Vows Of Convenience: A Deal Went Wrong

Carrie.

Humming is one of the few things I genuinely enjoy. It's my little escape, something I fall back on whenever I'm stuck doing things I'd rather not. Like now, for instance, as I busied myself cleaning yet another hotel room, I hummed quietly to myself. A simple tune, aimless and soft, but enough to distract me from the reality of the moment.

Truth be told, I hate my job.

I mean, who in their right mind would enjoy scrubbing toilets, changing sweaty sheets, or picking up after complete strangers, most of whom were spoiled, rich brats who thought "maid" meant "personal servant"? The work was exhausting and thankless, and every day felt like a test of how far I was willing to go just to get by.

As I moved toward the bed to change the linens, something caught my eye: a cellphone lying near the pillows. I picked it up, glanced at the screen, and made a mental note to drop it off at the front desk. Lost and found would handle it. Without much thought, I slipped it into the front pocket of my apron and continued working.

Just as I was smoothing out the fresh sheets, my phone rang. Startled, I reached into my apron and pulled out a phone, only to realize it wasn't mine but the one I'd just found. Shaking my head, I quickly returned it to my pocket and retrieved my own.

The caller ID made my stomach clench.

It was the hospital.

The reason I was stuck in this soul-sucking job in the first place.

I walked over to the window, trying to steady my breath as I answered the call. "Hello?"

"Hi, Carrie. I just wanted to let you know your brother woke up a few minutes ago," the voice on the other end said quickly, her words rushed but familiar. Andie: nurse, best friend, and the only reason I hadn't completely lost it.

Relief washed over me for a moment until reality snapped back into place. "How is he, Andie? Is there any improvement?"

There was a pause. Then her voice dropped lower, tinged with dread. "He's not doing better, Carrie. You need to find the money soon. If we wait the full three months for the surgery, there's a chance he might never walk again. The earlier we do it, the higher his chances."

Her words echoed in my chest, heavy and sharp. I pressed my forehead against the glass and stared blankly at the streets of New York below. The city buzzed with life, but mine felt like it was falling apart.

Peter. My little brother. The only family I had left in the world.

What would I do if I lost him? The thought alone was enough to make my chest tighten and my throat ache with unshed tears.

"I'm still trying," I whispered, barely able to keep the desperation from cracking my voice. "I'm working as hard as I can, every hour I can get. But I don't have anything. Nothing I can sell, nothing to fall back on. No savings, no assets... no one I can turn to for help."

I took a shaky breath, staring out the window as if the streets of New York might somehow offer answers.

"I don't even have anyone I could borrow money from," I admitted, my voice low with shame. "It's just me. Me and whatever hours I can put in scrubbing floors and changing sheets. And it's not enough. It's never enough."

I closed my eyes, clenching my fists at my sides.

Please don't take him away from me...

Since the diagnosis of a tumor in his leg, my world had slowly begun to crumble. We'd been in and out of hospitals, scraping together money, making endless payments. And now, with the surgery looming, we were nowhere near the amount we needed.

So here I was, cleaning hotel rooms and humming just to stay sane.

Because if I didn't work my ass off every single day, I might lose the one person I couldn't bear to live without.

I ended the call with a murmured thank you, though it felt hollow in my mouth. Nothing about this situation felt right. As much as I tried to keep my emotions bottled up, I could feel the pressure building behind my eyes, threatening to spill over.

I couldn't afford to cry.

Crying didn't pay medical bills. Crying didn't save my brother's leg. Crying wouldn't get me out of this life I was barely surviving.

I took a deep breath, wiped my hands on my apron, and returned to making the bed like nothing had happened. Like my world wasn't quietly falling apart while I took care of people's untidiness.

"Hey."

The voice was smooth, deep and calm, like a low chord on a piano. I looked up, and the sight before me quite literally stole the breath from my lungs.

Standing just a few feet away was, without exaggeration, the most stunning man I had ever seen.

My mouth parted, ready to respond, but the words got stuck somewhere between my brain and lips. Nothing came out. I just stood there, dumbstruck, my lips slightly parted like an idiot.

He was tall, immensely tall. Towering, really. At least six-foot-five, maybe even pushing six-foot-seven. Broad shoulders filled out a sharp, tailored black suit that hugged his frame like it had been stitched directly onto his body. The cut was impeccable, classic and modern all at once, the jacket nipping in slightly at the waist to emphasize his powerful build. The black fabric shimmered faintly under the hotel's soft lighting, like shadow woven into silk.

Black looked like a color invented just for him.

