Bound by Contract, Freed by Love

I grip the steering wheel hard as my mom quietly gasps beside me. Her sweaty hand encloses around mine. "Nurse, please," she says in a tiny voice. "I'm so scared."

"I know, Mom," I reply, trying to be ultracalm. "Breathe."

The light is green. I speed down the city streets, my heart racing. I look over at the envelope on the passenger seat-hospital bill for undergoing the procedure, ten pages of numbers that I simply cannot afford.

Later, in the hospital waiting room, I sit next to her bed in a chair. A nurse staples an IV tube into the bend of her elbow. I grasp her hand in mine.

"It will be fine," I say to him, my voice shaking.

Dr. Mercer enters and opens the door. He looks at me. "Elena, the surgery is tomorrow morning. I wanted to let you know that it is not without risk."

"I know," I answer. "Thanks, Doctor."

Mom squeezes her hand around mine. I give a fake smile.

I am waiting at the Grand Arcadia Hotel that evening for a benefit gala. I possess one white gown, nearly frayed at the seams. I loiter beside one of the pillars, grasping a glass of bubbly water.

A journalist approaches. "Ms. Hart, your service in the clinic is heroic. Let me ask you, how does it feel to be recognized tonight."

I swallow. "I'm simply doing my job."

She nods on, talking on. I scan the room. Crystal chandeliers suspended like stars in mid-air. Money occupies every seat. Men in tuxedos. Women with jewels around their necks and wrists. I am not part of them.

And I see him. Dominic Blackwood, standing across the room. He's talking to VIPs. Tall, dark coat, aura of power. Clenched jaw. No smile. No lean-in. Just standing and listening.

A waiter walks by with hors d'oeuvres. I pilfer one of the shrimp. The doctor's estimate is searing a hole in my pocket. I breathe evenly.

And then I am heading toward the ladies' room. My heels are clicking along marble. I check my face. I finger my hair. Shaking fingers.

The door behind me opens. "Miss Hart?"

I turn around. He is standing there. Dominic Blackwood. He holds out his hand.

"Mr. Blackwood," I say, soft voice.

"Call me Dominic, okay." His tone is easy. "May I come in?"

I move aside. He enters and closes the door. The space is small, dimly lit. Mirrors reflect our faces. I'm trapped in his eyes.

"I watched you tonight," he says. "You're here in the interest of healthcare, are you?"

I nod. "I work for the Hart Clinic."

He looks at me. "That is your last name?"

I smooth my hair. "Yes."

He opens a black leather folder. There's a document inside. It is thick. Pages and pages of typed text.

"I want to help you," he says. "I'll cover your mother's surgery costs."

I gape. "I-I can't accept that."

He holds up a hand. "There's a condition. Read it."

I take the folder and flip through it. Two pages of lawyer's terminology. Payments he will make for all medical care. And in exchange, a two-year contract marriage. No divorce. No children on a rider if he desires them. Public appearances as a couple. He will give me a position at his law firm.

I lean back. "Why do this?"

He shrugged. "Because I can. And because I want to know whether you're real."

I falter. "A marriage contract? I'm not a gold digger."

He gazes at me. "I know."

My heart is pounding. I walk over to the sink and splashed cold water onto my face. Breathe. Breathe.

"Do you want me to marry you?" I whisper.

"Yes," he says. "It's a contract. Two years. I pay your bills. You keep my name out of jail."

I flip through the pages. "I should have a lawyer."

He shakes his head. "You've got one hour to choose. If you sign on, sign here."

He points to a line for a signature.

I look at the blank space, then back at my mom in bed. I think about the bills that won't get paid. I think about her smile in exchange.

"I need a minute."

He nods and backs away. Quiet swallows me up.

I shake as I sign. I sign. Elena Hart.

He closes the folder zip and he takes it. He smiles once-brief, almost hidden.

". Thanks," he says. "I'll try to take care of all of that. Your mother will be okay."

I lean on her shaking legs. My world whirls.

He holds out his arm. I grasp it. We leave the restroom.

Outside, evening continues on. People laugh. People dance. People raise their charity bids. I walk beside him, as if all eyes are upon us. Whispers pass.

"Where are you going?"

"To the car. You need rest."

{I glance at the valet stand. He leads me past white-draped tables and past a string quartet. A waiter shouts my name. He puts on the flute of champagne in my hand. I spill it. Glass shatters.

