Married for Revenge

The hum of fluorescent lights along the hospital corridor was barely sufficient to mask the silence Isla Grant had grown used to. She sat alone in a worn vinyl chair, her hands trembling around a clipboard. The bill in front of her was the same one she had been studying yesterday-and the day before-but somehow, today it looked worse than ever.

$198,450.32.

And climbing.

Isla panted and looked up through the little glass window. Her father lay motionless in his bed, wires drawn out of his chest, an oxygen tube in his nose. The machines beeped steadily across him, a strange kind of rhythm that had become her substitute heart.

She'd already sold the car. Cashed out what was left of her 401$. Called every distant relative who still picked up when she called. Nothing.

The soft buzz of her phone in her coat pocket jolted her. She pulled it out quickly, desperate for a miracle.

"Hello?" she whispered.

"Miss Grant. This is Human Resources at PenMark & Associates." The voice was clipped, emotionless. "We've sent three formal warnings. Due to your ongoing absences and missed deadlines, we're terminating your employment, effective immediately."

Isla sat frozen. "Please-wait. My father's in critical condition. I've submitted notices-"

"I understand. But this is not negotiable. We apologize."

The phone clicked dead.

Her phone slipped from her grasp, falling to the floor with a clatter. Isla didn't move. She didn't even blink. Her livelihood was gone. Her father's bills weren't paid. Her life was falling apart before her and she could only sit and see it burn down around her.

A few blocks down, Alexander Milton sat silently on the top floor of his Manhattan skyscraper. Dusk seeped through windows that ran floor to ceiling, casting shadows across his angular face. He leaned back in his leather chair, gazing down into the open file on the desk in front of him.

It was thorough. His private investigator had delivered, as always.

Isla Grant. Age: 24. Occupation: Administrative assistant (presently fired). Current occupation: Waitress in Eden Bistro.

Alexander's gray eyes turned darker upon reading the name of her father. Daniel Grant. The man who had changed his life forever. The man who'd taken his mom.

He remembered the crash easily-his mother's car around a lamppost, her body pulled from the wreckage. Alexander had been fifteen. Daniel Grant had walked away from the crash with cracked ribs and a suspended license.

Alexander never had walked away at all.

Daniel Grant was dying now, and his daughter-Isla-was on the brink of poverty. This was the moment Alexander had spent years waiting for.

He picked up his phone. "Booked a table at Eden Bistro, private. Tell them to speak to the manager. Get them to have a specific waitress wait on me tonight-Isla Grant."

"Yes, Mr. Milton," came the swift reply.

Alexander closed the folder and fussed with his cufflinks. Time to spring the trap.

The scent of grilled sea bass and garlic butter lingered in the back hall of Eden Bistro. Isla tied her apron tightly around her waist, pulling her hair back with fingers that still trembled from her earlier phone call.

Her manager, Tony, met her at the staff entrance, arms crossed. "You're late again."

"I'm sorry-my dad-"

I don't hear excuses. You're lucky I didn't fill in for you tonight. We have a VIP table. Man requested you in particular."

Isla blinked. "Me? That's not possible."

Tony shoved a notecard into the palm of her hand. "Table 7. And for once, please don't screw this up."

Her pride stung, but she nodded. This job-her sole remaining source of income-was all she had left.

She weaved her way around the bistro, skirting close-clumped tables and muffled chatter. At Table 7, she saw him.

He sat alone, leaning against a leather booth as if he owned the establishment. His charcoal-colored suit hugged his broad shoulders. His black hair was slicked back, and a heavy gold watch reflected the light on his wrist. But his eyes stopped her-gray, cold, impenetrable.

He refused to look up as she approached.

"Evening. I'm Isla, I'll be waiting for you tonight. Would you have me-"

"I'll have a bottle of Château Lafite. 2000 vintage."

She hesitated. "That's not something on our-"

"Look at your reserve list. You'll see it," he commanded, voice firm but measured.

She smiled tactfully and moved away, flustered. There was something about him that flustered her. Like he knew her. Like he'd been watching her for a very long time.

It took fifteen minutes for Isla to return with the bottle clutched in her hand. She set it down gently on the table and raised the label.

Alexander barely glanced at it. "Open it."

She carefully uncorked the wine, praying her shaking hands wouldn't screw up. As she poured the glasses, he spoke.

"How long have you worked here?"

She glanced up. "Two years."

He hummed, as if the fact was a statistic that mattered to him.

"You must be bone-weary," he said. "Working two jobs. Running back and forth to a hospital all the time. And the debt... "

Her hands slipped. The wine spilled. A dark red splatter marked the white tablecloth.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry-" she cried.

