Contract Hearts

Sofia's Point of View

"I wouldn't bother to smile. You didn't come here to fall in love."

The voice of Josh Reynolds resonated through the boardroom. He didn't blink or move. He just looked at me like I was a problem he was already sick of dealing with.

I softly capped my pen and carefully put it down on the beautiful mahogany table between us. I looked him in the eye and said, "Good."

"I also didn't come here for a fairy tale."

I had practiced this moment so many times that I couldn't let my nerves show. Even if my heart wasn't steady, my hands were.

Josh looked at the contract and drummed his fingers on the table once. "It's only for one year. We both live in the same house and go out in public together. No cheating." His eyes went back to mine, but this time they were harder. "After a year, you'll take the part of the inheritance my father left me and leave."

I nodded. "And no questions asked."

He stopped there. Something flashed through those icy gray eyes. Doubt? Fun? I couldn't tell.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" he asked. "The press, the attention, the lies?"

I grinned a little. "You think I haven't had it worse?"

He didn't have to answer. We both realized that the agreement had nothing to do with love.

For him, this contract was a business deal. He had to marry a woman for one year to inherit his father's unpleasant legacy, which included some outrageous terms.

For me? This contract was to take revenge on him from within.

He took a pen out of his jacket pocket and wrote his name with the smooth ease of someone who is used to signing away life.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Reynolds," he remarked as he slipped the contract towards me.

"Thanks," I said softly as I picked up the folder.

Josh got up. I did too. It was too quiet for the noise my chair made when I moved it. He was taller than I had expected him to be. His presence was both broader and taller than I had anticipated. His presence effortlessly expelled the air from the room. He looked as if money defined his appearance, rather than the other way around. He was wearing a well-tailored black suit, a silver watch, and expensive perfume that filled the room.

I turned around and left to escape him before I revealed any signs of anger building up inside me.

"Hold on" His voice halted me abruptly.

I looked over my shoulder. His jaw was stiff. "You'll move in tonight."

"Tonight?" I murmured, unable to hide my shock.

"We have something going on tomorrow. I need my wife to be with me." There was no room for dispute in his tone.

Yes, of course. He held a charity ball, sparked controversy, and penned gossip columns. His marriage was perfect, the deception must have started somewhere.

"I'll bring my stuff."

He looked at me for one more second. "And Sofia?"

"Yes?"

"Don't mistake this contract for emotions" A warning sounded like a menace.

I smiled at him just a little bit. "I wouldn't even think about it."

Then, with my heart pounding and a contract binding me to kill the man, I left the boardroom.

I held back my tears on the walk home. The smell of mildew and cheap regrets filled my shoebox flat when I arrived. Not when I put the last picture of my dad in a leather bag. And not even when I looked in the mirror and put on the expensive blue dress that would make me look like I belonged in Josh Reynolds's world.

But I did stop for a moment when I put the ring on. It was weighty and didn't seem real. The bracelet, adorned with a beautiful diamond, exceeded my six-month rent. I turned it, and as it caught the light, seeing it on my finger made everything seem real in a scary way.

Josh's driver arrived promptly at 7 p.m. He properly welcomed me, opened the door, and gave me a stiff nod, as if he already understood what kind of deal this was.

Josh's penthouse matched my expectations perfectly. The penthouse exuded a sense of royalty over the city, boasting glass walls, smooth shadows, and a serene atmosphere. It was the kind of setting that suited his personality. He exuded simplicity, coldness, and a lack of personal touch.

He received me in the hall with his arms crossed and no grin. He looked like he was checking out new office furniture instead of welcoming his bride.

"You'll stay in the guest room across the hall." He pointed to a door and said, "This is the guest room."

"My staff will take care of your clothes."

I arched an eyebrow. "Is there anything else I should be careful about?" I asked in a neutral tone.

He looked down at my hands. "Mind your business and stay away from my office."

"Do you think I'm afraid I'll find out your secrets?" I asked with a grin.

He refused to fall for the trick. Rather, he stepped forward, his height and his upscale, clean scent encroaching on my personal space.

"Scared you won't make it through them."

Despite a slight flutter in my heart, I maintained my composure. "Then your door should always be locked."

Something in his eyes changed; maybe he was amused. Impressed? He turned away before I could figure it out.

"We will unpack your things for you."

The doors of the lift closed behind me with a hiss. I was in.

The guest room was bigger than my whole apartment. The bedding was clean, the windows were big, and the vista looked like it belonged in a magazine. But I wasn't concerned about being rich.

I sat on the bed and opened my notebook. It wasn't the one with my calendar or reminders; it was the other one. It was the real deal.

My father's notes were within. His last audit was before Reynolds Enterprises buried him. Handwritten notes and hastily scribbled numbers were present. There was Josh's name, in a circle. Underlined.