Dominic stoops and reaches to help us. He puts on top of my hand, extracting slivers of glass. He holds my hand firmly, but not painfully.".

"Watch where you step," he says to me.

I nod.

He opens the valet driver's door. I get in. My head is spinning. He gets in the driver's seat. We drive through city streets in silence. My phone rings. I ignore it.

We arrive in a nice black car parked outside. He tips the driver. I get out.

We approach the door of a townhouse. A butler opens it. He takes me to a small suite. Single bed, desk, closet. Suitcase on the ground.

"This is yours for two years," Dominic tells me. "You will have your mother's bills paid. I will handle it. You report to work at my office tomorrow at nine."

I swallow. "And then what?"

He puts away his phone. "Then you do your part. Public events, dinner, company events. I will present you as my wife."

My stomach coils. "A fake wife."

He reclines. "A contract wife."

I look around the room. Chaste, but tidy. My heartbeat pounds in my ears.

"Will I be living here full-time?" I ask.

He looks at his watch. "Yes."

I nod. "I should call my mother."

He gives me a phone. "She's been waiting to hear from you. I told the hospital you'll be paying for the treatment."

Tears cut through my eyes. I call the hospital. The nurse answers.

"Elena? Oh God."

I gag. "She's covered. Everything's covered."

"Praise God," the nurse says.

I hang up the phone and glance at Dominic. "Thanks."

He smiles. "Sleep tight."

I walk into the tiny bathroom to splatter water across my face. I gaze at myself in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot. I pat my cheeks.

By the time I return, he is standing by the window. City lights twinkle there.

He turns to me. "You did a very brave thing."

I swallow. "I had no other option."

He moves closer. "You did. You saved your mother."

I gaze at the floor. "Yes."

He extends his hand. "Come."

I place my hand in it. He sits beside me on the bed.

"Tomorrow, we start," he says.

I get into bed and stare at the ceiling. My mind is reeling with questions.

"What if I am not good enough?" I whisper.

"You won't," he says.

I woke up early, before the dawn appears, and leaned against the penthouse floor-to-ceiling window. City lights faded to a dim sparkle, and a cold wind battered the half-opened window. I glanced at my hand on the chilled glass. I remembered Elena Hart, the woman who had accepted to marry me. Twenty-four months of marriage. Two years living together in an apartment. I had no notion of what the future held.

Softly the living room door knocked. I turned and approached it. Castillo, my chauffeur, came in bowing. Two bodyguards followed him. Castillo spoke softly to me. "Mr. Blackwood, Miss Hart has arrived."

"Thanks," I replied. I turned and faced away from the windows to the center of the room. The marble floor numbed my socks. The interior design was modern and minimalist. White sofas, glass coffee tables, minimalist ornamentation. I loved the lack of clutter-it left room for my plans and no distractions.

The door creaked open again. Elena entered, holding a single black suitcase. She wore a short gray dress, simple, just enough to impress me. Her hair was tied up into a hard bun, and her eyes swept the room.

She stopped when she saw me. I waved with my one hand. "Welcome to Arcadia Heights," I said to her. My voice echoed slightly in the high-ceilinged spaces.

"Thank you," she breathed. She put down her bag. She seemed extremely fatigued. I hadn't been able to determine if she had slept or not.

I gestured for her to come on. "Please sit down," I said to her, pointing to a white leather chair.

She sat down into the chair and placed the suitcase down on the floor next to her. She placed her hands in her lap. I gazed at her. She was small in the huge room. I crossed my arms.

"I need to review our agreement with you," I said to her. She gazed up at me. I could see the rise and fall of her chest. She was nervous but determined.

I pulled out the folder with our contract and set it on the glass coffee table. I opened it to page one. "First rule," I informed her, my eyes on hers. "No asking about yourself unless I respond."

Her eyebrows shot up. Her lips compressed. Then she nodded once. "I see."

"Second rule," I continued. "No scenes in public. You're going to be yourself, but in public, you hold it together. You're calm, you're composed."

Her fingers curled around one another. "I can do that."

"Third rule," I said, turning the page. "You accompany me to all functions that I ask you to. Board meetings, press conferences, dinner parties-you accompany me as my wife. You sit for interviews and photos."

Her Adam's apple bobbed up and down as she swallowed hard. "If I don't?"

I folded the folder. "You lose all remuneration. You return to square one. Your mom's bills are not paid."

