Darcy.
The contract, signed and shimmering on Lucien Holt's ridiculously expensive tablet, feels like a physical weight in my chest.
My name, Darcy Quinn, is now irrevocably linked to his. Mrs. Lucien Holt. The words still taste like a bad joke.
"Now we begin."
Lucien doesn't offer a handshake, or a polite farewell, or even a fleeting acknowledgment of the monumental shift in my life.
He simply gives a curt nod to Henderson. "You know what to do."
Henderson, ever the efficient shadow, steps forward.
"A driver will be arranged for your brother, Ms. Quinn. He'll be taken directly to your residence once his release is processed." His voice is smooth, devoid of any personal interest, just the perfect tone for delivering life-altering news. "We'll be in touch regarding your... upcoming obligations."
Obligations. Right. Like playing house with a billionaire who probably uses my hoodie as a dust rag.
I try to keep my spine straight, but my knees feel like overcooked spaghetti.
I manage a shaky nod. "Right. Obligations."
Henderson leads me back through the sterile expanse of the office, past the perfection-bot receptionist, and into the silent, smooth elevator.
The 'P' for Penthouse blinks mockingly. P for Purgatory feels more apt.
The ride down is agonizingly slow, each floor a fresh reminder of the impossible choice I just made.
When the doors finally open, I step out into the blessedly familiar chaos of the lobby, where real people actually make noise and look less like they're auditioning for a silent film.
A car is waiting, a perfectly normal sedan. Finally a subtle reminder that I'm still just Darcy Quinn, for now.
The ride back to my apartment feels like drifting through a dream. The city outside is the same, bustling and indifferent, but everything feels subtly shifted.
I still can't believe it's real. I'm married.
To Lucien Holt.
The man who just purchased my freedom in exchange for my name.
My apartment smells like old coffee and the faint, comforting musk of Mr. Orange.
He's probably been plotting my death all morning, or at least how to get more treats.
The messy cables, the energy drink cans, Mrs. Katia's muffled soap opera shouting – it's all here, gloriously, reassuringly normal.
"Mr. Orange!" I call out, kicking off my shoes. "I'm home! And I just signed away my entire existence for your brother!"
Mr. Orange emerges, tail held high, a look of profound indignation on his face. He marches straight to his food bowl, nudging it with his nose. "Mrow!"
"Oh, now you care," I scoff, but I head to the pantry anyway. He always knows. "Yeah, yeah, I forgot breakfast. And lunch. And probably dinner last night."
As I scoop out his kibble, he weaves figure-eights around my ankles, purring like a rusty engine.
The judgment is still there, but so is the comforting rumble of affection.
I sink onto my worn couch, the single envelope from Henderson clutched in my hand. I don't want to think about it.
All I know is that Leo will be home soon.
I glance at my phone, trying to calculate the hours. I busy myself with watching a movie, refusing to do anything else that will drain my energy.
When I look out, the sun is already setting, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges. It's almost evening.
Leo will be home.
I feel a strange mix of relief and utter dumbness. I, Darcy Quinn, smart enough to get past firewalls, just walked into the most obvious trap in existence.
But it's a trap that saves Leo, so it's fine. It has to be fine.
Mrs. Katia's shouting next door escalates. "He's clearly evil! Can't you see it, Isabella?!"
"I can, Mrs. Katia," I mutter to the wall. "Trust me, I can."
The hours crawl by, each minute a tiny torment. I clean up some of the energy drink cans, pick up scattered papers, even try to untangle some of the cables, but my mind is a frantic loop: Is he out yet? Is he on his way? Is it really over?
Then, a knock.
My heart leaps, a joyous, terrifying somersault.
I race to the door, fumbling with the locks. When it swings open, he's there.
Leo.
He looks so much smaller than I remember, paler, but his eyes are wide and free of fear. He's wearing the same clothes he had on two weeks ago, rumpled and stained. He looks bewildered, a little lost, but undeniably there.
"Leo!" I tackle him in a hug so fierce it nearly knocks the wind out of him.
He smells like stale air. I bury my face in his shoulder, tears finally streaming down my cheeks, hot and unexpected. He hugs me back just as tightly, his arms surprisingly strong.
"Darcy," he chokes out, his voice thick. "I thought... I thought I'd never see you again."
We stand there for a long moment, clinging to each other.
He's here. He's really here. The relief is so overwhelming it makes me weak.
"They just let me go," he says, pulling back, his eyes searching mine. "Said it was a mistake. A 'misidentification.' What did you do?"
I force a shaky smile. "Oh, you know me. Just a little creative problem-solving. Pulled some strings."
I try to sound casual, but the words feel like sawdust in my mouth. I can't tell him about Lucien's deal. Not yet. Not ever, if I can help it.
"It's all over, Leo. You're safe now."
He looks around my messy apartment, then back at me, a confused frown creasing his brow.
"You look... tired."
"It's been a long couple of weeks," I admit, pulling him fully inside. Mr. Orange emerges from his lair, approaches Leo cautiously, sniffs his leg, and then, surprisingly, rubs against him, purring.
Even the cat approves.
"I'm starving," Leo announces, already sounding more like himself.
"Do you have any... actual food?"
"Pizza?" I offer, relief making me almost giddy. "I think I can manage that."
The rest of the evening is perfectly ordinary. We sprawl on the couch, eating greasy pepperoni pizza from my favorite local joint.
Leo talks a mile a minute, recounting the bewildering ordeal, his fear, the bizarre kindness of the "well-dressed man" who showed up and suddenly made everything happen. He keeps asking me how I did it, his eyes shining with admiration.
"It's just... stuff," I wave vaguely, shoveling another piece of pizza into my mouth. "Connections. Computer stuff. Don't worry about it."
He shrugs, accepting it for now. He's too tired, too relieved. We watch some terrible action movie, and Leo laughs, a genuine, unburdened sound I haven't heard in weeks.
He falls asleep eventually, his head on my shoulder, looking exhausted but finally at peace.
I sit still in the silence.
This is it. This is probably the last time I will ever feel this normal. Just Darcy, the older sister, watching over her little brother.
A regular person, living a regular life.
Soon, I'll be Mrs. Holt, a figure, bound by contract, living in a gilded cage.
The thought is a cold, sharp knife in my chest, cutting through the warmth. This is my last night of pure, unadulterated freedom.
Just as the thought solidifies, my phone buzzes softly on the armchair table. I pick it up carefully, trying not to wake Leo.
My heart sinks at the name on the screen.
It's a text from Henderson.
[Tomorrow. Engagement party. The driver will pick you up at 6 AM for preparations.]
I stare at the message, the words blurring.
No time to even breathe. No time to process. The normal, precious night is already over. The cage awaits. And tomorrow, the performance begins.