The elevator ride down felt longer than the trip up.
Aria gripped the folder to her chest like it might burn through her. She kept her eyes on the glowing floor numbers, refusing to let her mind replay Darius King's voice. One year. Sister safe.
Outside, the late afternoon air slapped her cheeks. The street was alive with the chaos of the city — horns blaring, street vendors shouting, the smell of fried dough mixing with exhaust. But none of it cut through the pounding in her head.
She took the subway home, wedged between a man in a paint-splattered jacket and a woman in sequins. Nobody looked at her, which was a mercy. She wasn't sure she could keep her face still if someone asked her how she was.
---
The apartment was exactly as she'd left it that morning: two mismatched chairs at the kitchen table, a peeling countertop, and the soft hum of the fridge that never quite kept things cold. Celeste was curled on the couch, textbook open, highlighter in hand.
"You're late," her sister said without looking up.
"Traffic," Aria lied.
Celeste's head lifted. Her brown eyes — their mother's eyes — blinked in concern. "You look pale."
Aria dropped her bag on the table. "I'm fine."
"You talked to the bank?"
The question was a knife twist. "Sort of."
Celeste set the highlighter down, the way she always did when she sensed Aria was keeping something from her. "Sort of?"
Aria sat beside her, picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion. "There's… someone who can help. But it's complicated."
"Complicated how?"
Aria studied her sister's face. Celeste had always been the dreamer, the one who believed hard work and kindness could fix anything. She didn't deserve the truth — not yet.
"It's nothing you need to worry about," Aria said, forcing a smile. "I just… need to think."
Celeste frowned but didn't press. She picked her highlighter back up, but her eyes lingered on Aria for a moment longer than usual.
---
That night, Aria sat at the kitchen table long after Celeste had gone to bed. The folder lay open in front of her, its papers spread like a crime scene. Her father's signature glared at her from every page.
Darius's words echoed. You won't say no.
She hated him. She hated his smug certainty. She hated the way he'd looked at her — like she was already his.
But she hated the alternative more.
The rent was two months overdue. Celeste's tuition deadline was in days. The bank had already sent their "final notice."
Aria rubbed her temples, the weight of the decision pressing down like lead.
One year.
Twelve months of playing the part of Mrs. Darius King. Twelve months of swallowing her pride, pretending the man she despised was her husband.
She closed the folder with a snap.
Tomorrow, she'd give him his answer.
And God help her, she already knew what it would be.