Signed by a Stranger"
I never imagined the price of ambition would arrive inside a glossy black envelope.
The paper trembled slightly between my fingers, more from the weight in my chest than from my grip. The envelope was thick, with my name embossed in gold like I was someone important. Like I wasn't just Chilzy Brown, the invisible artist scraping for every meal in a world that only applauded those already standing at the top.
I stood by the mailbox far longer than necessary, the Lagos sun beating down, my throat closing around the realization that this moment—this paper—was the first acknowledgement my existence mattered.
Except I hadn't earned it through my art. Not through sweat and midnight canvases.
This… was something else.
I pressed my thumb against the flap and tore it open.
Inside, a crisp letter was folded in deliberate, cold precision. The signature at the bottom was bold, sharp, and cruelly beautiful.
Ethan Golf.
I had never met him, never heard his voice, but anyone breathing oxygen knew that name.
The heir to a dynasty that most people never saw except on Forbes lists. A man with enough money to make governments tremble and entire industries kneel. A man known for hostile takeovers, closed-door meetings, and merciless ambition.
And somehow, he knew I existed.
I blinked, forcing my vision to steady as I read the words again:
"You have been selected for a personal contractual agreement under sealed arrangement. Confidentiality is non-negotiable. Acceptance is time-sensitive."
"Further instructions await at Golf Tower tomorrow at 9 A.M."
"Your attendance signifies your consent."
No sign of affection. No explanation of terms. Just a statement of fact.
The first thing I felt was disbelief.The second was dread.The third was curiosity so sharp it cut through my fear.
I didn't have time for overthinking. My rent was months overdue. My art had been rejected from every gallery. I was two months from becoming a nobody swallowed by poverty.
I folded the letter neatly and walked back into my one-room flat, where dreams lived like unwelcome guests—always present, never fulfilled.
Tomorrow, I'd find out why a billionaire was knocking on my life's door.
And I'd decide if I was brave enough to answer.
The next morning, Golf Tower stood before me like a steel monster—thirty-eight floors of glass reflecting a sky that didn't belong to people like me.
Inside, the air was sterile, the kind that never touched the outside world. I clutched my invitation as I stepped into the elevator, standing awkwardly between men in designer suits and women whose heels sounded like power clicking across marble floors.
At the thirty-second floor, the doors parted to a corridor so quiet it felt disrespectful to breathe.
A receptionist with impossibly smooth skin looked up, her expression void of welcome.
"Miss Chilzy Brown?"
"Yes." My voice sounded too loud, too human in this manufactured world.
"Follow me."
I obeyed, my heart battering against my ribs as she led me into a conference room large enough to fit my entire neighborhood.
And there, by the window, stood a man whose presence was heavier than the building itself.
Ethan Golf.
The first thing I noticed wasn't his wealth. It wasn't the perfectly tailored suit or the watch that probably cost more than everything I'd ever owned.
It was his stillness.
He didn't move like normal people. He stood like a storm waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
"Miss Brown," he said without turning.
"Yes, sir." My mouth was too dry.
He finally faced me, and it was worse than I prepared for.
Eyes like polished steel, a face carved from ice, lips set in a line that had forgotten the meaning of softness. His gaze landed on me—not with interest, but with calculation, as if measuring how much I could endure before breaking.
"Sit."
I sat.
"There's no need for pretense," he began, "I didn't choose you because of your art."
I expected that, but it still stung.
"You've been chosen because your life is unremarkable, your presence untraceable, and your compliance predictable."
My throat tightened, but I said nothing.
"I need a wife," Ethan said, like he was discussing a new investment.
I blinked, sure I'd misheard. "A wife?"
"For one year. Nothing sentimental. A business transaction. You will live under contractual obligations, you will fulfill social duties, and in exchange, you will receive financial stability beyond your current imagination."
I couldn't breathe.
"A contract marriage?" I asked, voice thin.
"Yes."
"Why me?"
His gaze sliced through me. "Because your desperation makes you useful."
There was no apology in his tone, no attempt to soften the cruelty of his words. He wasn't offering me romance. He was offering me a cage lined with gold.
My fingers dug into the chair's armrest. "Why the contract?"
"My company's expansion requires a public image that satisfies certain… expectations. Shareholders trust stability. A married CEO appears settled. Appears safe."
"And after the year?"
"You walk away with more money than you could spend in ten lifetimes," he said plainly.
He placed a thick file in front of me. The number written inside made my stomach drop.
Ten million dollars.
Tax-free. Immediate payout after contract fulfillment.
My chest felt hollow. My dreams of galleries, of independence, of artistic recognition, flashed before me like distant stars suddenly within reach.
But at what cost?
"You will have no say in my business," he continued. "No right to question my personal affairs. You will attend social functions when required. You will be seen but rarely heard. You will exist as Mrs. Golf… nothing more."
"And love?" I whispered before I could stop myself.
Ethan's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile—closer to mockery.
"This isn't love, Miss Brown. This is survival."
I closed the file slowly.
"What happens if I refuse?"
His stare didn't flicker. "Then you go back to your empty apartment, to debts you cannot pay, to a career that ignores you. And you wonder, every day, what life could've been if you'd said yes."
Silence stretched between us like a wire pulled too tight.
I should've walked out.
I should've torn up the papers and told him to find another desperate woman to play house with him.
But I thought of the hunger I'd tasted for too long, the rejection letters stacked under my bed, and the nights I'd cried into my pillow, knowing the world would never hear my voice.
Maybe this was a cage.
But cages built from gold could be broken from the inside.
I reached for the pen.
Ethan's expression didn't change. His coldness didn't thaw.
And still, I signed my name at the bottom of the contract.
That's the moment everything in my life split in two: before Ethan Golf… and after.
As I stood to leave, Ethan's voice followed me, low and warning:
"Be careful what you wish for, Chilzy Brown. This cage doesn't always open when you want it to."
I didn't answer.
I walked out of the room with the contract in my veins and a storm quietly rising in my chest.