The manager was there in seconds. "Mr. Milton, we apologize deeply. Isla-into the kitchen. Immediately."

"It was an accident," she whispered.

Tony's voice became icy. "I said immediately."

She obeyed. Again. Swallowing her humiliation step by step.

Isla sat outside the restaurant, legs tucked under her, apron folded in her lap twice. Her eyes were brimming with unshed tears. Things were slipping out of her hands, and she didn't even have the energy left to fight it.

The door opened behind her. Tony emerged, massaging the back of his neck.

"Come on, Isla. That guy is important. He made it clear he didn't want you around anymore after that fiasco."

Her voice cracked. "So I'm fired?"

His silence was enough.

She nodded, then stood on legs that barely held her up.

The cold night air bit through her coat as she walked toward the hospital, hands shoved deep in her pockets. Every step was heavier than the last.

No job. No money. And now the only thing she had left was hope-and even that was hanging by a thread.

She made it to the corner outside the hospital just as a black sports car stopped next to her. The window rolled down.

"Get in."

Isla turned slowly. Alexander was behind the steering wheel, one arm draped over the door.

"You got me fired," she croaked.

He didn't blink. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you need to experience rock bottom before you'll accept what I'm offering."

"I don't want anything from you.".

He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a gold-trimmed folder. He held it out to her.

"This is a contract," he said. "Marriage. Two years. I'll pay for everything-your father's treatment, the debts, even a monthly stipend. But you'll be mine. Publicly. Legally. Exclusively."

She didn't take it.

"I'm not for sale."

He leaned forward. "You are now."

Her eyes burned with fury and confusion. "Why me? Why this?"

His jaw hardened. "Because your father owes me something that cannot ever be paid back. And this is how I get it."

She stared at him. At the man who held her future in his palm like a contract.

Alexander said no more. He closed the folder and placed it beside her on the seat.

"Take all the time you need. But not too much. Your father doesn't have it."

And so, the car door had closed, and he was lost.

Leaving Isla in the dark street. Cold. Shivering. Holding a contract that could save her father-and destroy her.

The fluorescent lights in the hospital corridor dimmed for a moment, their lightless gleam illuminating Isla as she sat swaddled in a plastic chair, the envelope clutched like a blade between her fingers. The hospital's background hum-the constant beep of the monitors, the muted murmur of the nurses, the distant code call-was background noise for the hurricane storming within her.

Inside the room beside her, her father was out cold. Tubes inserted into his arms, machinery controlled every breath he made, and a pale blue sheet covered a frame that once stood firm and tall. Isla held the envelope against her chest, hoping the pressure would somehow push logic into her fractured head.

She had read the contract four times. Every stipulation seared itself into her mind like acid.

Two years.

No annulment.

Must attend functions as Alexander's wife.

No romantic entanglement with others.

The financial reward was enormous-well more than enough to cover her father's increasing expenses and take care of him for the long haul. But the cost wasn't just about business. It was about personal. It was a sale of herself. Of her dignity. Her freedom. Her name.

Walls began to close in. She got up, suddenly needing air.

She pushed open the stairwell door and climbed two flights before she realized she was crying. Her body shook as muffled sobs ripped through her chest. She sat down on the step, forehead against her knees, trying to gather up the shards of her composure.

Her phone buzzed on her thigh. Nina.

She hesitated, then answered on a raw, "Hey.".

"Isla?" Nina's voice cracked with concern. "What's going on? You sound like you're suffocating."

Isla didn't reply immediately. Her breath came in short, and that was enough.

"What happened?" Nina asked again. "Is it your dad?"

"No," Isla whispered. "Yes. It's... it's all of it."

Nina didn't fill the silence. She waited for Isla to draw in a second before she asked softly, "Speak to me.".

Isla struggled to breathe. "I lost a job. The Administrative Assistant one. And I got fired from the restaurant some time ago. Dad is unstable. The hospital is pressuring me for an answer. I don't have enough. I'll never have enough."

A pause. Then, gradually: "What are you going to do?"

Isla pulled the envelope out of her wallet. The edges were already worn, like her. "Alexander Milton offered me money. To treat my dad. In exchange for... a marriage contract."

The line was quiet.

Then, Nina: "What the devil are you saying?"

"I'd be his wife. Two years. No annulment." Her voice cracked. "He's offering full coverage of the hospital expenses, a private suite for my dad, and financial security. All legal. It's... it's in writing."

"You're not doing this," Nina snapped. "You don't have to prostitute your life to some heartless bastard-especially him."

