I didn't remember much of the ride home. The city passed by in smeared lights and blurred voices, but all I heard was the echo of Damien Hale's voice repeating in my head: "My conditions are final."
The moment I stepped into our modest apartment, the warmth of familiar space wrapped around me. The scent of ginger tea drifted from the kitchen, and for a second, I almost forgot what I had just done.
"Zara? You're home?" my father called, voice weak but hopeful.
He lay on the sofa, wrapped in a faded blanket, looking older than his fifty-two years. His illness had shrunk him, made him smaller in the world. When I approached, he reached for my hand.
"Well? Did anything happen at the meeting?"
I forced a steady breath. "The debt… it's going to be handled. You don't have to worry anymore."
He exhaled shakily, relief washing over his features. "Thank God. I knew you could fix this. You always have a way, Zara."
His faith in me was a knife twisting in my chest.
He didn't ask how. He didn't ask why. He didn't ask what it had cost me.
Maybe he already knew. Maybe he just didn't want to.
I sat with him a while longer, talking about nothing important: dinner, the weather, an old comedy show on TV. I smiled when required, laughed once or twice, but my heart remained in that glass-walled office with Damien Hale.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I opened the message.
Miss Hayes, this is Daniel Royce, personal assistant to Mr. Hale. Your wedding dress fitting is confirmed for tomorrow at 12:00 PM at Maison du Étoile. Transportation will be provided.
A wedding dress.
I stared at those words until they blurred.
A year ago, if someone said I'd be trying on wedding gowns, I would've imagined love, nerves, romance. Not embroidery stitched onto a contract.
"Is everything alright?" my father asked, noticing my silence.
"It's just… preparations," I replied, opting for vagueness.
He nodded, completely unaware of the weight of the word.
Marriage.
I excused myself and went to my room. The moment the door closed, my composure cracked. I slid down against the wall and buried my face in my hands.
I wasn't a child. I wasn't naive. I had signed willingly.
Yet it felt like drowning.
I wiped my eyes, inhaled, exhaled, and forced myself to stand. Tomorrow I would be measured, fitted, polished, and displayed as Damien Hale's bride. A business asset in white lace.
Before I went to bed, I opened the contract one more time and reread the section Damien had emphasized:
"No emotional or romantic expectations between parties. The marriage shall remain strictly contractual and publicly presentational."
I closed it quietly.
And I wondered how long I could live beside a man like Damien Hale without losing pieces of myself.