I ran my finger over it, and a sense of anger stirred within me. My dad put his faith in the wrong people. He lost everything, including his business, his reputation, and his life. It's Josh's time now. I would dismantle his world, just as he had dismantled my father's.

I couldn't sleep at midnight. My skin itched for some reason in the penthouse. The tranquility was almost perfect. I walked barefoot into the hallway and towards the kitchen. The marble flooring was cold on my skin.

Then I noticed light coming from behind a door. I halted, but then recalled his warning. Don't go near my office! But restrictions never stopped guys like Josh from hurting men like my dad. Why would they want to stop me?

I got closer and wrapped my fingers around the doorknob. It was open. "That was dumb and careless of him," I said softly. But I still turned it.

There was just one desk lamp in the room, and it produced long shadows on documents and screens. The office smelt like leather and sandalwood, which is a strong, manly scent. I carefully stepped inside, letting my eyes get used to the low light.

There were framed newspaper articles about Reynolds Enterprises' triumphs on the walls. Awards and plaques shone dully on the shelf. Everything on the large desk in the middle of the room was neatly arranged. I got closer and looked for anything useful, like a calendar, files, or notes.

On the desk was a photo of me from two years ago. I was outside the funeral for my father. That day was obvious in my mind, but I didn't remember anyone snapping pictures.

"What the hell?" I mumbled and then reached for it, but a shadow moved behind me and the door slammed shut.

"Sofia, are you looking for something?" I could hear his voice just behind me. His voice was pleasant, yet it carried a certain amount of risk.

I turned around carefully. Josh stood there with his sleeves rolled up and looked at me severely.

"I thought I told you to stay out." He moved forward, narrowing the gap. "You think you're the only one who is stubborn?"

I had to swallow hard. "What is this?" I attempted to speak steadily while pointing to the photo.

He looked at me as if he had anticipated my next words. Then he said absolutely, "We're both married to earn something"

SOFIA'S POV

"You're late," Josh said without looking up from his wine glass.

"I'm five minutes late," I replied, stepping out of my heels and letting them drop to the marble floor. "

He glanced up, eyes cool. "Punctuality says a lot about a person."

"So does obsession with it," I muttered, brushing past him to the dining room.

The dining room was a glossy display of wealth, polished table, crystal glasses, three-course meal waiting like we were the poster couple for perfect domesticity. Except we weren't. I pulled my chair out and sat without waiting for him to offer.

"You're quiet." I said, slicing into the salmon. "Not that I'm complaining."

"I talk when there's something worth saying." He cut into his steak with surgical precision.

I looked at him, studying the sharp lines of his face. He didn't blink. I held his stare for a second longer than polite, then dropped my eyes back to my plate.

"The red dress I sent for the gala," he began, still not looking at me. "Wear it."

"Any reason, or are you just obsessed with controlling everything I wear too?" I stabbed a roasted potato.

He gave a faint smile. "It would suit you. And it sends the right message."

"To who?" I asked confused

"Everyone." He took a sip of his wine, watching me over the rim of his glass.

I didn't respond. I couldn't afford to, not yet. He never mentioned the photograph again, and I never asked why he had been tracking me before our arrangement. Instead, we performed our roles with precision, loving couples in public, cold strangers in private.

After dinner, I retreated to my room. The mansion was colder than I imagined, both in temperature and atmosphere. The walls were adorned with art, but they felt impersonal, like decorations in a museum.

In my room, I dropped my bag on the chaise and stood before the full-length mirror. I stared at the woman I was pretending to be. Elegant, Composed, Beautiful and a lie wrapped in designer clothes and perfect makeup.

I peeled the earrings off one by one and placed them carefully in the jewelry tray. My hands trembled. The act was starting to eat into me. Pretending to be the perfect wife in public, smiling, touching his arm, laughing on cue, was beginning to feel like wearing someone else's skin.

"You're not real," I whispered to the woman in the mirror. "None of this is."

But still... Josh wasn't who I expected either. I thought he'd be more cruel, more reckless. But he was too calm, too precise, and sometimes. When he didn't know I was looking, there was something in his eyes that looked almost like loneliness. And when he was deep in thought, focused on work or reading, he was... well, handsome wasn't the right word. Magnetic, perhaps.

I shook the thought off and turned away. I couldn't afford doubt, not when I was this close.

The next morning, we left for the gala in silence. The driver took us in the black Rolls-Royce, and Josh sat beside me, unreadable behind his sunglasses. I crossed my legs and angled my body slightly away, as if physical distance could protect me from emotional proximity.

"You remember the plan?" he asked as we pulled up to the venue.

"Smile, wave, laugh at your jokes." I replied without looking at him, watching the valets rush to open doors for arriving guests.

