It was raining so furiously that the glass windows shook. Or was that her anxiety? Amelia wasn’t sure anymore. She sat on the big chair in an office that felt like it belonged to a king, shiny floors, a stack of books nobody seems to have touched, and his ridiculous desk

Clean. Too clean. Like a museum. She didn’t belong here.

And across from her, Alexander King.

The name alone was enough to choke her. People said he was ruthless. Cold. Untouchable. Now she knew they hadn’t exaggerated. He looked exactly like someone who got whatever he wanted without asking twice. Dark suit, perfect tie, cufflinks catching the light like they were mocking her. His face was carved sharply, jaw tight, those gray eyes… God. Those eyes didn’t blink.

Between them sat the folder.

“Sign it,” he said. Just that. Two words. As if he were asking her to pass the salt.

Amelia’s throat tightened. “This is marriage you’re talking about. You can’t just—” she stopped because her voice shook, and she hated that. “Marriage isn’t supposed to be some… some business arrangement.”

He leaned back a little, not bothered, not moved. “Everything is business.”

Her heart sank. He couldn’t mean it. He couldn’t. “You're joking, she said. But the second the word left her mouth, she knew he wasn't

“Do you think I'm joking?”

No. He didn’t. Not even close.

She looked at the folder again. The words blurred. All that came to her mind was her father lying in a hospital bed, pale and hopeless, machines keeping him alive. Loan sharks are disturbing them.

The look on her mother’s face when she tried to be strong. She felt sick.

“This is not fair, she murmured.

He yanks his mouth, not even with a smile. "Life is not fair. You know that.”

Her hands were shaking. She wanted to shout at him, throw the document in his face, and walk out. But her father… her family. What else could she do?

She placed the pen in her heart, full of grief. She wanted to refuse, every part of her screaming not to.

But she thought of those hospital bills again and forced the pen to move. The sound of it scratching her name onto the page was awful. It felt final.

When she finished, she let the pen drop to the table.

Alexander didn’t rush. He reached for the folder, flipped through it like a man reading numbers on a spreadsheet. Efficient. Cold. The snap of it closing made her jump.

“Good,” he said. His eyes lifted, meeting hers. Gray. Cutting. “From this day forward, you’re mine. Don’t mistake this for love. You’re my wife only on paper.”

Her chest narrowed. She already knew that, but it hurt her more than she expected.

She swallowed hard and made her voice come out. “Fine. But don’t expect me to play your obedient doll.”

That finally earned her something. A flicker in his eyes, maybe amusement. Maybe surprise. His lips curved slightly, not warm, just sharp.

“Bold,” he murmured.

He rose, standing tall and broad, with the storm's light blazing at his back. His shadow fell across her, as if it could consume her. His cologne's bitter, clean scent sent her spinning.

He moved his head, looking at her with a look that took longer than it should have. "We shall see."

Then he walked out, calm as ever. The door shut behind him.

Amelia sat frozen. Her pulse is still hammering. The folder lay on the desk, waiting for her, heavy and inescapable.

Thunder rolled outside. She curled her fist so tight that she embedded her nails into the palmar surfaces of her hands, muttering to herself more than to anyone:

You can have my signature, Alexander King. But you will never own me.