Isla didn't sleep.
How could she?
She'd spent the night staring at the ceiling of her tiny apartment, the diamond ring burning on her finger like a brand, replaying every moment in that dark penthouse until the words blurred together into white noise.
You're mine now.
Complete obedience.
No going back.
At six a.m., she gave up on sleep entirely and made coffee she couldn't drink. Her hands shook too badly to hold the mug steady.
At seven-thirty, Mara stumbled out of her bedroom, backpack already slung over one shoulder, and stopped short when she saw Isla sitting at their tiny kitchen table still wearing yesterday's scrubs.
"Did you sleep at the hospital again?" Mara asked, grabbing a granola bar from the cabinet.
"Something like that." Isla tucked her left hand under the table, hiding the ring. She'd tell Mara eventually. Just not yet. Not until she understood what she'd actually agreed to. "How's the studying going?"
"Fine. I've got that chemistry test today." Mara paused, studying her sister with the kind of perception that made Isla's chest ache. "You look terrible."
"Thanks."
"I'm serious, Is. When's the last time you actually slept?"
"I'll sleep when Dad's better."
Mara's expression softened. "Any updates?"
"Still stable. That's good." Not a lie, technically. "Listen, I need to run some errands today, but I'll have my phone on me. Call if you need anything, okay?"
"When do I not have my phone?" Mara rolled her eyes with all the drama only a sixteen-year-old could muster. Then she crossed to Isla and kissed her cheek. "Love you. Try to eat something that isn't coffee."
"Love you too, baby."
The door closed behind Mara, and Isla let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
She pulled her hand out from under the table and stared at the ring.
In the morning light streaming through their apartment's single window, it looked even more absurd. The kind of ring you saw in magazines or on celebrities, not on the hand of a pediatric nurse who bought her coffee at gas stations and wore scrubs six days a week.
The kind of ring that meant something.
Or in her case, meant everything and nothing all at once.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
Car will arrive at 1:45 p.m. Be ready. Dress professionally. Bring nothing. — L
Luca.
Isla's stomach twisted.
One hour and fifteen minutes until her life changed forever.
She should eat. Shower. Figure out what "professionally" meant when you were about to sign a contract marrying a man whose last name you'd learned less than twelve hours ago.
Instead, she sat at the kitchen table and stared at that ring until the light shifted and her phone buzzed again with a reminder she didn't need.
Time to go meet her future.
The black Mercedes was waiting exactly where Luca said it would be, idling at the curb like a sleek predator. Isla had changed into the only professional outfit she owned—a navy dress she'd bought for job interviews three years ago and a pair of heels that pinched her toes.
She felt ridiculous.
Luca stepped out as she approached, opening the back door with practiced efficiency. He wore a different suit today—charcoal gray instead of black—but the same unreadable expression.
"Ms. Cross."
"Isla," she said tiredly. "If I'm about to marry your boss, you can call me Isla."
Something flickered across Luca's face. Almost amusement. "Very well. Isla. Shall we?"
She slid into the back seat. Luca closed the door and circled to the driver's side.
The interior smelled like leather and money and decisions she couldn't take back.
"Where are we going?" Isla asked as they pulled into traffic.
"Mr. Archer's attorney's office. The contract needs to be finalized before the ceremony."
"And then?"
"And then you get married." Luca's eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. "Any second thoughts?"
"Would it matter if I did?"
"No. But I'm asking anyway."
Isla looked out the window at the city passing by. Normal people going about normal days. Getting coffee. Walking dogs. Complaining about traffic. None of them were on their way to sign a contract marrying a stranger with ice-blue eyes and secrets that felt like weapons.
"No second thoughts," she lied.
Luca nodded and didn't press further.
They drove in silence.
The law office was everything Isla expected and somehow worse.
Fiftieth floor of a building downtown that probably charged more in monthly rent than she made in a year. Glass and chrome and abstract art that cost more than most people's houses. A receptionist so polished she looked like she'd been carved from marble.
"Mr. Archer is waiting in Conference Room A," the receptionist said without looking up from her computer. "Ms. Chen will escort you."
A woman in a sharp suit appeared from nowhere and gestured for them to follow. Her heels clicked against marble floors as she led them down a hallway lined with offices full of people doing important things Isla couldn't begin to understand.
Conference Room A had a view.
Of course it did.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a table that could seat twenty, and at the head of that table, Killian Archer.
He stood as they entered, and Isla's breath caught just like it had last night. In daylight, he was somehow even more devastating. The expensive suit fit him like it had been sewn onto his body. His dark hair was perfectly styled. Those ice-blue eyes tracked her movement across the room with the focus of a hawk watching a mouse.
"Isla." Her name on his lips sounded like ownership. "Please, sit."