"You forgot: stay by my side." He said calmly leaving no room for negotiation.

"I'll try not to get lost." I said dryly.

He offered his arm as the door opened. I hesitated, then took it. Flashes exploded around us like fireworks. I smiled, leaned in, pretended.

Inside, champagne flutes were already being passed around, and guests were mingling like they belonged in some 1920s fantasy. Everyone looked expensive, including me. Josh's fingers grazed the small of my back as we walked in tandem, an intimate touch meant for show.

"She's even more stunning in person," a woman said, approaching us. "You're a lucky man, Josh." She smiled,

Josh glanced at me. "She's... surprising."

Was that a compliment or a warning?

The night blurred into conversations and posed smiles. I knew how to play this game. For years I watched from the outside my father trying to earn the approval of men like Josh Reynolds. Now I was here, right inside the lion's den learning its rhythms and weaknesses.

I caught Josh watching me once across the ballroom. Just watching. I turned away before I could ask myself why he wasn't smiling, why he looked almost troubled.

Later that night, while he was talking to a senator about clean energy or tax loopholes, I slipped out to the balcony and exhaled.

Then my phone buzzed in my clutch. A message from Victor, the only one who knew my true intentions "Don't forget why you're there."

I read the message three times, then deleted it. I didn't need the reminder. But I also couldn't deny the tightening in my chest. The one that came from the way Josh had looked at me just an hour ago like maybe I wasn't just another pawn.

"Stupid." I turned to go back inside, only to find Josh standing in the doorway.

"Enjoying the night?" he asked, voice unreadable.

"Just needed air," I replied smoothly. "People get exhausting."

He studied me, his gaze traveling from my face down to the red dress and back again. "You looked like you were enjoying it."

"I'm good at pretending." The truth slipped out before I could stop it.

"Good," he said, moving closer. "You'll need that."

There was a pause. Too long to be casual.

"Why did you choose to marry me?" I asked before I could stop myself.

His eyes flickered. "We both needed something."

"That's not an answer." I said agitatedly.

He stepped closer, until he was just within reach.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Sofia."

He leaned in, his breath brushing my cheek. "The difference is, I invented the game." He walked away leaving me confused and oddly breathless.

I stayed on the balcony, watching the city lights blink in the distance. My phone buzzed again. Another message.

But it wasn't from Victor.

Unknown number.

"You're not the only one watching."

My stomach twisted. Was someone else following Josh? Or following me?

I left the balcony immediately and stepped back into the crowd. Everyone seemed absorbed in their conversations, their drinks, their social climbing. But someone out there knew more than they should.

SOFIA'S POV

"You didn't think to mention this in the contract that you have a child?"

Josh's voice cuts like broken glass, sharp and slicing through the silence of the living room. His eyes flick to the little girl sitting cross-legged on the cream rug, humming as she arranges puzzle pieces.

I keep my voice even. "She wasn't part of the contract. She's part of me."

Josh stepped closer, his voice low enough that only I could hear, eyes burning with barely contained anger. "You brought a child into my home without permission."

I kneel beside Eliza, brushing a loose curl from her forehead. She looks up at me with wide brown eyes, unaware of the storm building just feet away.

"You don't have to be involved," I say quietly. "She'll stay out of your way. She's six and needs a home." I didn't admit that the babysitter I'd arranged had a family emergency and my backup plan fell through, that I had nowhere else safe to take her.

"She needed your home," he snaps. "Not ours."

Ours. I never expected him to use that word. It makes the cold coil tighter around my ribs.

"She has no one else," I say, standing. "And I wasn't leaving her behind. If that's a problem-"

"It is a problem." His voice drops to a growl. "A child running through the hall, nannies, distractions, noise. This wasn't part of the deal, Sofia."

"No," I agree, forcing myself not to look away from his fierce gaze. "But I didn't think I needed to warn you about having a heart."

Josh stares at me for a long, pulsing moment. Then he scoffs, turns on his heel, and walks straight into the study, slamming the door behind him with enough force to make Eliza look up from her puzzle.

"Is he mad?" she asks in her small voice.

I crouch beside her, smoothing her hair. "No, sweetheart. He's just surprised. Adults get grumpy with surprises sometimes."

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

The silence in the mansion has changed.

Before, it was sharp, sterile. The kind of silence that echoes off untouched furniture and unused rooms. Now it's full of soft hums and light footsteps. Eliza fills it without trying, her laughter like tiny sunbeams piercing through the frost.

But Josh avoids her like she's a ghost haunting his perfect world.

I hear his footsteps vanish down hallways whenever he hears hers. During dinners, it's tense, quiet meals across a ten-foot table, he keeps his gaze fixed on his plate while Eliza chatters on about colors and clouds and the dreams she had the night before.

