Chapter 2 The Contract

"You expect me to marry you? Just like that?" Georgia's voice cracked with disbelief as she stood in the marbled silence of Weston Clay's penthouse office, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows that bled in the early morning light.

Weston stood like a statue carved from steel and storm broad-shouldered in a charcoal suit that sharpened his already devastating edges. The skyline of St. Louis burned behind him, a city below them that seemed irrelevant to the intimate war unfolding above.

"Yes," he said simply. "No sugarcoating, no preamble. Marry me. Or lose everything."

The words sliced clean through the silence, absurd in their elegance, brutal in their meaning.

Georgia paced back, her heels echoing on the polished floor. She looked nothing like the girl she'd once been. The wild redhead with scraped knees and muddy boots who used to race Weston down the orchard path at Marlowe Estate. No, this Georgia wore the armor of a woman who'd learned how to bury grief in lipstick and spine. Her hair was sleek now, pinned in a twist that matched the icy resolve in her eyes.

"You're out of your mind," she hissed. "You think a piece of paper can fix what you broke?"

"This isn't about fixing anything. It's business."

The word tasted like ash. Business. Was that what he'd reduced them to?

She turned her back to him, arms crossed, staring at the skyline that used to thrill her. Now, it felt like a cage. "Why now? Why drag me into this mess?"

Weston walked to his desk and picked up a slim folder. He slid it across the table to her.

"Because your father left a legacy of debt. Because your estate is crumbling under unpaid taxes, your mother is three months behind on medication, and if someone doesn't step in by the end of this quarter, Marlowe will be gone."

She didn't move. Didn't blink.

He added, softly now, "And because I can fix it."

Georgia's hand shook as she reached for the folder. Inside was a contract, crisp and cold. Clause after clause dictated her life for the next year: public appearances, shared residences, behavior guidelines, a non-disclosure agreement, stipulations on fidelity, and ironically a clause about 'emotional neutrality.'

She laughed, bitter and small. "Emotional neutrality? You mean I have to pretend not to hate you?"

"You don't hate me, Georgia. If you did, you would've walked out of that door the second I mentioned marriage."

She looked up at him sharply.

"Don't flatter yourself, Clay. I'm still deciding whether to slap you or throw you off this balcony."

But there was no fire behind the words, only exhaustion.

He softened. Just a little. "Let me be clear. I didn't come to you out of guilt or pity. I came because this makes sense. You need a lifeline. I need... control."

"Control," she echoed. "Over what?"

"My family. The press. My future. A scandal-free image. And nothing looks cleaner than a reconciliation with the Marlowes."

"So I'm your trophy wife?"

"You're the only one who ever said no to me. That alone makes you more than a trophy."

That gave her pause. And he knew it.

Silence pressed in. The kind that wasn't empty, but full of too many memories.

She thought of her mother's labored breaths, the nurses leaving polite notes about overdue payments. She thought of the orchard, abandoned and dying, the smell of apples and dust and broken dreams. She thought of her father's ghost in the library, and how it would all be bulldozed into memory if she didn't act.

"I want my own clauses," she said finally.

Weston raised a brow. "Go on."

"One: I get to work. I won't be your pretty porcelain wife in a tower. Two: I handle my estate, not your lawyers. Three: I want a room of my own, no shared bed. Not until I say otherwise."

Something flickered behind his eyes. Not anger. Not surprise.

Something closer to regret.

He reached for the pen, uncapped it, and handed it to her.

"Agreed. Sign it, Georgia. Save your family."

Her fingers hovered over the page.

This wasn't love. This wasn't forgiveness. This was war dressed in Armani, and the battlefield was their shared past.

She signed. Slowly. Deliberately.

And just before she placed the pen down, she looked up at him and said, "You play by my rules now, Weston. You wanted a contract. I'll show you what it costs."

The ink had barely dried when the game began.

Weston's mansion less home, more fortress was a symphony of steel, glass, and subtle surveillance. Georgia walked through its echoing halls the next morning like a prisoner in velvet chains. Staff greeted her with polite neutrality. A new diamond ring on her finger glinted under the chandeliers like a beacon of betrayal.

In the drawing room, she found Weston waiting. Coffee poured. Papers stacked. A page folded back.

"You should read this," he said, pointing to a tabloid headline: Tycoon Rekindles Flame With Southern Belle Heiress Love or Leverage?

She smiled thinly. "So romantic."

"Good. The press is eating it up."

She reached for the cup and took a sip. Bitter. Of course it was.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

He looked up at her. Eyes pale, unreadable. "I enjoy control."

"Funny. That used to be my word."

She leaned against the table, deliberately close. "You still don't get it, do you? You may have written the contract, but I hold the pen now."

Weston stood, taller than the memory of him. There was a barely concealed edge in his stance, a tension that hadn't been there last night.

"You think you can bend this into your little act of rebellion?"

"I don't think. I know."

The air tightened.

He stepped close, too close.

"You still affect me, Georgia. That's the problem."

She froze.

It was a whisper.

A confession.

A threat.

Before she could respond, his phone buzzed. He looked at it, cursed under his breath.

"I have to go. Board meeting."

She didn't move.

"Try not to burn down the mansion while I'm gone."

And then he was gone.

She stood alone in a house full of cameras.

Georgia didn't move into the mansion, not yet. Her demand for neutral ground had landed her in a penthouse suite at The Fairmore Hotel, wrapped in luxury and scrutiny. The lobby buzzed with paparazzi, and even the hotel staff wore looks that bordered on reverent curiosity.

She stood by the window that night, wrapped in a silk robe, staring at the lights below. Her fingers toyed with the edge of the ring she still hadn't removed.

Then came the knock.

Not from the door.

From her phone.

A single message.

Back out now. Or bleed like the others.

She stared.

Another ping. An image this time.

An aerial shot of the Marlowe estate.

Then another.

A close-up of her mother stepping out of the house that morning.

She dropped the phone.

Her breath came shallow.

Seconds later, the doorbell rang.

Cautious, she peered through the peephole.

Nobody there.

She opened it slowly. The hallway was empty except for a black box lying at her feet.

Inside: a bouquet of blood-red roses.

And a single note.

This family devours outsiders. Run.