He gestured to the chair directly to his right.
Isla sat because her legs weren't entirely steady anyway.
Luca took a position by the door, hands clasped in front of him, no longer her driver but clearly her husband-to-be's security. Or assistant. Or whatever role he actually played in Killian's life.
"This is Margaret Chen, my attorney," Killian said, nodding to a woman Isla hadn't even noticed sitting across the table. Margaret was maybe fifty, with steel-gray hair and eyes that missed absolutely nothing. "She'll walk you through the contract."
"Walk me through?" Isla looked at the stack of papers in front of Margaret's perfectly manicured hands. It had to be thirty pages. Maybe more. "I thought—"
"The contract is comprehensive," Margaret said crisply. "Naturally, you'll want to have your own attorney review it before signing."
"She doesn't have an attorney," Killian said. "And we don't have time for that anyway."
Isla's head snapped toward him. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. We're on a schedule." He checked his watch—something expensive and Swiss that probably cost more than her car. "The ceremony is in forty minutes. Sign the contract, or don't. But decide now."
"You can't seriously expect me to sign something this complicated without reading it."
"I can and I am." He leaned back in his chair, utterly relaxed, like they were discussing dinner plans instead of legally binding her to him for eighteen months. "Margaret will summarize the key points. If you have questions, ask them. But you're signing today, Isla. The only question is whether you do it willingly or if we waste time pretending you have other options."
The casual cruelty in his voice made something twist in Isla's stomach.
This was what she'd agreed to. A man who didn't pretend, didn't soften edges, didn't care if she was comfortable as long as she was compliant.
Margaret cleared her throat. "Shall we begin?"
The contract was, as promised, comprehensive.
And terrifying.
Margaret walked her through it in clipped, professional sentences that somehow made the whole thing sound reasonable even though nothing about this was reasonable.
"Section One covers the duration of the marriage. Eighteen months from the date of signing, non-negotiable, no option for early termination except under circumstances outlined in Section Twelve—"
"Which are?" Isla interrupted.
"Death, incapacitation, or breach of contract so severe Mr. Archer deems the arrangement untenable." Margaret didn't even look up from the papers. "Section Two covers living arrangements. You'll reside in Mr. Archer's primary residence. Separate quarters will be provided. You're prohibited from bringing guests without prior approval—"
"I can't have visitors?"
"You can have approved visitors. Family, specifically. Friends require forty-eight hours' notice."
Isla's hands clenched in her lap. "This sounds like prison."
"This sounds like security," Killian said quietly. "Keep going, Margaret."
"Section Three covers public appearances. You'll attend all events Mr. Archer requires, dressed appropriately—clothing will be provided. You'll present as a devoted, happy wife. No contradicting Mr. Archer in public, no discussing the nature of your arrangement with anyone—"
"The NDA already covers that."
"The NDA covers confidentiality. This covers behavior." Margaret flipped a page. "Section Four details financial arrangements. All of your father's debts—medical and otherwise—will be cleared within twenty-four hours of signing. Your sister's education through graduate school will be funded. You'll receive a monthly allowance of ten thousand dollars for personal expenses—"
Isla choked. "Ten thousand?"
"Is that insufficient?" Killian asked, though his tone suggested he knew exactly how absurd that amount was.
"That's—I make fifty-two thousand a year total—"
"You made fifty-two thousand a year. You don't work anymore. The allowance is for clothing, personal items, anything you need. It's non-negotiable and non-transferable. Don't try to funnel it to your sister or father."
"I wouldn't—"
"Yes, you would. You're predictable that way." He nodded to Margaret. "Continue."
Margaret did, and each section was worse than the last.
She couldn't leave the residence without security. Couldn't make major decisions without Killian's approval. Couldn't discuss the marriage with anyone, including her own sister. Couldn't refuse reasonable requests—and the definition of "reasonable" was, naturally, left entirely to Killian's discretion.
In exchange, she got money. Protection. Her family's safety.
And absolutely zero freedom.
"Section Ten covers physical intimacy," Margaret said, and Isla's attention snapped back. "The marriage is not required to be consummated. Mr. Archer will not enter your private quarters without invitation. Any physical relationship that develops will be entirely consensual—"
"There won't be a physical relationship," Isla said.
Killian's eyes met hers across the table. "Probably not. But the contract allows for the possibility that circumstances change."
"They won't."
"Then there's nothing to worry about, is there?" He gestured to Margaret. "Final sections."
"Section Eleven covers termination. At the end of eighteen months, you'll receive a settlement of one hundred thousand dollars, contingent on full compliance with all contract terms. The marriage will be quietly dissolved. You'll sign an extended NDA covering any and all aspects of Mr. Archer's life you may have become aware of during the marriage—"
"What does that mean?" Isla asked. "What aspects of his life?"
