Chapter 4 The marriage contract proposal

Noelle's POV

By the time I stumble back into my apartment that night, the city has already bled itself dry. The streets hum low and tired.The neon lights outside our building flicker weakly, like they're ready to give up too. Honestly? Same.

I slam the door shut behind me, toss my keys into the chipped ceramic bowl by the entrance, and collapse face-first onto the couch. The black folder Adrik gave me slides off my lap and hits the floor with a pathetic little thud. Mocking me. I stare at it like it might grow teeth and bite me.

"You look like you got hit by a truck," Cami says, appearing from the kitchen with a half-eaten Pop-Tart.

"Feels accurate," I mumble into the couch cushion. She plops down next to me, legs tucked under her, and nudges the folder with her foot. "So? Is it real? Are you about to become Mrs. Moneybags?"

I groan. "It's...worse than I thought. It's a real contract. Real marriage. Real everything." Cami whistles low. "Damn. Did you at least negotiate for your own private jet?" I lift my head just enough to glare at her. She laughs, but there's a serious look in her eyes underneath the teasing. "You thinking about it?" I don't answer right away. Instead, I roll onto my back and stare up at the water-stained ceiling, trying to make out shapes in the peeling paint.

A turtle.

A dinosaur.

A middle finger.

All equally appropriate.

"I don't know," I say finally. "It's insane. Marrying a stranger? For money?"

"Yeah," Cami says, chewing thoughtfully. "But so is working two jobs and still being one medical emergency away from homelessness." She's not wrong. I hate that she's not wrong. I sit up and grab the folder, flipping it open again.There it is. In black and white.

Everything spelled out in cold, clinical legalese:

Attend public events with Adrik Carter at least twice a month. Maintain the appearance of a stable and supportive marriage. Live at Carter Mansion or other mutually agreed-upon residences. No unauthorized interviews or disclosures. One year commitment. Five million dollars compensation upon completion. There's even a section about "optional intimacy" that makes my cheeks burn just reading it. "Optional," I mutter. "Gee, thanks for the romance, Adrik."

Cami leans over, reading upside down. "You realize," she says, "this is basically every 'fake marriage' romance novel ever, right?" I groan. "Except without the fun parts. Or the sexy parts." She grins wickedly. "Give it time." I shove her playfully.

Then, quieter, I say, "I don't know if I can do it, Cam. Pretend to love someone. Pretend to be someone I'm not." Cami's face softens. "You wouldn't be pretending," she says. "You'd be surviving." I close the folder again and press it to my chest. Surviving. Yeah.

That's what it's always been about.

I spend the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, counting cracks, trying to talk myself out of it.

I think about Lila, crying over the phone because she can't pay for another semester. I think about my boss Tony threatening to cut my hours. I think about my rent going up next month. About the credit card bills stacked like a game of Jenga in the kitchen.

And then I think about the look in Adrik's eyes. Cold. Calculated. But underneath... something else.Something fractured. I know that look. I see it in the mirror every damn day. By sunrise, my mind is made up.

I throw on my cleanest wrinkled dress black, simple, the kind that says I'm professional but also one bad day away from a nervous breakdown and march back to Sterling Tower because sometimes you don't get the luxury of choosing between good and bad. Sometimes it's just... bad or worse. And dammit, I'm tired of worse.

Sandra Lowell, Adrik's lawyer, meets me in the lobby. She's tall, blonde, and sharp enough to file legal briefs with her cheekbones.

"Ms. Winters," she says with a polite nod. "Right this way." She leads me to a smaller conference room this time. Less intimidating. Still cold enough to make my fingers numb.

Adrik is already there, seated at the head of the table, looking like he hasn't slept Or maybe he just always looks like that. Our eyes meet briefly. A flicker of something passes between us. Tension? Curiosity? Mutual recognition that we're both about to make a terrible, life-altering decision?

All of the above. I clear my throat. "I'm in," I say, voice steady. A flash of surprise crosses his face before it's smoothed away. "Good," he says. "Let's get started." Sandra hands me a final copy of the contract, thicker than a phone book, already tabbed where I need to sign. I skim through it one more time, just to be sure.

There are a few new additions: A confidentiality agreement. A prenup waiving any claim to each other's assets after the year ends. A clause about joint public statements if necessary. I sign. One signature at the bottom of the page. One stroke of a pen. One irrevocable step into madness.

Adrik signs next, his handwriting neat and precise. When he finishes, he closes the folder with a soft snap and just like that, it's done. I'm engaged. Technically, to a man whose favorite hobbies include glaring, brooding, and making billion-dollar deals before breakfast. Sandra hands me a slim silver ring box.

"For appearances," she says. I open it. Inside is a simple, stunning diamond ring. Elegant is an understatement in fact Way too beautiful for my calloused bartender fingers. I hesitate, Adrik notices.

"If you prefer something else," he says, "we can arrange it." I shake my head. "No. It's fine." Nothing about this is fine, but whatever. I slide the ring onto my finger. It feels heavy, real, final, Adrik stands.

"We'll announce the engagement at the charity gala this weekend," he says. "You'll need a dress. Something formal." I nod stiffly.

"Don't worry," Sandra adds, already pulling out a tablet. "We have stylists on call. Everything will be arranged." Because in Adrik Carter's world, even fake fairy tales come with personal shoppers. I glance at him again. He's already back in business mode, tapping on his phone, issuing orders, making moves.

It hits me, suddenly, like a gut punch:

To him, this is just another deal.

Another transaction. Another way to fix a problem. And I? I'm just another piece on his chessboard.

Later, as I step out into the blinding sunlight, I glance down at the ring on my finger. It sparkles mockingly. I'm not sure if it feels like a promise... Or a prison, maybe both.

One thing's for sure:

The second I signed that contract, I stopped being just Noelle Winters, bartender and professional screw-up. I became something else entirely, Mrs. Adrik Carter at least for a year. God help me.