The envelope was thicker than usual.
I stood at the edge of the worn kitchen counter, fingers brushing over the paper as though touching it too quickly might burn me. Our old ceiling fan groaned above my head, pushing around humid air that smelled faintly of coffee and saltwater. Outside, the ocean roared—mocking me with its endless rhythm, reminding me that everything else in my life came with an expiration date.
I already knew what the letter would say. The foreclosure notices had been arriving for weeks now, each one more urgent, each one written in the cold language of banks that don't care who you are, only what you owe.
But this one… this one carried a weight I could feel in my bones.
I broke the seal. The paper crackled as I unfolded it.
FINAL NOTICE.
The words screamed at me in bold, merciless print. They gave me fourteen days. Fourteen days until the house my father built with his own hands, the only home my brother had ever known, would no longer belong to us.
My hands tightened on the page, nails biting into the paper.
The sound of Paul's footsteps echoed down the narrow hall before I could hide the letter. He was only seventeen, too thin, his skin pale beneath the mop of dark hair that always fell into his eyes. He moved like he was conserving energy—because he was. Every breath cost him more than it should.
"Bills?" he asked, nodding at the paper.
"Just… junk mail," I lied, sliding it into the drawer beside the fridge.
He didn't believe me—he never did—but he didn't push. He'd learned long ago that I'd rather swallow glass than make him worry. Instead, he reached for a glass of water and took the pills lined up neatly on the counter. The sight of them—the sheer number—tightened something in my chest until it hurt to breathe.
The doctors said he needed surgery. The kind that came with a number so large I couldn't even say it out loud without choking. I'd been working double shifts at the diner, cleaning houses on weekends, selling anything in the house that wasn't nailed down. And it still wasn't enough.
"Don't forget you promised to rest today," Paul said, like he was the older sibling and not the one I was trying to keep alive.
I managed a smile. "I'll rest when the ocean stops making noise."
He rolled his eyes. "So… never."
We shared a moment of quiet, the kind we both clung to in between storms. Then he retreated back to his room, the soft click of the door closing behind him.
I gripped the counter, my mind spinning through useless math. Even if I worked twenty hours a day, I couldn't get the money in time. Even if I begged the bank, they wouldn't care.
And then… the sound came.
Not a knock. More like a deliberate, slow thud against the front door. The kind of sound that says I know you're home, and I'm not leaving until you answer.
When I opened it, the first thing I saw was black. Black suit, black tie, black car idling at the curb with tinted windows. The man in front of me wasn't from this neighborhood; he looked like he'd stepped out of a different world entirely.
"Miss Ramirez?" His voice was clipped, professional.
"Yes?"
He handed me a small, cream-colored envelope with no return address. Just my name written in precise, bold letters.
"What is this?"
"An invitation," he said simply. Then he turned and walked back to the car, leaving me with more questions than answers.
I stared at the envelope for a long time before breaking the wax seal. Inside was a single card, heavy and expensive to the touch. The words were printed in black ink:
Dinner. Eight o'clock. Hotel Concordia.
Your presence is expected.
There was no signature. No explanation. Just a time and a place.
My first instinct was to throw it away. I didn't know anyone who stayed at the Hotel Concordia—it was the kind of place you only saw in glossy magazines, the kind of place where a single glass of wine probably cost more than my weekly paycheck.
But curiosity is a dangerous thing. And desperation… desperation makes it lethal.
By the time night fell, I was standing in front of the gleaming gold doors of the Concordia, wearing the only dress I owned that could pass for evening wear. It was plain black, clinging to my hips and skimming my knees, and I'd paired it with heels I hadn't worn since my father's funeral.
The lobby was all marble and chandeliers, the kind of beauty that makes you want to whisper. A hostess in a silk uniform approached me with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Miss Ramirez? This way, please."
She led me through the hushed dining room to a secluded corner, where a man sat alone at a table set for two.
The first thing I noticed was the way he looked at me—not like I was a stranger, but like I was already his.
Sebastian Velez. I knew his name before she said it. Everyone did. Billionaire CEO. Hotel magnate. The kind of man who could buy a city block just to tear it down and build something shinier.
He rose as I approached, his presence making the air feel heavier. Dark hair, tailored suit, eyes the color of midnight—sharp, assessing, unreadable. He didn't smile, but somehow that made him even more dangerous.
"Ocean," he said, like it was a word he'd been saving.
"Mr. Velez," I replied, my voice tighter than I intended. "Why am I here?"
He gestured for me to sit. "Because I have a proposition for you."
I slid into the chair, the silk napkin cool against my trembling fingers. "What kind of proposition?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he studied me while the waiter poured wine into crystal glasses. When the waiter left, Sebastian leaned forward, his gaze locking onto mine.
"I know about the foreclosure," he said. "And your brother's surgery. And the fact that you've been trying—and failing—to find a way out."
My stomach twisted. "How—"
"I make it my business to know things," he said smoothly. "Especially about people I'm interested in."
I swallowed hard. "Interested in?"
His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I'll make this simple, Ocean. I can solve all your problems. The debt. The surgery. The bills you're drowning under. I can make them vanish overnight."
I waited for the catch. Men like Sebastian Velez didn't give without taking.
"In exchange," he continued, his voice dropping lower, "you'll be my wife. Publicly. Legally. For one year. And privately…" His gaze slid down and back up, deliberate and scorching. "…you'll be mine in every way I want."
Heat rushed to my face. "You're joking."
"I never joke about contracts," he said. "You'll live with me. Travel with me. Share my bed. Smile when I tell you to. And you'll keep your hands and eyes off any man who isn't me. In return, your brother gets the best medical care money can buy, and you keep your home."
The audacity of it stole my breath. "You expect me to sell myself to you?"
"I expect you to make a choice," Sebastian said, leaning back. "Continue drowning… or take the hand I'm offering."
I pushed my chair back, ready to leave, but his next words rooted me to the spot.
"Fourteen days, Ocean. That's how long before the bank takes everything. I can fix it in one phone call."
The image of Paul in a hospital bed slammed into my mind. Fourteen days.
Sebastian's gaze was steady, unwavering. "Think carefully. This isn't just a contract. This is survival. And once you sign…" He paused, his voice like silk over steel. "…you belong to me."