"It's not like that," Isla said, though even she didn't believe her words.

"It's like that. Isla, this man hates you. Your dad's past is what's driving him to stalk you like a vulture. This is revenge in silk."

Isla didn't argue. She couldn't.

"But he's all that's helping," she whispered.

The silence that followed.

Then Nina whispered, "Come home. We'll figure this out."

"I can't. There isn't any time." She paused. "I just... I needed someone to know. That I tried."

Nina's voice was trembling. "I'm not sending you into this man's life and disappearing. You call me the moment he lays hands on you, you hear me?"

"I hear you."

They let the phone fall.

Later that evening, Isla was sitting with the hospital's financial administrator. The woman was compassionate, but firm. "We can only keep you insured until Friday. After that... without payment, we can't offer ongoing treatment. I'm so sorry."

Isla nodded, blinking fast. "Thank you."

She returned to her father's bedside.

He looked so small now.

"Daddy," she whispered, taking his hand. "I'm going to fix this. I'll do whatever it takes."

Her thumb brushed over his skin. For a moment, she imagined his eyes opening. Telling her not to do it. That she was worth more than this bargain. But the machines were the only voices in the room.

The next morning, Isla stood outside Milton Tower, the contract in her hand.

She hadn't slept. Her hands trembled as she walked into the marbled entrance hall, a jarring contrast to her second-hand jacket and scuffed boots.

The receptionist blinked. "Name?"

"Isla Grant. I have an appointment with Mr. Milton."

"Of course." The receptionist's eyes flicked to the security monitor before pressing a button. "He's expecting you."

Of course he was.

A silent elevator ride later, she was ushered into Alexander Milton's office. It was glass and steel, perched high over the skyline like a throne over the world. Behind a monolithic desk, dark suit perfect, unreadable face.

"Miss Grant," he said smoothly. "I didn't expect you to come back."

"I didn't expect to either," she said, leaving the contract hanging between them.

His gray eyes flashed across her face. "And?"

"I'm here to sign," she affirmed, her voice firm amidst her racing heart. "But I have conditions."

That pleased him. "Do you?"

"I desire my father in a private hospital suite with twenty-four-hour care. No news media allowed anywhere near him. And I desire assurance-in writing-that this contract keeps him safe no matter what transpires between us."

Alexander relaxed back. "Very well. I'll have my lawyers insert the conditions. Anything else?"

"Yes. Don't pretend this is love. Don't insult me with lies."

His jaw twitched, but he said nothing.

She opened the pen that came with the envelope. It was heavier than expected. Custom-made, gold-trimmed, engraved with initials: H.M.

His mother's initials.

Her hand paused.

Then she signed.

It felt like signing away her identity.

Alexander picked up the pen and signed beneath hers. "Congratulations," he said, standing. "I'll have the paperwork filed by this evening."

She turned away, throat constricted.

"Isla," he said, and she braced herself.

He circled the desk, standing two feet from her. He watched her deftly for a moment, something almost tender in his eyes-before it was extinguished again.

"I'll have someone pick you up tomorrow to bring you in for your fitting. You'll need a dress."

Her stomach dropped. "Fitting?"

"Our wedding," he said, voice cold over ice. "It's this Saturday."

The word slapped her.

Wedding.

As if this were occurring. As if she were a bride, not a negotiable.

"Don't be late," Alexander tossed back as he pulled out his chair.

Isla said nothing.

She stepped into the elevator, wheezing for air, breast burning.

She had signed a contract.

Now, she had four days. to be somebody else's wife.

The sun beamed in through Isla's apartment's worn blinds in the morning, but it failed to warm her-only bright light that she had to squint her eyes against as her phone rang incessantly on her nightstand. Her heart was racing before she even got out of bed. There were dozens of missed calls, unread texts, and notifications stacked up like a tower of fear.

The first text from Nina was:

> "Isla. What the actual hell is this? Pick up your damn phone."

The second, from a former work friend:

> "You didn't mention you were getting married to Alexander Milton?? Girl, you BROKE the internet."

And finally, the worst of the bunch-an alert on a celebrity news web page, her face on the screen under the title:

"Billionaire Alexander Milton Engaged to Mystery Waitress in Stunning Power Play"

Isla looked at the photo in disbelief. It was an impromptu photo, likely snapped without her knowing, outside the restaurant. Her hair was pulled back into a sleep-deprived ponytail, apron streaked, eyes puffy. It made her look fragile. Vulnerable. An extreme contrast to the man she was seemingly going to marry.

Alexander was stone-like in his photo-icy, coiffed, impenetrable. A storm in a three-piece suit.

