Arabella's knuckles were white against the dark leather as she held the steering wheel fast. Racing towards the hospital, the sound of tyres skimming across wet, rainy roads was all that kept her anchored to reality.
Her heart beat so loudly in her ears that it drowned out all else. Arabella could sense every second slipping away; Isla, her younger sister, was on the verge of death.
Years ago, she had promised Isla that she would always be there, always battle for her. Isla's delicate life was now in the balance, and Arabella had no idea how long she could maintain that vow.
Another red light kept her hostage, and Arabella swore under her breath as the streetlights rushed by in gold and amber blurs. She looked at her phone to see the time: twenty more minutes. Isla lacked twenty minutes.
She held the wheel tighter. Why hadn't the hospital called earlier? The doctors' texts and calls had been ambiguous; the costs were out of control.
She knew she couldn't pay the medical expenses; she could hardly manage her rent. What else was she meant to do, though? Her sister had always supported her; now, it was her turn to rescue Isla at any expense, regardless of cost.
Ignoring the honking horns, Arabella ran another red light and sped past another queue of vehicles. Her thoughts returned to the loan sharks, the threats, and the never-ending cycle of toiling herself to the bone only to stay above water.
For Arabella, nothing had ever been simple; nothing but Isla, her sister who had always needed her and might now fall through her fingers like water.
A chilly, impersonal structure, the hospital loomed ahead with its fluorescent lights blazing violently against the grey clouds hanging low in the sky.
Yanking the keys from the ignition and bolting from the car, Arabella parked in the first available place, her heart racing. Isla was not someone she could lose.
Inside, the clean smell of antiseptic filled her nose. Barely noticing the receptionist's courteous question, she hurried to the front desk.
Arabella gasped, her breath coming in short bursts, "I'm here for Isla Kingsley."
Fingers hovering over the keyboard, the receptionist's eyes darted to the computer and back to Arabella with an unreadable look. Time dragged excruciatingly.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but Isla Kingsley's room is vacant."
Arabella stopped, her throat constricting. "What do you mean by empty?"
"She's been moved," the receptionist remarked, her grin now tight, somewhat mechanical. "They didn't leave you a message, but I'm sure she's okay."
Arabella's pulse raced as the room walls closed on her, and her eyes searched the space; things were off.
"Where?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper.
The receptionist gave her a blank look, then pushed a piece of paper over the counter. "You'll have to consult the doctor, I'm afraid."
Arabella grabbed the paper without further comment, a frigid feeling of dread enveloping her. Walking along the corridor, her sneakers clicking louder than usual, her body flowing across the space as though in a dream.
Arabella found it miles long, reaching Isla's last known room. She held her breath as the door slowly opened.
The room was empty, the bed beautifully made, and a few withering flowers in a vase by the window. But where was Isla?
Reaching for the phone in her pocket, her hand shook.
Dialing Isla's number fast, she hoped the sound of it ringing would somehow fix everything. The phone, however, rang and rang unanswered.
"Isla," she said softly, a tear rolling down her face as the room's frigid temperature gnawed at her flesh.
What had gone wrong?
Buzzing in her hand, her phone drew her from the mounting anxiety. It was an unlisted number. Her fingers hovered over the screen as she grimaced. It rang once more. Not listed.
Arabella responded fast. "Hello?"
A calm, businesslike voice came over the queue. "Arabella Kingsley, We're from Whitaker & Associates, and I have a chance for you. Sawyer Whitaker would like to talk to you."
Arabella's pulse faltered. "Your product doesn't interest me."
"This isn't a sales pitch," the voice said, unbothered. "Your sister is the subject. We can assist you."
Her heart leaped. "Assist? What do you mean by assist?"
"Five million dollars," said the voice. "If you take the job, it's yours. We will handle Isla's treatment. All we ask is that you meet with us to talk about the offer."
Arabella's thoughts raced as she attempted to understand the proposal. Five million dollars? It was the answer to everything, the lifeline she sorely needed, but "What's the job?"
"You will discover when you see us. However, I believe you will find the terms quite fair. We can alter everything for you. For Isla." The voice was quiet, convincing, a once-in-a-lifetime chance.
The queue went dead before Arabella could respond, leaving a chilly, unpleasant aftertaste on her lips. The scribbled address on the slip of paper in her palm took her far beyond the city, so she looked at it again: an isolated estate.
What was this truly about?
The hope of wealth. The chance to save Isla. Was it a ruse?
But what option did she have?
Her head whirling, Arabella ran a hand over her hair. Time was running out for her to waste. With trembling hands, she wiped the tears threatening to fall. She allowed herself to hope for the first time in weeks.
Cold pressure of the mansion bearing down on her, Arabella sat at the big wood desk. Every breath made it seem as though the walls were inching closer to suffocate her.
The room seemed too beautiful to appear real. White marble floors shone under the severe illumination,
Framed paintings of faraway ancestors in gold studded the walls, their gaze following her every action. Since her last job, she had not signed a contract; that had been different, boring paperwork. What about this? This seemed more like something risky.
As she checked the contract before her, her fingers quivered a little. The page typeface seemed almost too crisp, conventional, and impersonal, as though it had been intended for this time to her.
Though the figures took her breath, her eyes scanned the phrases. Five million dollars. That would pay for Isla's medication and therapy. It would keep her alive.
But the conditions were icy, brutal, and terrifying. "Marry me for six months. No love, no falsehoods. Simply defense."
Arabella's throat seized a breath. Every inch of this mansion, every word from the lawyer who had brought her here, screamed at her to run. She couldn't shake the impression that this was a trap.
She had no option, though. Isla's life was on the line.
Still, as stone, Grant Winslow sat opposite her. Dark and unreadable were his eyes. His presence suffocated the room; Arabella couldn't say whether it was the weight of his riches, the impending power he held, or the darkness inside him.
But his quietness and some other quality about him made her feel vulnerable, as though she were a bug under glass.
He had said so little to her, yet everything about him made her suspicious.
How could she trust someone so detached? His gaze's intensity looked to stab into her thoughts, and Arabella felt as though she was being sized up for the first time in a long time.
Grant replied, his voice low like the roll of distant thunder, "You're making a smart decision. Isla's therapy will be handled. The rest I'll manage."
Arabella's heart raced in her chest. He said it so nonchalantly, as if it were a done deal, as if she were a pawn in a game too big for her to grasp. The money would fix everything.
But was she ready to sell her soul? Might she?
Her fingertips floated over the page.
Was this the sole means of rescuing Isla? Could she give her name to something that would alter her life forever, ignoring the growing sensation in her stomach?
Her gaze shot back up to meet Grant's. His look was a mask, his face chilly. Still, as stone, he sat there as though this was all only business.
She couldn't allow herself to consider it too much. She'd previously signed for worse, job-related paperwork, bill-related paperwork, and survival-related paperwork.
But this was unique. This guy was giving a chunk of his life, universe, and identity, not only a contract. Arabella was unsure whether she could manage it but couldn't afford not to. Isla's life was at stake.
Arabella grabbed the pen after taking a deep breath.
Grant's eyes tracked her every action as she signed. A gentle click rang across the room as a corner-dwelling photographer shot a snapshot the minute the pen left the page.
The sound of the camera shutter slicing through the quiet caused Arabella to freeze.
Grant's voice shattered the quiet before she could grasp what had occurred.
His words made her shiver: "You will now be living in my world." The way he phrased it made it clear it wasn't an offer. It was not even a remark. It was a command.