Mia throws up twice before leaving her apartment.
Morning sickness, stress, or sheer terror—she can't tell which. Maybe all three. She stares at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, pale and hollow-eyed, and tries to convince herself this isn't the worst decision of her life.
She's about to sign a contract marrying a man she's slept with once.
"You can do this," she tells her reflection. "You've survived worse."
Has she, though?
Sophie arrives at nine with coffee—decaf, because she remembered—and a pep talk.
"You look like you're going to a funeral, not a contract signing," Sophie says, eyeing Mia's outfit. Black jeans, a gray sweater, her only decent boots. "Do you want to borrow something?"
"I'm not dressing up to sign away two years of my life."
"You're not signing away anything. You're signing up for security and a chance at something good." Sophie squeezes her shoulder. "But if you're having second thoughts, we can leave right now. You don't owe him anything."
Mia touches her stomach—a habit she's developing. Thirteen weeks now. Soon she'll start showing.
"I'm not having second thoughts. I'm having thousandth thoughts." She grabs her coat. "But I'm going. For the baby."
"For you too," Sophie corrects. "You're allowed to want this for yourself."
Maybe. But wanting things has never worked out well for Mia.
---
Alexander's lawyer's office is everything Mia expected and worse.
Fifty-third floor of a midtown tower. Reception area with furniture that costs more than her annual income. Walls lined with degrees and awards and oil paintings of stern men who probably crushed small businesses for breakfast. The receptionist—immaculate in Prada—looks at Mia like she tracked mud on the Persian rug.
"Mia Chen," Mia says. "I'm here to see—"
"Ms. Chen. Of course." The woman's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Mr. Kane is waiting in Conference Room A. This way."
She's led down a hallway that feels like walking to her execution. Through glass walls, Mia sees lawyers in expensive suits, assistants carrying files, the machinery of wealth grinding away. This is Alexander's world. These are his people.
She doesn't belong here.
The conference room is all dark wood and leather chairs. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook Manhattan. And at the head of a table that could seat twenty, Alexander sits with an older man in a three-piece suit.
Alexander stands when Mia enters. He's in full CEO mode—charcoal suit, white shirt, no tie. Hair perfectly styled. The man from the wedding, from that night, has disappeared behind this polished exterior.
"Mia." His voice is careful. "Thank you for coming. This is James Harrison, my attorney."
Harrison stands, offers his hand. "Ms. Chen. A pleasure."
His handshake is firm, assessing. Mia feels like she's being evaluated, cataloged, judged. She lifts her chin anyway.
"Should I have brought a lawyer?" she asks.
"That's your right," Harrison says smoothly. "Though I assure you, this contract is quite fair. Generous, even."
"I'll be the judge of that."
Something flickers in Alexander's eyes. Approval, maybe.
They sit. Harrison slides a bound document across the table—easily fifty pages. The marriage contract, now with Mia's amendments added.
"I've incorporated your requests," Alexander says. "Private studio space, continued relationship with Ms. Martinez, full honesty between us, and the clause about remaining open to future relationships." He pauses. "I also added a few things."
"Like what?"
"A personal allowance of fifty thousand per month—"
"Fifty thousand?" Mia's voice cracks. "Per month? That's insane."
"That's standard for someone in your position," Harrison interjects. "Mrs. Kane will be expected to maintain certain appearances. Wardrobe, beauty appointments, social obligations—"
"I'm not going to spend fifty thousand dollars a month on clothes."
"You can spend it on whatever you want," Alexander says. "Art supplies. Charity. Save it. That's your choice. But you'll have access to it."
Mia's head spins. Fifty thousand a month. She currently makes less than that in a year.
"What else?" she manages.
"Full medical coverage through my private physician. Dr. Sarah Okonkwo—she's excellent, specializes in high-risk pregnancies." Alexander's expression softens. "Not that yours is high-risk. But I want the best for you and the baby."
"Okay."
"A trust fund for the child. Fully funded, accessible at eighteen. Separate from any child support or settlement terms." He taps the page. "Your child will never want for anything, regardless of what happens between us."
Mia's throat tightens. "That's... that's really generous."
"It's my child. Of course I'm generous."
Harrison clears his throat. "There are also provisions for public appearances, media training, and security protocols. Mrs. Kane will have a personal security detail—"
"Wait. Security detail?"
"Non-negotiable," Alexander says firmly. "You're about to become one of the most photographed women in New York. And you're carrying my heir. Security isn't optional."
The word "heir" sends chills down Mia's spine. That's what this baby is to his world. An heir. A dynasty continuation. Not just a person, but a symbol.
"Can we... can we just call it our baby? Not an heir?"
Alexander's jaw unclenches slightly. "Our baby. You're right. I'm sorry."
They go through the contract page by page. Harrison explains each clause in language Mia mostly understands. The two-year term. The five-million-dollar exit settlement. Child custody arrangements. Financial provisions. Public behavior expectations.
"This clause here," Mia points to page thirty-two. "It says I'm expected to attend social functions as needed. What does 'as needed' mean?"
"Galas, charity events, company functions," Alexander says. "Maybe once or twice a month. Less once you're further along in the pregnancy."
"And I have to pretend to be... what? In love with you?"
"Comfortable with me. Affectionate, maybe. But I'm not asking you to act." His eyes meet hers. "I'm asking you to be my partner. However that looks for us."
Mia nods slowly. She can do that. Maybe.
