcoal gray with a crisp white shirt beneath. His dark hair is impeccably styled, not a strand out of place. His facial features are well defined. Sharp brows, deep-set eyes, a strong jaw.
It should be illegal for someone this cruel to be this handsome.
I blink, snapping out of it.
Right now, I'm sitting across from the devil himself, discussing something I never imagined in a million years. The contract feels like a gateway to hell. But my mother... could this be a twisted blessing? What do I really have to lose if I marry him for six months?
I flip back through the previous pages, stopping at the terms and conditions.
Terms & Conditions:
Duration: Six (6) months
Wife will reside at Husband's primary residence
Wife will attend all public functions as required
Separate bedrooms permitted
No physical intimacy required unless mutually agreed
My palms grow clammy. I rub them against my dress, the contract blurring in front of me.
"This is blackmail," I say, shutting the contract. "I can't agree to this."
"No, Ms. Thorne." He leans forward. "This is business. A mutually beneficial arrangement. There's a difference."
I clench the armrest, my hands trembling. My heart starts to pound inside my chest.
Mutually beneficial. How does this even benefit him?
As if sensing my thoughts, Damian answers, his words clipped and methodical.
"I need a wife for social appearances," he says by way of explanation.
I scoff. Of course he'd want one solely for social appearances. He probably thought I'd be an easy target. Desperate enough to agree to anything.
I clench the armrest tighter.
"How did you know?"
He raises an eyebrow.
"My mother's condition. How did you know?"
He smirks, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes.
"I have my ways."
"You've been spying on me?"
"That's a strong accusation, Ms. Thorne." He leans back and folds his arms over his chest, almost as if he's enjoying the show.
"My address. My phone number. What else do you know about me?"
"Everything I need to."
I sigh, rising to my feet. The chair slides back against the polished marble floor with a screech. My fingers move quickly as I gather my portfolio.
Visconti must be insane if he thinks I'd ever agree to this.
What does he think I am? An investment? A tool? A means to an end?
My jaw clenches.
"This is where I take my leave, Mr. Visconti," I say.
"Sit, Ms. Thorne." The command is quiet, almost casual, but there's steel beneath it.
I ignore him. My heels click sharply against the marble as I turn toward the door. City lights reflect off the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting patterns on the tiles ahead.
"Seventy-two hours," he says.
I stop.
"Echelon won't wait. The ball is in your court, Mila. You can accept my proposal and save your mother, or you can watch them transfer her to a state facility where she'll receive minimal care until she dies."
His words hit like a physical blow. My chest tightens, heavy as stone.
I turn, taking in his cold, controlled presence one last time.
He isn't even looking at me. Instead, he's pouring water into his glass, movements calm and deliberate.
"This is practical, Ms. Thorne. You need money. I need a wife." He leans back in his chair, swirling the water in his glass.
"That's not possible." I shake my head. "Echelon wouldn't throw my mother out in seventy-two hours. I'll find the money somehow. Everything will work out."
He laughs. Cold. Brutal. Mocking.
"Delusional, Ms. Thorne."
He rises to his feet and walks toward me. Stops just close enough that I can smell his cologne, woodsy, expensive, overwhelming.
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a card, extending it to me.
"In case you no longer have my number. Call me when you're ready to save your mother. The clock is ticking, Ms. Thorne."
I stare at the card in my hand, but words won't come.
"Marcus will see you out. Goodnight, Mila."
Mila. Not Ms. Thorne.
The sound of my name on his lips sends a chill down my spine.
On cue, Marcus appears as Mr. Visconti strolls away, his steps brisk and purposeful.
"I'll drive you home, Ms. Thorne," Marcus says, his warm voice cutting through my daze.
I nod, following him in silence.
We take the elevator down and walk through the corridor. The monochromatic design of Mr. Visconti's penthouse reflects exactly who he is: cold, controlled, lifeless.
My head starts to hurt. There's nothing homely about this place. If anything, walking through Visconti's penthouse feels almost like crossing purgatory to reach hell.
Outside, Marcus opens the car door for me. I offer him a small smile.
Does he know what kind of boss he works for? How ruthless and calculating Damian really is?
I'm tempted to ask if he overheard our conversation, but I don't.
The drive home is silent. I watch the city pass by: buildings, streetlights, winding roads. Rain starts falling as we get closer to my apartment.
My phone vibrates in my purse. I pull it out.
Three missed calls from Dr. Lucien.
My heart pounds.
Please. Please let her be okay.
I dial Dr. Lucien's number with shaking hands. It rings once, then goes to voicemail.
I check my messages. Dr. Lucien always leaves a message if he can't reach me.
In the pile of unread messages, I see it. My world stops as I click on it.
"The board has decided to move your mother to a state hospital in 72 hours. I'm sorry, Mila."
I press my hand to my chest, struggling to breathe.
Breathe, Mila. Breathe.
"Is everything okay, Ms. Thorne?" Marcus's voice cuts through my panic.
My eyes fly open. The car has stopped. We're in front of my building.
Marcus is watching me in the rearview mirror. Before I can stop myself, the words spill out.
"What do I stand to lose if I sign?" Tears blur my vision.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Your boss. The contract. You must have overheard everything."
"No, Ms. Thorne. I didn't."
I study his eyes in the rearview mirror. He doesn't strike me as someone who would lie about such matters. But even if he did, it wouldn't matter. He works for Visconti, after all.
I sigh, looking down at my fingers.
Marcus clears his throat.
"Your apartment," he reminds me, before stepping out of the driver's seat.
When he opens my door, he's already holding an umbrella. I step out into the rain.
How did Visconti know about the seventy-two-hour deadline?
Is he working with my father?
I shake off the thought immediately. No. My father doesn't associate with new-money billionaires like Damian.
For a moment, I consider pulling out his card and calling him right now. But I can't. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me break this quickly.
If there's anyone I'd need to speak to, it would be Dan Kane, owner of Echelon Medical Center. If anyone can give me more time, it's him.
Marcus escorts me to the building entrance, then returns to the car.
Rain pounds the pavement. Cold air hits my face.
I climb the four flights to my apartment. Thoughts of the contract and Damian's business card fill my mind.
Six months. A contract marriage.
My mother's medical bills.
I pick his card from my purse, staring at it.
Seventy-two hours. That's all I have left. I have to find another way. And I have to find it fast. Visconti's help might be enticing, but I know businessmen like him well enough. He has something up his sleeve. Whatever that is, I know as much that I never want to be a part of it. The marriage will not happen. Never. I dig out my key from my bag.
Dan Kane, please be my lifeline," I whisper, stepping into my apartment.