Chapter Four
"Maya! Wake up!"
My sister Mia was shaking me, her eyes wide. "A big black car is outside! A man in a suit is asking for you."
Memory crashed into me—the phone call, Alexander's offer. I sat up, my head throbbing from a night of tears. "What time is it?"
"Almost eight!"
Panic shot through me. I stumbled out of bed. What does one wear to sell their future? "Professional," I mumbled, pulling my nicest navy dress from the wardrobe. My hands shook too badly to zip it. Mia did it for me. I looked in the mirror: puffy eyes, pale skin. Not professional. Scared.
Mia helped me with my hair and handed me my only pair of heels. They pinched.
"Okay. I'm ready," I breathed, not feeling it at all.
I opened the front door. The car was a long, silent beast, gleaming on our shabby street. A driver in a perfect suit stood beside it. "Miss Mayfair? I am Robert. I am to take you to Mr. Thorne."
I nodded, my throat tight. As I stepped forward, I saw my mother's face, worried and confused, pressed to the living room window.
My heart cracked. "Please, wind down the window," I asked Robert.
The window slid down silently. "Mama!" I called. "I'm going to be okay! I'll explain later! I promise!"
I ducked into the car before I could see her reaction.
The door closed with a soft thunk. Outside went silent. Inside, it was cool, quiet, and smelled of clean linen and money. The deep leather seat held me. I watched my street, my house, my life shrink away as we drove.
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The car stopped at a steel-and-glass tower that pierced the sky. Robert led me through revolving doors into a lobby of echoing marble. People in sharp suits moved like ghosts. No one looked at me.
We took a private elevator up. My stomach was a knot. The numbers climbed impossibly high.
The doors opened into a sleek reception. A serious woman nodded. "Mr. Thorne is expecting you."
Robert guided me to a heavy wooden door. He knocked twice.
"Come in." The voice was cold, clear. It sent a shiver down my spine.
I walked in.
Alexander Thorne's office was vast, all windows and city views. He stood silhouetted against the light, not turning. He was taller, broader than I remembered. His suit was impeccable. He finally turned, and his cool gray eyes swept over me. I felt utterly exposed.
"Sit," he said, nodding to a chair before a massive desk.
I moved too quickly. My foot caught the chair leg. I stumbled. The side zipper of my dress, hastily fastened, caught and pulled down, exposing a strip of my side and my bra strap.
Heat flooded my cheeks. I fumbled, my shaking hands making it worse.
"Stop."
He was suddenly before me. I froze. His gaze was on the zipper, not my face. His steady hands reached for it. His fingers brushed the skin of my back.
I stopped breathing.
His touch was clinical. But the sensation—warm, real—was a lightning bolt in the sterile room. It was the first human touch since Daniel let go at the altar. My skin tingled.
He zipped the dress smoothly and stepped back instantly, as if closing a drawer. "There. Sit."
I sank into the chair, weak. He sat behind the desk, the vast surface a moat between us.
He slid a thick stack of paper toward me. "The contract. Read it."
The words swam. Party A (Alexander Thorne) agrees to provide financial compensation, housing, and educational funding to Party B (Maya Mayfair) for one year… In return, Party B agrees to enter a legally binding marriage and provide a biological heir… The marriage dissolves after one year… Custody of the child granted to Party A…
My blood ran cold. I looked up. "It says I leave when the baby is three months old."
"That is standard. It ensures a clean break."
"No." The word was firm. "I won't agree. I stay and care for my child until he or she is one year old. Then I'll leave. Not at three months."
He studied me, fingers steepled. The silence stretched.
"Agreed," he said finally. "I'll amend the clause."
Relief, shaky and weak, washed through me. I kept reading. Lists of allowances, apartments, clothing budgets. It was a blueprint for buying a person.
"I want to add something," I said.
"You are in no position to make demands."
"It's not for me. It's for my mother and sister. Their house isn't safe. The landlord is terrible. I want a safe house for them. And a fund for my sister's art school. Take it from my settlement."
He leaned back, eyes narrowing as if I were a puzzle. "You negotiate for them. Not for yourself."
"Yes."
A long pause. A single nod. "Acceptable."
He made a note with a silver pen. "Sign here. And here."
My hand shook. I took the heavy, cold pen and signed my name. Maya Mayfair. It felt like signing away my soul.
His hand brushed mine as he took the papers. A tiny spark. He didn't react.
"Robert will collect you and your belongings tomorrow. You move into the penthouse."
"Tomorrow? No, I need time. I have to tell my mother—"
"We meet my parents tomorrow evening at the estate," he interrupted, his voice leaving no room. "They must believe this is real. You will stay the night. After that, you move in. Permanently."
Meet his parents? Tomorrow? Stay the night? The performative reality of it crashed down on me.
I thought of my mother's face at the window. The sold house. Chloe's sneer. Daniel's betrayal. I had no ground left. This contract, this cold man, was my only ground.
I swallowed the lump of fear. I looked at his impassive face, the man who had just bought my next year, my body, and my child.
"Okay," I whispered, the word tasting of ash. "I agree."