"None of your concern," Killian said. "Sign the contract, play the role, don't ask questions. It's simple."
"Nothing about this is simple."
"No," he agreed. "But it's straightforward. And it's happening whether you're comfortable with it or not. So either sign, or get out."
Margaret produced a pen. Heavy. Expensive. Probably cost more than Isla's first car.
"Seven signatures," she said, flipping through the pages and marking each spot with a small red X. "Here, here, here, here, here, here, and here."
Isla stared at the pen.
This was it.
The moment where she stopped being Isla Cross, pediatric nurse, and became... what? Killian Archer's wife? His possession? His employee playing the role of devoted spouse for eighteen months?
All of the above, probably.
"Isla." Killian's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. "Sign the contract."
"I don't even understand half of what's in here."
"You understand enough. You'll live in my home, wear my ring, do what I tell you to do, and in return, everyone you love stays safe and your debts disappear. That's all you need to know."
"What if I can't do this?"
"Then your sister has forty-five hours before the Kozlov family comes for her." He said it without emotion, just stated it like a fact. Like he was discussing the weather. "Your choice."
Isla picked up the pen.
Her hand shook so badly the first signature came out barely legible.
She signed anyway.
Page after page. Seven times. Each signature feeling like she was signing away another piece of herself until there was nothing left but the role he needed her to play.
When she set down the pen, Margaret gathered the pages with efficient movements.
"Congratulations," she said, though there was no warmth in it. "You're now contractually bound to Mr. Archer for eighteen months. I'll file the paperwork immediately."
She left, taking the contract with her.
Taking Isla's choices with her.
Killian reached into his jacket and pulled out something black and sleek. A credit card. He slid it across the table until it rested directly in front of Isla.
"Your father's debt will be cleared within the hour," he said. "The Kozlov family has already been contacted and paid off. Your sister's tuition—all four years at Westfield Prep plus whatever college she chooses—is handled. The hospital will receive payment for your father's care this afternoon. All of it. Every penny."
Isla stared at the black card. Her name was already embossed on it in silver letters.
ISLA ARCHER
Not Cross. Archer.
Like she already belonged to him.
"When's the wedding?" she whispered.
Killian checked his watch.
"Forty minutes."
The room tilted.
"Forty—I thought—you said—"
"I said the ceremony is in forty minutes. Did you think we were waiting? This is a business arrangement, Isla. We don't need months of planning or a big white dress. We need a legal marriage, and we need it today." He stood, buttoning his jacket. "Luca will take you to get ready. There's a dress waiting. We'll meet at the courthouse at three-fifteen."
"I don't—I can't—"
"Yes, you can." He moved around the table until he was standing directly in front of her. "You already signed the contract. This is just making it official."
Isla stood on shaking legs, and for a moment they just looked at each other.
Him: composed, controlled, absolutely certain.
Her: falling apart, terrified, trapped.
"I don't even know you," she said quietly.
"You don't need to know me. You just need to obey me."
Before she could respond, his hand came up.
She flinched—couldn't help it—and something dark flickered through his ice-blue eyes.
His fingers caught her chin. Not rough, but firm enough that she couldn't pull away. Firm enough that she felt the strength in his hand, the control he was exercising not to hurt her.
He tilted her face up, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"From this moment on," Killian said softly, his thumb brushing along her jawline in a gesture that might've been tender from anyone else but felt like branding from him, "you belong to me. Not to your father. Not to your sister. Not to yourself. To me."
"I'm not property," Isla whispered.
"Legally, you're about to be my wife. Contractually, you're my employee. Practically?" His grip tightened just slightly. "You're mine, Isla. Every breath you take for the next eighteen months, every word you speak, every move you make—mine. And the sooner you accept that, the easier this will be for both of us."
He released her chin and stepped back.
"Luca will take you to get ready. Don't be late."
He walked out without another word, leaving Isla standing in the conference room, her chin still burning where his fingers had been, her name on a black credit card that felt like chains, and thirty-nine minutes until she became Mrs. Killian Archer.
Until she stopped belonging to herself.
Until she became his.
Completely.
Irrevocably.
Legally and contractually and in every way that mattered.
Luca appeared in the doorway. "Ready?"
No.
Never.
Not in a million years.
"Yes," Isla heard herself say.
Because ready or not, willing or not, terrified or not—
She was out of time.
Out of choices.
Out of everything except the role she'd agreed to play.
And in thirty-nine minutes, she'd put on a white dress and stand next to a stranger and promise to love, honor, and cherish him.
Knowing every word was a lie.
Knowing he didn't care.
Knowing that for the next eighteen months, her life wasn't hers anymore.
It was his.
All of it.
Starting right now.