The jacket's sleeves hugged his biceps just right, hinting at the strength beneath. His shirt, crisp, white, and open at the collar, provided the perfect contrast, a flash of light beneath the darkness of the suit. His tie was missing, and somehow that made him look even more effortlessly captivating. Not polished to perfection, no, this man didn't need perfection to look powerful. He was power.

His face was the kind sculptors must dream of, angular and hard, with high cheekbones, a strong, chiseled jawline, and lips that were full but firm. His eyes were sharp, a deep gray, stormy and unreadable set beneath thick brows that gave him an almost regal intensity. His hair was dark, nearly black, swept back in a slightly tousled way that made him look like he belonged both on the cover of a fashion magazine and at the head of a boardroom table.

Everything about him radiated quiet control, the kind that didn't need to be loud to be respected or feared.

My fingers itched with the strangest urge to reach out, to feel the fabric of his suit, to see if it was as smooth as it looked... or maybe to confirm he was real. Because standing there, he didn't look real. He looked like a beautiful mirage, conjured from the universe just to mess with my already fragile day.

Somewhere in the fog of my admiration, my brain managed to reboot and remind me I needed to actually say something. Just as I finally opened my mouth to speak, he beat me to it.

"I think I forgot my phone somewhere around here," he said, his voice smooth and confident, just like everything else about him.

I blinked, staring up at him again as if seeing him for the first time, even though I hadn't looked away for more than a second. My mind scrambled to catch up. Right. The phone. The one I'd found on the bed earlier.

Protocol was clear: I was supposed to take any found items straight to the front desk, especially something as valuable as a cellphone. For all I knew, he wasn't the one who stayed in the room. Even if he had, how could I be sure the phone was his? But in that moment, my brain wasn't interested in following protocol. It wasn't interested in logic at all.

It was too busy trying not to melt under his gaze.

Without thinking, I reached into the front pocket of my apron and pulled out the phone. I held it out to him, a reflex more than a decision.

That's when he laughed.

Not just a chuckle. A full, amused laugh, rich and annoyingly beautiful.

"So you were going to steal my phone?"

His words hit me like cold water.

Excuse me?

My jaw clenched as heat rushed to my cheeks, not the flattered kind from before, but the infuriated kind that burned. I looked up at him sharply, my eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?" I echoed, my voice low, clipped.

A hundred biting comebacks crowded my throat. I could have torn into him, told him exactly what I thought of people who made assumptions, who mocked the working class like it was a sport. But I didn't. I couldn't. Because one slip of the tongue could cost me more than just my pride, it could cost me my job. And I couldn't afford that. Not now. Not ever.

So I swallowed the words. Every single bitter, satisfying one of them.

Ty.

I watched her closely, saw the way her jaw tightened as she swallowed back the words she really wanted to say. My eyes danced with amusement; I didn't even bother to hide it. She was furious, humiliated, and clearly trying not to let it show. It was almost... entertaining.

Not that I truly believed she intended to steal my phone. I couldn't care less about that. Hell, even if she did, I'd get it back if I wanted it back. I own this hotel, after all. Nothing goes missing here; no one has ever complained that they forgot something here and did not find it. I've spent years building this place to be as efficient and unbreakable as the empire I intend to keep growing.

No, this wasn't about the phone.

It was about backing her into a corner. Seeing how she responded under pressure. Pushing buttons, her pride, her fear, her limits. Maybe that makes me a bastard. Fine. I've been called worse. It doesn't change anything.

Because right now, I'm the one in a corner.

And I need a wife.

Fast.

There's a major contract on the table, one that could elevate my company to a whole new level. But along with that opportunity comes a spotlight I don't particularly want shining on my past.

Three years ago, everything nearly fell apart. A scandal broke out, one I had absolutely nothing to do with. But the timing was perfect, too perfect. I was accused, dragged through the mud, and for a while, it felt like the entire business world had turned its back on me. By the time I discovered it was all orchestrated by a rival trying to tank my reputation, the damage had already been done. My name was cleared legally, but in the court of public opinion, things are never that simple.

Sure, I cleaned it up. I salvaged what I could, rebuilt what they tried to destroy. But one thing stuck: the image. The playboy reputation. The rumors, the women, the nightlife. They've clung to me like a second skin, and no amount of press releases or charity events has managed to strip it off.

That kind of image doesn't go unnoticed in the corporate world. Investors might smile at the numbers, but boardrooms are full of traditionalists, people who still believe that a man with a wife is a man they can trust with their money. Stability. Respectability. Control.