She glanced at the contract. She was gasping, rapidly, superficially. I relaxed my tone. "I don't want to scare. I want us to live. You understand what you signed."

She let her head drop back. Her eyes flashed. "I know."

I rose to my feet and went towards the window. I rested my forehead against the glass and leaned against it. "You will be working tomorrow at nine in the morning. There is a board meeting. I will present you as my wife."

She stood up and accompanied me. She placed her hand on her belly. "Board meetings. I have never been to one of those."

I stood up to her. "Percival will be waiting for you at eight thirty in the conference room. He will discuss protocol and agenda with you."

She sighed. "Very well."

I gestured down the corridor. "I will escort you to your room."

She grabbed her bag and followed me. I walked her down a short corridor with additional gray and white abstract paintings adorning the walls. We came to a door. I opened it and went through.

The room was elegant but decadent. A white-sheeted king bed. A wall desk. A large closet with mirrored doors. An unadorned window chair. No pictures, no mementos. Room and light alone.

"This is your suite," I told him. "Your belongings go in the closet."

She put down her suitcase on the bed and opened it dramatically. She pulled some out: three dresses, two shoes, a stack of blouses. She put them folded on the bed. I was observing her unpacking all her blouses and folding them and putting them on the chair.

"You are going to need more clothes," I told her.

She stood in front of me, halting. "More?"

"Yes. Your wardrobe will be supplemented. You'll have at least five different outfits for every occasion."

She blinked. "Five changes? That sounds. excessive."

I shrugged. "You won't be wearing the same thing twice. Just trust me."

She nodded slowly. "Very well." She returned to the suitcase and closed it, clearing the bed. She reached into the desk drawer and inserted a framed photograph of herself and her mother. I picked up something warm in the motion.

"Your mother is safe," I said softly.

She turned to me. "You did that?"

I nodded. "I told the hospital you'd pay cash. They'll operate on her tomorrow morning."

She blinked and her eyes watered. She swallowed. "Thank you."

I smiled woodenly. "You're welcome." I walked back from the window. "Dinner at eight. The chef will have something brought up."

She sat up straight and placed her hand on the frame once more. "May I change my morning schedule?"

I checked my watch. "Very well. Tomorrow eight thirty, Percival. Nine hundred hours board meeting."

She nodded, pursing her lips stubbornly. "I will be ready."

That I opened the door and let her in and then returned to the living room. I followed behind her silent footsteps through to when the door slammed behind me. Then I breathed deeply out.

I went back to the window and sat in the blackness. The city still stretched out below. I looked at the contract on my desk, expecting its terms to be tested. I thought of Elena Hart, sitting alone in a strange room. I thought of her courage in the face of fear.

I wheeled around and made my way down the corridor, my office door to the left. It was shut. There, on the mahogany, lay the contract, waiting for the next move.

I stood in front of the photograph of my parents on the wall-a family photo of a smiling family on a hot summer day. I leaned against the frame. They had trusted love. They trusted each other. I had lost it.

I walked to the private elevator at the opposite end of the hall. I pressed the basement button. The doors slid shut and the car started downward. My face stretched across the metal walls-black, tall suit, untroubled face. I couldn't help but wonder if that would be altered in the next few weeks.

The ground floor elevator bell. I exited and walked directly to my car. It was a black sedan with tinted glass. I opened the door, entered the car, and sat behind it. Castillo sat beside me.

"Sir," he inquired, "where would you have me take you?"

"No," I replied. "Take me to my private club."

The motor purred. The car departed the building garage.

On the drive over, I thought through tomorrow. Board meeting. Meeting new wife. Photos in the papers.

Perfect. No mistakes. No errors.

I did relax and closed my eyes for a minute. I pictured Elena's face-tired, hopeful, no fear.

She'd entered my life with a suitcase and a huge determination to save her mother. She'd accepted my bet.

I wanted to know how she would fare in my world of power and strength. I wondered if she would break under the weight of it, or soar.

A brief specter of a smile was coaxed onto my lips. I enjoyed the challenge.

The car swerved onto the sidewalk and careened into an alley. We arrived in front of a rundown building with intimate lights on either side. I recognized it-my own club, for special contacts. Where business was done, information exchanged, and oath of allegiance promised.

"We're here," Castillo declared. He seemed to open the door of my car. I stepped out into the evening air and took a deep breath. There was old wood and leather in the air that welcomed me through heavy doors. Dark walls and muted light lay ahead of me indoors. I smiled at the doorman, and he led me to the bar.