They reach the final pages. The signature lines.
"Once you sign," Harrison says, "you'll have twenty-four hours to move your belongings to Mr. Kane's residence. The marriage ceremony will take place in three days at City Hall—small, private, immediate family only."
"Three days?" Mia's heart races. "That's so fast."
"We need to move quickly," Alexander says quietly. "The media is circling. The longer we wait, the worse the speculation gets. And your apartment—Mia, you got another eviction notice yesterday."
She stares at him. "How do you know that?"
"I have people monitoring your building. For your safety." He doesn't look apologetic. "You have four days before you're legally evicted. Three before your landlord can change the locks."
The presumption should anger her. But mostly she's just tired.
"So my choices are sign this or be homeless while pregnant," she says flatly.
"Your choices are sign this and build a life with me, or don't sign and I'll still make sure you and the baby are taken care of." Alexander leans forward. "I'm not forcing you, Mia. If you walk out right now, I'll set you up in a safe apartment, cover all medical expenses, provide child support. You don't have to marry me."
"But you want me to."
"Yes." No hesitation. "I want my child to grow up with both parents under one roof. I want the chance to know you. And selfishly, I want someone in my life who doesn't see me as just a bank account or a business opportunity." His voice drops. "I want you to sign. But only if you want to."
Do you want?
That question again. Mia looks at the contract. At the signature line that will change everything.
She thinks about her apartment with its mold and broken heater. About working two jobs while pregnant. About the free clinic and unpaid bills and constant fear.
Then she thinks about the baby. About giving her child the stability she never had. About not repeating the cycle of poverty and struggle.
About maybe—possibly—finding something real with the complicated man across from her.
"Do you have a pen?" she asks.
Alexander slides one across the table. Heavy, expensive. Probably costs more than her rent.
Mia picks it up. Her hand shakes.
"You're sure?" Alexander asks quietly.
"I'm terrified. But yes. I'm sure."
She signs. Her signature looks small and out of place on the expensive paper.
Alexander signs next. His signature is bold, confident. Like he's never doubted a decision in his life.
Harrison witnesses, adds his own signature. "Congratulations. The contract is now binding."
Just like that. Mia Chen is engaged to Alexander Kane.
"I'll give you two a moment," Harrison says, gathering papers. "The ceremony details will be sent to you both by end of day."
He leaves. The door clicks shut.
Mia and Alexander sit in silence. Engaged. Partners. Bound by contract and circumstance and a baby neither of them planned.
"How do you feel?" Alexander asks finally.
"Like I jumped off a cliff and I'm still waiting to hit the ground." Mia laughs shakily. "You?"
"Like I might actually be able to do this. Be a father. Be..." He trails off. "More than what I was."
"What were you?"
"Empty." The word is soft. "I've been empty for a long time. Going through motions. Building an empire because that's what I was supposed to do, not because it meant anything." He looks at her. "Then I met you. And for the first time in years, something felt real."
Mia's breath catches. "Alexander—"
"I'm not asking you to fix me. Or complete me. Or any of that romantic nonsense." He stands, moves around the table until he's beside her. "I'm just saying... thank you. For giving me a chance to try."
He offers his hand. Mia takes it, lets him pull her to her feet.
They're close now. Close enough that she can see the exhaustion in his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the vulnerability he works so hard to hide.
"We're really doing this," she whispers.
"We're really doing this."
"What happens now?"
"Now I take you home. To our home." He corrects himself carefully. "I'll have movers pack your apartment tomorrow. Today, you just... settle in. Get comfortable. This is your space now too."
Our home. Our baby. Our marriage.
The words should feel wrong. But somehow, they don't.
---
The drive to Kane Tower feels different this time.
Mia's not a visitor anymore. Not a one-night stand or a problem to solve. She's Alexander's fiancée. In three days, she'll be his wife.
The security guards nod respectfully when they enter. The doorman holds the elevator. Everyone treats her differently now—like she matters, like she belongs.
It's surreal.
The penthouse looks the same. But Alexander takes her through it differently, showing her things she missed before.
"This will be your studio," he says, opening a door to a room flooded with natural light. "South-facing windows. I'll have easels, supplies, whatever you need brought in."
"It's beautiful," Mia breathes.
"This is our room." He hesitates at another door. "Our bedroom. But I can sleep in the guest room if you prefer. I don't expect—I'm not assuming—"
"Let's see how it goes," Mia says softly.
He shows her the bathroom—bigger than her entire apartment—the walk-in closet, the private terrace.
"I know it's a lot," Alexander says. "But it's yours now. All of it."
Mia stands at the window, looking out at Manhattan stretched below. From up here, the city looks manageable. Beautiful, even.
"I grew up in foster care," she says suddenly. "Did you know that?"
"I read the articles."
"Then you know I never had a home. Not really. Just places I stayed until they moved me somewhere else." She turns to face him. "I don't know how to do this. Live in a place this nice. Be someone's wife. Fit into your world."
"Then we'll figure it out together." Alexander joins her at the window. "I don't know how to be a husband. Or a father. Or anything other than what my father made me—cold, controlled, emotionally unavailable. We're both out of our depth."
"That's not comforting."
"It's honest." He almost smiles. "We're good at that, at least."
They stand there, two people bound by contract and chance, looking out at the city that's about to watch them try to build something from nothing.
Three days until the wedding.
Eight months until the baby.
Two years until freedom.
Or maybe—just maybe—something more.