Chapter 13

❤️Sophie❤️

I stare at the screen for so long my vision begins to blur.

“He texted again?” Sandy asks.

I nod weakly.

“What did he say?”

Without speaking, I hand her the phone. She reads the message once. Then twice, slowly she looks at me. “He’s not chasing you. He’s waiting.”

“I noticed.”

She gives the phone back. “Sophie.”

I already know what she wants to say. “No.”

“You have to go back. You don't have a choice.”

“I hate when people keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

I close my eyes. For the first time today, I feel tired. Everything happened too fast. Six weeks ago, I had a boyfriend. I was happy, even though everything I knew was based on lies.

My throat tightens. At least…. I was happy. Now I'm pregnant. About to lose my family. And worst of all, I'm considering marrying the coldest billionaire in the city.

Who even writes my life?

“You know what bothers me?”

“What?”

“He’s not even trying to convince me.”

Sandy shrugs. “He doesn't look like a man who begs. He looks like a man who waits.”

That somehow makes him even more terrifying.

I stare at the hotel. The glass doors reflect the afternoon sun. Inside, somewhere upstairs, Adrian is waiting. Completely certain I will come back.

The annoying part? He’s right. Because I have no choice. And I hate him for it. I hate my father. I hate Sebastian. I hate pregnancy.

Sandy squeezes my shoulder. “You don’t have to love him.”

I look at her. “Definitely not. I would rather jump off the balcony.”

She bites her lip, trying to hide a smile. “I know.”

A shaky breath escapes me. Silence settles between us. Finally, I square my shoulders. “Fine. I'm doing this.”

Sandy smiles. “Great.”

“I'm doing this because my father is blackmailing me. And because Mr. Bossy Billionaire somehow predicted my future.” I add a smirk. “And he smirks once. I'm leaving. My father can throw me out for all I care.”

“You will survive.”

I nod and turn back. This time, the walk into the Blackstone Hotel feels different. Earlier, I walked in hoping to find a fake baby daddy. Now… I’m walking back to negotiate with one.

The waitress from earlier smiles at me. “Welcome back, Miss Harrison.”

Even the hotel knows I'm back. Wonderful. I make my way upstairs.

A lady beams at seeing me. “He’s expecting you.”

Of course he is. I don't even ask how she knows. At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if the flowers know my name.

The double doors swing open. Every conversation inside dies. Again. Why does everyone stop talking whenever I enter this room?

Do I look that suspicious?

Adrian hasn't moved. He’s sitting exactly where I last saw him. The coffee beside him remains untouched. He slowly lifts his eyes to mine.

No surprise. No satisfaction. Just quiet certainty. “I told you.”

I resist the urge to throw my handbag at his head. “I'm only here because my father is impossible. I'm not here because you were right.”

“You are.”

I narrow my eyes. “You know, your personality could use a refund.”

“The line starts behind yours.”

For a brief second, I almost smile. Almost. But I quickly remember I don't like him. “I have conditions.”

“So do I.”

I blink. “You have conditions?”

“I don't marry strangers without them.”

I hadn't thought about that.

He rises from the chair, walks to the polished oak table, and presses a button. One of the assistants enters immediately, carrying a black leather folder. He places it in front of me.

Adrian slides it across the table. “This is the contract.”

I stare at the folder. It suddenly feels heavier than paper should be. My fingers hesitate before opening it.

The first page reads: CONFIDENTIAL MARRIAGE AGREEMENT.

My heartbeat quickens. This is not pretending anymore. This is a legal contract.

My gaze darts to him. “You are serious.”

“I’ve been serious since I applied to your advertisement.”

I swallow. “You actually made a contract,” disbelief laced with the words. “I thought we would only shake hands.”

“I don't.”

Of course he doesn't.

My gaze scans through the paper, twenty-seven pages.

My head shoots up. “Twenty-seven pages!”

His expression doesn't change.

I shake my head, refusing to believe this. “Who writes twenty-seven pages for a fake marriage?”

“My lawyers.”

“Your lawyers need hobbies.”

A muscle tics in his jaw. “They are well paid.”

I continue flipping through the pages: confidentiality, public appearance, living arrangements, financial responsibility, medical restrictions, non-disclosure clauses, emergency procedures.

I stop. Emergency procedures? “Why does our fake marriage have emergency procedures?”

“In case of kidnapping.”

My jaw drops. “What?”

“In my line of work, it’s possible.”

I glare at him longer than I should, probably wondering if this man hit his head on the wall when I went downstairs.

“Kidnapping?”

“Yes.”

“I can't get kidnapped.”

“You might.”

Fear crawls up my spine. This has to be some kind of joke, right? “Can I refuse?”

“You can.”

Relief floods through me. “Oh.”

He continues anyway. “It won't stop anyone from kidnapping you.”

My relief dies instantly. “What kind of life do you live?”

“A complicated one.”

So I'm about to marry a man who lives a complicated life. I actually need a jackpot.

I keep reading. Clause eleven: The marriage remains confidential unless mutually agreed otherwise.

Clause twelve: The wife shall not enter into romantic or intimate relationships outside the marriage during the contractual period.

My eyebrows shoot upward. “Excuse me.” I point at the sentence. “What does this mean? I'm not allowed relationships outside the marriage, but you are?”

“Yes.”

“You have to be kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“Why is that?”

“Because the moment you become my wife, you belong to me alone. I won't have someone else touching what’s mine.”

The words echo through the room with so much certainty that I blink.

“Is this your way of keeping me to yourself?”

“It’s my way of avoiding unnecessary problems.”

I scoff. “As if men are lining up to date a pregnant woman.”

For the first time, something changes in his expression. Not much, just enough for me to notice.

His jaw tightens, and he looks directly into my eyes. “They would.”

The room falls strangely quiet. “Well… that was unexpected.”

I quickly pretend to be fascinated with page thirteen, anything to avoid whatever that look was. I flip another page, then another, until my eyes land on one sentence. My heart skips.

Compensation: Not applicable.

“Where is the part about the two million dollars?”

“I removed it.”

“Why?”

“I don't want your money.”

A nervous laugh escapes. “Wow. That’s so generous.”

“It's not.”

My laughter dies. “What do you mean?”

“Because you will pay me in other ways.”