I sat on a stool. Johan, the barman, nodded. I ordered my usual-single malt scotch over ice-and he filled it into the glass. I lifted the glass and took it to my lips. The alcohol was warm, burning but not so much.

I stared into the amber color of the whiskey. Elena's contract came wafting into my mind. Two years of wedlock. Two years of watching her learn about my world. Two years of holding or revealing my secrets.

I held the glass to the photo of my parents that I had caressed seconds earlier. I mouthed silently, "Protect me."

I swallowed. The scotch burned my skin.

A voice hollered behind me. "Blackwood."

I spun around. It was Percival, my CFO and friend. His temples had grayed out. His eyes were warm. He sat beside me.

"Percival," I said. "Good to see you."

He nodded and took the glass I'd handed him. He sipped. "She came?"

I glanced across the room I'd just entered. "Yes. She is in the tower."

Percival's eyebrow went up. "Elena Hart. The medical researcher."

I nodded. "The one."

Percival set down his glass. "She is intelligent. I have read her file. She studied at Oxford. She authored two papers."

I waited. "And she is fearless. She signed in a dudgeon."

Percival leaned forward. "She signed as an individual?"

I nodded. "In a toilet." I sipped again. "At a ball, of all things."

Percival softly whistled. "Impressive."

I set down the glass. "She begins tomorrow. I would like to have you train her."

He winced into a smile. "Consider it done. I will coach her for the board meeting. I will educate her on protocol, strategy. I will follow her."

I put my hand on his shoulder. "Thank you."

He rubbed my hand. "You know that I would do anything for you."

I nodded.

He set his drink aside and stood up. "I will see you tomorrow at eight."

I wake up early, before my alarm. I lie there with my eyes fixed on the ceiling. My heart is beating in my ears, so fast. Today is the day I go to work as Dominic Blackwood's assistant. I go to bed, wear the grey skirt and white shirt Percival had laid out for me, and tie my hair into a neat ponytail. I attempt to look nonchalant in the mirror.

"Deep breaths," I say softly.

I clip the earpiece onto my right ear. It makes a gentle click and Percival speaks. "Good morning, Ms. Hart. You have thirty minutes until you go out to the conference room. Follow my lead exactly."

"I'm ready," I respond, trying not to quiver.

I enter the hallway. Castillo, the guard, says hello. I nod and head in the direction of the elevator. The metal walls that mirror back at me remind me once again that I am not yet home in the old life. I exhale.

The elevator door opens on the twenty-fifth floor. I emerge and regard the long hallway with glass on all sides. I remember Percival's directions: "Turn left, then right, then left again. Go to the big wooden doors."

I do it just that way and find myself in the conference room. I stand outside, smooth my skirt, fluff out my blouse. I put my hand on the door handle. My heart racing.

Percival whispers, "Open the door and go in. Go to the chair to the right of Mr. Blackwood."

I breathe in and push the door open. The room falls silent. All eyes are on me. I move across the width of the table, my legs growing heavier with each step. I spot my chair. I sit and place my hands in my lap.

"Good morning, Ms. Blackwood," the chairman says, his voice courteous but determined.

"Good morning," I manage, my voice frail. I catch a peek at Dominic. He glances at me, then at the documents on his desk. No warm greeting. Just a nod.

The chairman clears his throat. "We will begin with the Q1 earnings report."

Whispers. A finger pushes on a remote control and a graph appears on the screen. I push my papers under the chair. Percival whispers, "Listen. Say nothing until I speak."

I nod, though he can't see me.

The CFO stands up and talks about revenue growth and profit margins. I jot down some figures on my legal pad. My pen scratch. My palms sweat. I memorize the sequence.

Ten minutes on, the chairman interrupts, "Now then the merger proposal with Astell & Co. Mr. Blackwood?"

Dominic entwines his fingers. "Thank you. We've perused the draft contract. I'd like to take an individual clause under section 14.2 through."

He pushes a printed sheet across to me. I take it with some apprehension. My hands tremble. I turn to page eighteen.

Percival's whisper: "Where is the interest cap? Find the percentage."

I read it. "Interest rate cap: five percent." My heart freezes. I recall Astell's usual cap is three point five percent. I gulp.

I put my hand up. "Chairman?" My voice soothes. Heads turn towards me.

"Ms. Blackwood?" asks the chairman.

