Chapter 2 - The Contract of Illusions
The leather seats of the sedan were cool, a stark contrast to the blistering Arizona heat we had just escaped. Ava was asleep almost before the driver put the car in gear, her small head resting heavily against my ribs. Ethan sat stiffly by the window, his wide, watchful eyes tracking the passing desert. He didn’t trust this. Neither did I.
Daniel Hayes sat opposite us, nursing a glass of sparkling water from a crystal decanter built into the console. He was a man composed of sharp angles and expensive secrets. His suit didn’t have a single wrinkle; his expression didn't betray a single emotion.
"You're quiet," Daniel said, his voice a low, steady rumble that barely competed with the hum of the tires.
"I'm trying to figure out the catch," I replied, my voice raspy from dehydration. "Billionaires don't pick up stranded mothers on the highway out of the goodness of their hearts."
"I told you the catch, Sarah," he said smoothly. "I need a wife. Specifically, I need a wife by Friday. My late father’s trust has a rather archaic stipulation. If I am not married by my thirty-fifth birthday—which is in exactly three days—my stepmother, Victoria, and my half-brother, Marcus, gain a controlling interest in Hayes Innovations. They want to sell my life's work to a foreign conglomerate and strip it for parts. I refuse to let that happen."
"So you buy a family?"
"I am hiring a partner," he corrected gently. "One year. Twelve months of public appearances, smiling for the cameras, and living in my estate. In exchange, your children will have the best tutors, elite healthcare, and a trust fund that will ensure they never stand on the side of a highway again."
The car turned onto a private, tree-lined road that seemed to appear out of nowhere, leading up to massive wrought-iron gates. As the gates swung open, revealing a sprawling, ultra-modern glass and stone mansion overlooking a manicured valley, my breath hitched.
"This is your house?" Ethan whispered, his tough facade cracking for a second.
"It's going to be your house, too, Ethan. If your mother agrees," Daniel said, his eyes fixed on me.
We were ushered inside by a discreet, impeccably dressed staff. A warm meal was immediately brought out—roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and fresh vegetables. I watched my children eat until they were full, the hollow look in their cheeks already seeming to soften. Seeing them safe, fed, and warm dissolved the last of my resistance.
Later that night, in Daniel’s mahogany-paneled study, I signed the non-disclosure agreements and the marriage certificate his lawyers had rushed over. I was officially Sarah Hayes.
But as I lay in the massive, silk-sheeted guest bed that night, listening to the quiet breathing of my children in the adjoining room, I couldn't shake a lingering sense of dread.
Miles away, parked outside a cheap motel, the woman in the black SUV dialed a burner phone.
May you like
"Mr. Sterling," she said, her voice dripping with venomous triumph. "I found her. Your runaway wife. And you are never going to believe whose bed she’s sleeping in."
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