The eviction notice was taped to their apartment door, a fluorescent orange slash against the peeling brown paint. It felt like a physical blow, knocking the air from Adelynn's lungs.
She had known it was coming. They were three months behind on rent. The landlord, a perpetually weary man named Mr. Nowak, had been patient, but his patience had clearly run out.
Her mother was inside, oblivious, humming along to a commercial on the television. Adelynn quickly tore the notice from the door, her hands shaking as she crumpled it into a tight ball in her pocket. She couldn't let her mother see it. Not yet.
That night, she sat at the kitchen table, the crumpled notice smoothed out before her, a stark declaration of their final failure. Beside it, she placed the marriage contract from Christian Mercer. The two documents sat side by side: one, a symbol of utter ruin; the other, a symbol of an unthinkable salvation.
She opened her laptop and began to research. Not Christian Mercer this time, but the clauses in his contract. She looked up prenuptial agreements, non-disclosure agreements, contract law. She tried to find a loophole, a hidden trap, something that would make the decision for her.
But the contract, drafted by what was surely a team of the best lawyers in the country, was ironclad. It was cold, precise, and brutally straightforward. It offered everything it promised, and it demanded everything in return: her name, her public persona, a year of her life.
She thought of her father. He had been a dreamer, an artist who'd sunk every penny they had into a gallery that had failed spectacularly. He had left them with nothing but debt and a legacy of beautiful, unsellable paintings. She had inherited his dreams, but she was also drowning in his failures.
Was this any different? Was she just trading one form of selling out for another?
Her gaze fell on a framed photo on the wall. It was of her and her mother, years ago, on a trip to the coast. They were both laughing, the sun in their hair, the future an unwritten, hopeful page. Her mother looked so vibrant, so full of life. Before the accident, before the grief, before the bills had stolen the light from her eyes.
Adelynn's resolve hardened. Her father had chased his dreams and it had destroyed them. She would not make the same mistake. Her dreams were a luxury, but her mother's well-being was a necessity.
She picked up her phone. Her finger hovered over the contact information at the bottom of the contract-a private number for a man named Leo, Christian Mercer's assistant.
She took a deep breath, the smell of cabbage and despair filling her lungs. Then, she made the call.
A crisp, professional voice answered on the first ring. "Leo speaking."
Adelynn's voice was a dry, cracking whisper. "This is Adelynn Acosta," she said. "Please inform Mr. Mercer... that I accept his proposal."