She read the article, stomach churning with bile as it spoke of their relationship as some fantasy Cinderella fairy story. No mention of contracts. No mention of the cost paid.

When the knock came at her door, sharp and insistent, she already had an idea who it was. Isla barely opened it before Nina pushed in, wrapped in a trench coat and wrath.

"You didn't bother to tell me you signed the contract?" Nina snapped, her eyes fiery. "You allowed me to find it on a tabloid page like some other woman?"

"Isla, I was going to-"

"When, Isla? After you walked down the aisle with the devil?"

"I didn't have a choice!" Isla's voice cracked, and the words spilled out of her like steam from a pressure valve. "I didn't want this. It's for my dad. He needs to have surgery, and this-this was the only way."

Nina froze. Her chest locked. Isla caught sight of the expression of recognition, of pain easing enough for worry. "What are you saying, the only way? What did he offer you again?"

Isla stepped back, the weight of the contract still pressing against her like a boulder under her ribs. "Two years. Marriage. Public appearances. Silence about the past. And in exchange-he'll pay the bills, cover the surgery, do it all."

Nina blinked, once, twice. "He's buying you, Isla."

Isla nodded slowly. "I know."

There was a silence. Then Nina shifted over and wrapped her arms around Isla tightly, protectively. "I loathe this. I despise him. But I'm not going to leave you."

The hug nearly killed her.

Later that afternoon, Isla posed beneath fluorescent lights in a bridal salon that smelled of cash and roses. The lace wedding dress fell across her like something borrowed-cinched, lovely, expensive. She hardly recognized the girl looking back at her.

A woman fluttered around tacking up the hem, but Isla was distracted by the entrance as the familiar click of heels echoed through the boutique. The air was suddenly acrid. She looked up.

Camila Vaughn, Alex's ex-fiancee.

Covered in white fur, red lips neatly painted, Camila didn't even pretend to be surprised at seeing Isla. Her eyes were glinting with something unpleasant as she made her way towards her.

I hardly dared to believe it," Camila said condescendingly, scrutinizing Isla as one would inspect a flea market find. "But then again, Alexander has always had a weakness for charity cases."

Isla's hands clenched at her sides, but she didn't speak.

Camila took up residence. "You really think because you stand here in front of me in lace and satin that you've gained something? Please, sweetheart. That man does not marry women-he hires them. He's through with them, he discards them. And you're already falling behind."

Isla gagged. "Then why did you come?"

"Because I wanted to see it for myself," Camila said, a smile stretching her face. "The girl he's chosen to shame himself with."

Before Isla could utter a word, Camila spun around and departed, perfume trailing like poison in the air.

The dress was too heavy now, as if it might shatter her bones.

Across town, Alexander stood in his father's private office-a large corner room with views of Manhattan. Leather armchairs, crystal decanters, and centuries of money permeated the room like oil.

You're crazy," James Milton exclaimed, slamming a print of the engagement headline on the table between them. "A waitress? You think this is how our family maintains power?"

Alexander's position was ramrod-straight. "It has nothing to do with power."

"Then why? Is it guilt? Desire? Sentiment?"

"It's strategy.".

James's eyes narrowed. "Tactics that leave you looking weak. She is the daughter of the man who killed your mother, and now you parade her as your bride? What's the plan?"

Alexander's voice was firm. "You wouldn't know."

"No. I wouldn't. Because you were taught to conquer, not stoop to humiliating yourself for some broken girl with tears in her eyes.".

Alexander's jaw relaxed, the fire of anger in his eyes dwindling. "It's done."

His father's gaze turned cold. "Well, then you'd best hope it was worth it."

That night, Isla returned home, shoulders slumped under unspoken weights. Her phone had finally gone quiet. The media storm had blown over-at least, for now-but damage had been done. Everyone recognized her name. Everyone had an opinion.

She stood in silence until someone knocked again. This time, a man in a gray suit-a delivery man long with Conor, Alex's Assistant. The delivery man delivered an envelope, smiled politely, and left without a word.

Inside was one sheet of paper, printed on heavy, handsome card stock.

> The Milton Family humbly invites you to join us for the marriage of Alexander Milton and Isla Grant.

Saturday, 12:00 PM | The Glass Pavilion, Fifth Avenue.

Formal attire. No exceptions for arriving.

Conor glanced aside, his gaze not being able to reciprocate hers. No escape. No delay. No turning back.

She placed the invitation alongside the contract and pushed them along the kitchen counter as a unit.

There was no room for dreams anymore. Only duties. Only commitments.

The wedding was drawing near. And she was walking toward it with open eyes-and a closing heart.