I stand. "On page eighteen, section 14.2, the five percent limit. Astell's reports mention a three point five percent limit. Accepting five percent would cost us two million euros in five years."

Silence. The chairman consults his copy. He points to Dominic. Dominic leans back, arms folded.

Percival's whisper: "Good. Hold firm."

I inhale. "I propose that we modify the clause to three point five percent according to their terms."

The attorney frowns and scrolls down his laptop. "Let me check." He pecks away. Two seconds later he glances up. "She is correct. The clause must be three point five percent. We will modify prior to signing."

Relief floods me. I take a seat. My hands are shaking, but I steady myself and keep my hands still. The chairman smiles. "Thank you, Ms. Blackwood. That was a critical catch."

I nod curtly and return to my notes. My chest is light. I catch Dominic's eye. He nods curtly in approval, and then proceeds to the next agenda item. No smile. Approval only.

The conversation moves on to the marketing budget. I make a few scribbled notes. Percival grumbles something about a lot of figures I haven't and the justification for new projects. I listen intently, nodding occasionally.

It's twenty minutes before the legal advisor mentions an indemnity clause. The chairman says, "Section seven of the advertising contract. Comments?"

Percival's quiet reminder that we ought to do a punctuation check.

I flip to page seven. I read. My eyes widen in shock. The clause reads: "The company shall be liable for all damages resulting from the content of advertisements." No comma. Without a comma, there is unlimited liability. A comma after "liable" would make liability limited to actual damages.

I stand up again. The chairman sighs. "Ms. Blackwood?"

I say, "In subsection seven, placing a comma after 'liable' clearly indicates that liability extends only to actual damages, not all conceivable damage. This change could quite possibly save the company a huge legal risk."

The heads turn. The lawyer looks over his screen. His eyes go wide. "Yes. There must be a comma there. Thank you."

I sit, my face flushed. Dominic raises an eyebrow in recognition.

The rest of the agenda is minor legal changes and human resource comments. I mark the highlights. I feel more at ease. The rhythm of the meeting does not scare me anymore. My hands still shake, but I concentrate on the notes.

The chairman looks at his watch. "Unless there is further business, this meeting is adjourned."

A whisper of "Thank you." Chairs scraping on the floor as individuals stand up. I silently close my book and put away my pen. Percival's whispered compliment: "Excellent work today."

I manage a weak smile.

Dominic stays at the head of the table. He collects his papers. He turns to me and says, "Ms. Blackwood, if you please." His tone is neutral but courteous.

I stand and accompany him out of the conference room. The hallway lights are blinding. I take a whiff of the antiseptic air.

Percival drops in beside me as we reach the outdoors. "You did wonderful," he says quietly.

"Thanks," I reply, voice more level now. "I never thought I'd be speaking out so fast."

He smiles. "Listen to your instincts. You were hired for a purpose."

I nod. "I hope I can do it."

He squeezes my shoulder. "You already have."

We reach the elevator. The doors open. I get in with Percival and two directors. The doors shut. They talk in hushed tones about the looming merger. I eavesdrop, I learn.

The doors open on my level, I step out. Castillo waits by. I grin at him. "Thank you."

He bows. "Water or something you'd like?"

"Water, please." I stuff my notebook under my arm.

He returns with a bottle and a glass. I drink a mouthful, feeling the cold liquid relax my dry throat.

I push the door of my suite open and close it behind me. I lean against it and exhale. My legs tremble. My heartbeat stabilizes.

My phone rings. My mother has sent me a message: How did it go?

I smile and respond by text: I found two errors. They will save millions. I am proud.

I fall onto the bed and stretch out. My skirt is constricting from sitting for so long, and I unbutton the top button and lie back. I gaze at the ceiling.

I take into account Dominic's nods and the chairman's words of praise. I take into account Percival's assurances. I take into account the second when at last I said the words and the falling silence.

I whisper, "I can do this."

I take off my shoes and get into the blanket. I consider my mother in her hospital bed. I will visit her tomorrow morning before work. I smile as I imagine her smiling at my success.

My phone rings again. A tweet from Arcadia Business News: "Blackwood merger on track-new Mrs. Blackwood catches critical mistake in draft." I scroll and check out my name. I get a rush.

I close my eyes and relive the day in my head. I wonder what tomorrow will bring-new challenges, new mistakes, new tests.

I do know one thing: I will face them. I will make them see that I am here to stay.

And I will make Dominic Blackwood see my worth.