And so, here I am, back in the spotlight again. My business is on the line. This contract could change everything or destroy what I've fought so hard to rebuild.

I don't believe in love. I don't need a soulmate. But I do need a wife. A well-timed, well-behaved, perfectly ordinary wife. Someone who looks the part and plays it well enough to make the world stop asking questions.

If marriage is the only thing standing between me and everything I've worked for, then fine.

Let's get it over with.

Getting a woman? That's never been a problem. My contact list reads like a who's who of Manhattan's most beautiful women, socialites, influencers, models, and heiresses. I've slept with more of them than I can remember, and most would gladly marry me in a heartbeat if I asked.

But that's exactly the problem.

They'd want things: love, exclusivity, a piece of my soul I'm not willing to give. They'd expect candlelight and soft words and some grand emotional payoff. I'm not interested in any of that. Never have been. Love? It's a nice word people use to mask need, obsession, or fear of loneliness. I've never seen it last; hell, most people don't even love their own families. So why expect it from strangers?

Sure, women like to believe it's real. I've had enough of them tell me they love me. Some were even convinced I felt the same, just because I know how to touch a woman like she matters. I appreciate the female body; it's a work of art. And I worship it with the reverence it deserves. That doesn't mean I want forever.

Which brings me back to her.

What I need isn't love. It's control. Agreement. A transaction.

I want someone desperate. Someone I can bind to me with paper and money, not promises and emotion. Someone who won't demand more than I'm offering, someone who can't afford to.

And she... she might be perfect.

I heard her earlier, on the phone, speaking softly near the window. I hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but her voice carried, and I'm always listening. Something about a brother in the hospital. Urgency in her tone. Pain in her eyes.

People like her, maids, workers scraping by, they all need money. But this one? She needs it now. She's drowning.

Which means I have two things I can use to corner her: desperation... and the illusion of rescue.

Call me what you want.

But I always get what I want.

"I intended to send it to the lost and found section," she said softly, the mischievous glint that had flickered in her eyes moments before now completely gone. Her tone had shifted, calmer and more reserved. There was a quiet dignity in her voice, the kind you hear from people who are used to being misunderstood but no longer waste energy defending themselves.

Perfect.

My plan was about to begin.

"I heard your conversation on the phone," I said, letting the words drop slowly, watching her every reaction. "You need money, and I'm in a position to help. Also, I'm willing to forget the fact that you almost walked away with my phone."

Her head jerked up slightly, her brows knitting, but her voice remained even.

"I wasn't going to steal," she replied with quiet firmness, no hint of fear in her eyes, just tired defiance.

I offered her a practiced smile, one of the many I kept for moments like this, polished and persuasive.

"Let's say I believe you," I said smoothly. "Regardless, my offer still stands."

She narrowed her eyes. "What's the catch?"

Smart girl, I thought. At least she understood that no one handed out help without a reason. Nothing is ever truly free, not in Freetown, not anywhere in this world.

"We get married," I said, watching her face carefully. "A marriage of convenience. No strings. Just a contract between two people who need something."

"Hmmm..." she murmured, not quite surprised but far from convinced.

That was when I really looked at her, truly looked.

She wasn't the kind of beautiful that turned heads in a crowd. No. Hers was the quiet kind of beauty, the sort that didn't demand attention but held it anyway. Her skin was smooth and warm-toned, glowing even beneath the harsh yellow lighting of the hotel room. Her lips were full, unpainted, and slightly chapped, the kind of mouth that probably rarely smiled these days.

Her eyes, they were what struck me most. Large and dark, like pools of ink, with a stillness that felt unnatural for someone so young. She didn't blink often, and there was no softness there, only exhaustion and something else: resolve.

Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, a few strands falling around her cheeks in a way that made her look unintentionally elegant. There was no trace of luxury on her, no jewelry, no perfume, no manicured hands. Just a plain maid's uniform and the faint scent of lemon cleaner clinging to her skin.

Life had humbled her. That much was clear. And yet, she hadn't broken.

Perfect.

She stared at me, unblinking, as if trying to decide whether I was insane or, worse, serious.

"A marriage?" she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. The word hung in the air like smoke, foreign, unbelievable.

I could see the war playing out behind her eyes. Her face remained still, but her fingers tightened slightly around the hem of her apron. She was thinking fast, calculating how far was too far when your back was against the wall.

"I don't even know you," she said finally, though her voice had lost some of its bite.

"I'm not asking for your heart," I replied smoothly. "Just your signature and maybe a smile when necessary."

