The pen felt heavier than it should have.
I stared at the papers in front of me, the words Marriage Contract blurring as my vision burned. This wasn't how marriages were supposed to begin—not with signatures, clauses, and deadlines.
"Read it carefully," he said, his voice calm, distant… professional.
I looked up at him for the first time since I had entered the room.
Zayn Al-Faris.
The man I was about to marry.
Tall. Composed. Dressed in an expensive black suit, he looked nothing like someone standing on the edge of a forced marriage. His face showed no emotion—no hesitation, no regret.
Unlike me.
"This marriage is only for two years," he continued. "You'll live in my house. You'll act as my wife in public. Nothing more."
My fingers tightened around the paper.
"And after two years?" I asked quietly.
"We separate. No questions. No claims."
No love.
No promises.
Just an exit clause.
I swallowed hard. "And if I say no?"
His eyes met mine then—sharp, unreadable.
"You won't."
He was right.
My father's debts.
My family's honor.
The pressure crushing my chest.
I lowered my gaze again and read the last line.
Both parties agree that emotional attachment is not required.
A bitter smile tugged at my lips.
So even my heart had no place here.
My name was Ayla Noor, and this contract felt like a sentence I had already been convicted of.
I signed.
The moment the pen left the paper, something inside me shattered.
Zayn Al-Faris took the document, signing his name beneath mine with a steady hand—
a contract he signed without a second thought.
"This marriage will benefit us both," he said.
I stood up slowly. "For you, maybe."
He paused, as if he wanted to say something more.
But I walked away before he could.
Because I already knew the truth—
I had signed away my freedom,
and he had signed a marriage he never intended to feel.