The Silent Bride's Billion Dollar Contract

Dawn Roth woke up to the sound of a siren screaming past her window, but it was the heat that actually pulled her from sleep. It was a thick, wet heat that clung to her skin like plastic wrap. Her T-shirt was stuck to her back. She lay still on the narrow twin mattress, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looked vaguely like a map of Florida.

She reached for her phone on the milk crate she used as a nightstand. The screen was cracked, a spiderweb of glass over the display. She tapped the banking app.

$42.18.

A red notification banner dropped down from the top of the screen. Student Loan Payment Overdue.

Dawn closed her eyes and let the phone drop onto the mattress. Her chest felt heavy, as if someone were sitting on her ribs. She pushed the blanket off her legs and swung her feet onto the linoleum floor. It was sticky.

She opened the bedroom door and the smell hit her instantly-stale frying oil and cigarette smoke. The air in the living room was even hotter than in her bedroom. There was no air conditioning here.

Aunt Lydia sat at the small, chipped dining table. She was applying a coat of bright pink nail polish, her fingers splayed out on a placemat. She didn't look up when Dawn entered.

"You're up late," Lydia said. Her voice was scratchy, like sandpaper on wood.

"It's seven," Dawn whispered. Her throat felt tight. It always felt tight in this apartment.

Lydia blew on her nails. "There's coffee. Don't take the last of the milk."

Dawn walked to the counter. There was a piece of paper sitting next to the coffee pot. It was a printed photograph, grainy and low resolution. It showed a man with a shiny, bald head and a thick neck. He was smiling, but his eyes looked flat.

"Who is this?" Dawn asked.

Lydia finally looked up. Her eyes were sharp, outlined in smudged black liner. "That is Mr. Vane. He owns the dry cleaning chain on Steinway Street."

Dawn looked at the picture again. The man looked at least twenty years older than her. "Okay."

"He's looking for a wife," Lydia said. She capped the nail polish bottle with a sharp twist. "He's very stable. He has a house in Bayside. A nice house. With central air."

Dawn's stomach turned over. She put the paper down. "I have to go to work."

"He's willing to pay off my credit cards," Lydia said, her voice dropping an octave. "And he's willing to take over your loans."

Dawn froze. Her fingers curled into her palms. She looked at Lydia, waiting for the punchline, but Lydia's face was dead serious.

"I set up a date," Lydia said. "Tonight. Six o'clock. Café Lalo in Manhattan."

"Lydia, no," Dawn said. The words felt like stones in her mouth. "I can't."

"You can and you will," Lydia snapped. She stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Do you know how much it costs to keep you here? The food? The electricity? You think that museum job pays for the space you take up?"

Dawn took a step back. The familiar panic was rising in her throat, closing off her airway. This was the Selective Mutism. It wasn't that she didn't want to speak; it was that the wires between her brain and her mouth simply cut out.

She looked down at her hands. She started counting her fingers. One, two, three, four, five.

"He's a good man," Lydia said, moving closer. She smelled like cheap perfume and sweat. "He wants a family. You give him a kid, he gives you a life. It's a fair trade. If you don't go, don't bother coming back tonight. I'll put your boxes on the curb."

Dawn looked at the door. She couldn't breathe in here.

She grabbed her canvas messenger bag from the hook and bolted.

"Wear the red dress!" Lydia shouted after her.

The hallway was stifling. Dawn ran down the three flights of stairs and burst out onto the street. The Queens air was heavy with exhaust fumes, but at least it moved.

She walked four blocks to the subway station to save the bus fare. Her shirt was already damp by the time she swiped her MetroCard. The turnstile displayed Insufficient Fare.

Dawn closed her eyes. She dug through her bag, finding two quarters and a dime, and went to the machine to add exactly enough for a single ride.

The train was packed. Bodies were pressed against bodies. The air conditioning in the car was broken. A man in a suit elbowed her into the corner near the door. The train stopped in the tunnel between stations. The lights flickered and went out.

In the dark, the heat intensified. Someone cursed loudly.

Dawn's heart hammered against her ribs. The darkness felt like the closet she used to hide in when her parents argued, before the accident. Before the silence took over.

One, two, three, four. She tapped her thumb against her thigh. Five, six, seven, eight.

The lights buzzed back on. The train lurched forward.

By the time she reached the Metropolitan Museum of Art, she felt dizzy. She swiped her employee badge at the side entrance. The blast of climate-controlled air hit her face, and she almost cried with relief.

She went straight to the restoration lab in the basement. It was quiet here. It smelled of turpentine and varnish and old dust. It smelled like safety.

"You look like you walked through a swamp," Harper said. Harper was sitting at the next workbench, mixing pigments. She slid a plastic cup of iced coffee across the table. "Extra milk, two sugars."

Dawn took the cup, her hands shaking slightly. "Thank you."

"Rough morning?"

Dawn nodded. She pulled her stool up to her easel. On it sat a 19th-century oil painting of a storm at sea. There was a tear in the canvas, right through the hull of the ship.

"I have a date tonight," Dawn said. Her voice was steady now that she was safe.

Harper's eyes widened. "A date? With who? Is he cute?"

Dawn picked up a tiny brush. She dipped it into the solvent. "I don't know."

"Blind date?" Harper grinned. "Exciting. Where are you going?"

"Café Lalo."

"Ooh, fancy. Like in that movie." Harper leaned back. "You have to tell me everything tomorrow."

Dawn forced a smile. She couldn't tell Harper that this wasn't a date. It was an appraisal. She was a used car being driven off the lot by a man who smelled like dry cleaning chemicals.

She worked for six hours straight. She didn't take a lunch break. She focused entirely on the microscopic fibers of the canvas, weaving them back together. Here, she had control. If something was broken, she could fix it.

"Heads up," the supervisor, Mr. Henderson, called out around three. "The Holcomb family rep is coming through later to check on the donation pieces. Look busy."

Dawn didn't look up. People like the Holcombs didn't look at people like her. They looked at the art. She was just part of the machinery that kept their tax write-offs pretty.

At five o'clock, her phone buzzed.

Lydia: Don't be late. Table 11. By the window.

Dawn went to the staff bathroom. She washed her face with cold water. She looked in the mirror. Her eyes were dark, framed by lashes that were naturally long. Her brown hair was frizzy from the humidity. She tried to smooth it down with water.

She changed into the red dress she had brought in her bag. It was a wrap dress she had found at a thrift store. It was slightly too big in the waist, but the color made her skin look less pale.

She walked out of the museum. The sun was beginning to set, casting long, bloody shadows across Fifth Avenue.

She walked the twenty blocks to the Upper West Side. She couldn't afford another subway ride if she wanted to eat tomorrow.

By the time she reached West 83rd Street, her feet were aching in her cheap flats. She stopped in front of a bridal shop window. The mannequin wore a dress that cost more than her entire life's earnings. She stared at it for a second, then shook her head.

Café Lalo was ahead. The windows were glowing with warm, golden light. It looked like a fishbowl of happiness.

Dawn took a deep breath. She smoothed the skirt of her red dress.

Just survive, she told herself. Just get through dinner.

She pushed open the heavy wooden door. The bell chimed above her head.