Her lips parted slightly as if she were about to argue, but then... nothing. Just silence. Her eyes flicked away, toward the floor, then the ceiling, then the window, like she was searching for something, maybe an answer, or maybe a way out.

"My brother," she said quietly, almost to herself. "He needs surgery. They said, if we wait too long, he might not walk again."

I said nothing. I didn't need to. The silence was her space to break.

"I've been working double shifts, skipping meals, and sleeping four hours a night, just trying to gather a fraction of what we need. And it's still not enough." She swallowed, her throat visibly moving. "So you want to help me. In exchange for what? A ring? A last name?"

"A contract," I repeated, my voice calm and controlled. "Legally binding. For a fixed period, long enough to convince the world this is real, short enough not to trap either of us. You'll play the role of the loving, devoted wife in public. At events. Around business associates. With the media. You'll wear the ring, smile when needed, and stand by my side."

I paused, letting the weight of my words settle before continuing. "In return, you'll be paid generously. Not just a one-time fee. You'll receive a full settlement once the agreement is fulfilled, and in the meantime, you'll get a monthly allowance. Enough to live comfortably. More than comfortably."

I stepped a little closer, watching her carefully.

"You'll still have your freedom, as long as it doesn't interfere with the image we're creating. You do you; I do me. We live under the same roof, but we're not expected to play house behind closed doors, unless, of course, it's necessary for appearances."

She remained still, her eyes unreadable, but I could tell she was listening, really listening now.

"As for your brother," I added, softening my tone just enough to cut through the tension, "I'll cover his surgery. Move him to a private, state-of-the-art hospital. Get him the best surgeon available. After that, I'll arrange for a proper rehabilitation center, private, clean, and peaceful. He'll have his own room, a personal nurse, everything he needs."

Her lips parted, but no words came. "You'll also have access to anything you need," I went on. "Clothes, a car, even an education, if you want it. You'll live life with freedom, but a curated kind of freedom. I won't control you, but you will have to consider the image I need you to portray. How you present yourself will matter, because your image becomes mine."

I gave her one final look, measured and direct. "It's not a fairy tale. It's a transaction. But it's a transaction that could save your brother's life and change yours forever."

She laughed, but it wasn't a happy laugh; it was short, brittle, and tinged with disbelief.

"Just like that," she murmured. "From cleaning your sheets to wearing your ring."

Her eyes rose to meet mine again, and this time, they weren't calm. They were burning.

"You think because I'm desperate, I'll say yes without thinking. You think because I wear this uniform, you can throw me a bone, and I'll wag my tail in return."

I stayed quiet, letting her vent.

Then her shoulders sagged. The fire dimmed, swallowed up by fatigue.

"But you're right," she whispered. "I am desperate."

She looked down at her hands, pale against the dark fabric of her apron.

"So what's in the contract?"

Carrie.

I looked at him, suspicion swirling in my chest. This, all of this, sounded far too good to be true. A man like him-rich, powerful, and devastatingly handsome-could have any woman he wanted with the snap of his fingers. The fact that he was sitting across from me, proposing marriage, felt unreal. Why me?

I waited, studying him, hoping he would finally break down the terms of the contract. But the way he hesitated, how he kept choosing his words like he was trying not to startle me, made something in me tighten. It was almost like he was dancing around something... something that would change everything.

Still, I reminded myself, I would do anything for Peter. If this man could give my brother a fighting chance, surgery, aftercare, everything, then what was a little freedom to sacrifice? It's not like I had much of it to begin with. And love? Romance? That had always been a dream too far for someone like me. I'd never even had a real relationship. No one would be hurt by my decision, no one, except maybe me.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, fatigue catching up to me like a weight on my shoulders. "What exactly is in the contract?" I asked again, my voice quieter now, a mixture of exhaustion and growing uncertainty.

"Nothing much," he replied, lowering himself into a chair across the room, deliberately far from me, like even the air between us was something he didn't want to share, like he did not want me touching him.

Not like I had any intention of touching him.

He leaned back, his expression unreadable. "You'd be supporting my public and professional image. That's it. Your character would need to be above question. You'd have to maintain a clean, respectable presence, especially around the press. No scandals, no surprises."

I nodded slowly; that was easy, but then he continued, and the words caught me off guard.

"If you take a lover," he said smoothly, as though it were just another line in a legal document, "he would have to sign a non-disclosure agreement. And any such relationship must happen discreetly, under my roof. I live in a penthouse, large enough that we may not even see each other unless absolutely necessary."