"Why doesn't he talk to me?" she asks me once, eyes blinking up at me as I tuck her into the guest room she's claimed as her own.

"Some people take time," I say, adjusting her covers. "Like flowers that bloom slowly."

She frowns. "He's a cactus."

I bite back a laugh. "Maybe."

Maybe he's worse than a cactus. Maybe he's stone-walling, unyielding. Maybe his walls are higher than I realized.

But I also see the small things. The way he pauses by the staircase when she's playing below, just long enough to listen. The way his eyes flick to the living room doorway when he hears her hiccuping from crying after a bad dream. He never steps in, but he notices. And that's something.

Three nights later, I found him in the kitchen.

It's late. I'm padding toward the fridge for water when I spot him at the counter, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. There's a whiskey glass in his hand and a tired slump in his shoulders that I've never seen before. He looks almost human, the armor of Josh Reynolds, corporate titan, momentarily set aside.

He doesn't look up when he speaks. "Is she yours?"

It takes me a bit to realize he's not talking about whiskey.

"Yes." I replied with my head lowered.

"And her father?" He asked, still not meeting my gaze.

I grip the fridge handle, heart tapping out a nervous beat. "Not in the picture."

"That's vague." He smirked, taking another sip of his whiskey.

"It's also none of your business." I snapped, grabbing a bottle of water with more force than necessary.

His gaze lifts then. Dark and unpredictable. "Everything under this roof is my business."

"No," I say, stepping toward him, voice low. "Our marriage is a business. She's family, there's a difference."

Josh tilts the glass to his lips. "You think this place is fit for a child?"

"No," I say, honestly. "But I'll make it fit."

There's a long stretch of quiet. Then he nods to the hallway, a gesture of dismissal or perhaps reluctant acceptance.

"She stays. But she's yours. Don't expect me to play daddy."

I exhale, a mix of relief and bitterness pooling in my chest. "I never asked you to."

"Good." He walks past me, brushing close enough that I catch a trace of his cologne. It clings to the air long after he's gone.

The next day, Eliza finds his office. I hear the sound of her little feet thudding down the hall, followed by the unmistakable creak of the heavy oak door. By the time I get there, it's too late.

She's inside standing in front of his desk, holding a crooked drawing made with her chunky crayons. A stick figure man in a gray suit, a woman with curly hair, and a tiny girl between them. Underneath it, in shaky pink letters: FAMILY.

Josh is staring at the paper like it might explode.

"Eliza," I say gently, stepping into the room. "Come on, sweetheart. Let's not bother-"

"I made it for him," she says, holding the paper higher. "See? That's you, and that's Mommy, and that's me!"

I swallow the knot rising in my throat. "Eliza" I tried again.

Josh rises slowly from his chair. His face is unreadable as he rounds the desk, stopping just in front of her.

"Is that me?" he asks, pointing to the drawing.

She nods. "You're the one in the suit. I gave you a smile because you don't smile much."

He stares at it for another second. Then without a word, he takes the paper from her and walks to the trash can.

My heart drops.

"Josh," I stepped forward.

But he's already dropped it in.

Eliza blinks. "Why did you?"

"Because," he says, voice cool. "We're not a family."

Her lip trembles. I move to her side, arms wrapping around her small frame, pulling her close. She buries her face in my waist, sniffling.

"Come on, sweetheart," I whisper, rage building inside me. "Let's go."

As I led her out, I looked over my shoulder just once. Josh is standing by the window, back turned.

He never looked at us.

That night, I didn't sleep. I watch Eliza curled up beside me, her tiny fingers gripping the edge of the blanket like she's afraid of being pulled away.

I should have known better. Should've never let her near him. She's not part of this war. She's the only pure thing left in my world. And now she's hurt. I stare at the ceiling, fists clenched.

This wasn't part of the plan. But now, it is.

He doesn't get to destroy what's mine.

Not again.

I slipped out of bed once Eliza is deeply asleep. I need clear thoughts, not clouded by emotion. My revenge requires precision.

And then, when I pass Josh's study again, I notice something strange. His door was left open. The lights were on. And on the far wall, just behind his desk, the crayon drawing is pinned up. I froze.

Something twists in my chest. Something I don't have a name for, but I ignored and turned to leave, a voice breaking the silence behind me.

"You weren't supposed to see that." Josh said.

But I don't know what to say, I don't know how to reconcile the man who threw away a child's drawing with the one who secretly rescued it. So I ignored and went straight to my room.

The next morning, a package awaited me at the breakfast table. Inside was a photograph, my father, standing beside Josh, both smiling.

A note accompanied it: "Things aren't always as they seem."

My hands trembled. Trying to read the meaning of the letter, but I couldn't.