I blinked. "Take a lover?" I repeated, trying to keep my voice steady. It wasn't quite a question, not quite a statement, more of a stunned echo, and the way I said it, I made sure he wouldn't doubt it was a question.

"Yes," he said, entirely unfazed, like it was normal for married couples to keep lovers. "Of course. You'll be free to seek companionship if that's what you want. I have no intention of interfering with your personal life. But everything must remain discreet and controlled. For appearances. I don't want to be known as the man who was cuckolded."

I stared at him, trying to piece together what kind of man this was. Then I saw it, a flicker in his expression. His lips curled slightly, his eyes glinting with amusement. That smug, amused look.

"What?" I snapped, the heat rising in my cheeks, though I couldn't say if it was from anger or embarrassment.

"Were you expecting we'd sleep together?" he asked, a small chuckle escaping his lips. "You thought that would be a part of the arrangement?"

I clenched my jaw. If he dared to laugh out loud, I'd hurl something at his perfectly sculpted head. How could someone be so arrogant? "Why, then?" I demanded, my voice low, confused. "Why would you want to marry me if not for sex?"

His smirk faded, replaced by a matter-of-fact calm. "Business. That's all. This marriage is strategic. You help stabilize my reputation, and I help stabilize your brother's health."

My thoughts swirled in chaos. I had asked myself this before, but the words escaped my mouth before I could stop them. "Why me?" It was the question I hadn't wanted to ask because I was afraid of the answer, because it wasn't like I had one power or a reputation that was so good that it would automatically rub off on him; no one knows me, and I do not even have a good job.

The truth was, even if this arrangement was cold and transactional, I didn't see how I could refuse it. If he had said he wanted my body, I would've given it, no hesitation. But the fact that he didn't... that unsettled me more than I cared to admit.

What kind of man marries a woman he doesn't want to touch?

That question echoed in my head, bouncing around with the kind of sharp confusion that makes it hard to breathe. My whole life had been a series of things I never had, never could want, never dared to dream of. And now, suddenly, I was being offered everything: money, security, and comfort for the cost of pretending to love a man who didn't even want me.

It didn't make sense.

Men like him, they wanted models, heiresses, women with charm and polish and a thousand-dollar wardrobe. Not hotel maids who scrubbed toilets and hummed to keep themselves from crying. He wasn't wrong, though; my life was a mess. I was no one important. Just another girl fighting to keep her brother alive.

And maybe that's why he chose me.

Because he knew I'd say yes. Because he could see desperation painted on me like a second skin.

Would I still say yes if I weren't desperate?

Maybe not.

But I was. I was so desperate it hurt to admit it. Peter had no one else. I was his sister, his family, his caretaker, and his hope. The doctors said time was running out. And here this man was, offering not just the money for the surgery but the best care, a better hospital, post-surgery therapy, and even a private nurse.

If I said no, Peter might not make it. If I said yes, I'd lose whatever little freedom I had left.

But truth be told, I never really had any.

There was no boyfriend to hurt, no dream life waiting for me outside this hotel. Just long shifts, aching feet, sleepless nights, and a constant knot of worry in my chest. The only thing that had kept me going was the sound of Peter's laugh, the way he grinned even in pain, like he believed we'd be okay.

I had to make sure he was okay.

So what if this man didn't want my body? Maybe that was a blessing in disguise. At least it wouldn't be another wound to nurse in private. Still... something about the way he smiled, that arrogant glint in his eye, stirred something deep inside me. Annoyance. Curiosity. Maybe even a little fear. What exactly was I getting myself into?

But no matter how I twisted it, the answer always came out the same.

I had no choice.

I'll marry him.

Even if it costs me my pride. My comfort. My peace.

Because Peter's life was worth far more than all of that.

And then another thought hit me, unbidden, wild. Could he be... gay? And if he was gay, who cared? Not me. I wasn't here for love. I was here for Peter.

But then, what if he really is gay?

My eyes widened, betraying the storm of questions in my head.

He noticed. Of course, he noticed everything. He noticed the way my eyes widened, because why then did he reply to me with, "I am not gay." I almost denied that I did not have such thoughts.

He looked at me with an unreadable expression, but somehow, it felt like he could see straight through me, like every unspoken thought was laid bare in front of him. Then he said it again. Calmly. Casually. Like it wasn't the verbal equivalent of a slap to the face.

"I'm not gay. And the reason I think you'd be perfect for the position of my wife is because we're not attracted to each other; at least, I'm certain I'm not attracted to you," he said with a smirk on his face.

Ouch.