A L Y S S A

I don't sleep that night. Not really, at least, maybe we're looking at a maximum of 3 hours. I tossed, turned, and spent the dark hours researching Valentino Enterprises, as much as the internet will give me. Which isn't much.

No job listings. No employee reviews. No company Instagram page bragging about its corporate culture. They're private, way too private.

But their name? Everywhere.

Real estate, private investments, whispers of politics. And the family itself...? Vittorio and Luciana Valentino... names dropped in articles about wealth, philanthropy, influence. Their faces pop up beside politicians and celebrities, letting me know that the people I'm dealing with, must be extremely important.

When the alarm buzzes at 7 AM, I'm already dressed and good to go.

I pull on the best outfit I own: black slacks, a white blouse, and a blazer I bought secondhand. It doesn't quite fit my shoulders, but it's the closest thing I have to "professional." My hair is dark, wavy and bobbed at my jawline, a few strands curling against my cheek no matter how much I smooth them down. My eyes are green, tired and ringed with shadows I've tried my best to cover with concealer. I stare back at my reflection in the mirror, daring me to believe I look like someone who belongs in a skyscraper. And maybe that's the sort of delusion I need to get through this interview.

I breathe out, shakily and finally, when I feel I'm ready, step out the door.

The subway ride is a blur, and I grip the pole so hard my knuckles ache, running through every possible scenario in my head. Maybe this is real. Maybe it's a hidden elite firm that doesn't post online. Maybe they want someone new, someone moldable, and it really is just a normal interview.

I tell myself I'm being dramatic and overthinking. I tell myself that three thousand times before the train screeches to my stop, just as I step out onto the street and make my way towards the powerful structure before me.

Valentino Enterprises.

The building towers above me, sleek glass and steel scraping the sky, and I have to admit, it's far better than what I expected. It's corporate perfection. And I'm about to walk right into it...

My stomach knots as I approach the entrance. The guards outside look like Secret Service, having on black suits, sunglasses and earpieces. Their hands are clasped neatly in front of them, and their posture screams authority; they don't even blink when I pass.

Inside, the air is much cooler and sharper. The receptionist greets me without surprise, as though she's been waiting all morning just for me.

"Miss Hart," she says, her voice light with a bright smile on her face. "Welcome. They're expecting you."

Just they. No names or titles, and the lack of information makes my heart race with anxiety.

"The 47th floor. The pass code is 473211." She says, then gestures to a private elevator, and my throat immediately tightens, my palms becoming damp. I want to turn around, to walk out the glass doors and back into anonymity.

But then I think of Mom.

Her pale face against hospital sheets, machines breathing for her, just barely staying alive. Every day, I imagine what it'll be like when she finally does wake up again. And that's all the motivation I need to keep going.

And so I step into the elevator, putting in the code she gave and watching as the doors close.

It moves too fast for me, making my stomach lurch and my ears pop from all the anxiety, and before I can even take a calming breath, the doors slide open.

The top floor is... Intimidating, cold and completely unwelcoming. All glass and steel and silence, like I've stepped into a throne room, where you don't speak unless you're told.

I step out slowly, and at he end of a long conference table sit two people I don't need introductions for. It's them, the people I've been reading about...

Mr and Mrs Valentino.

Power hangs around them, heavy in the air and making me feel small in my own skin. Mr Valentino appears somewhere in his early 50s, with a head full of dark slicked slicked-back hair, his suit perfectly cut, his grey eyes sharp enough to cut me in half. Mrs Valentino is no less intimidating. She is stunning, effortlessly elegant yet severe. But there's a coldness around her that makes my shoulders tense as I look at her. She has beautiful curly brown hair stopping just at her shoulders, and she's dressed in a fitted black dress.

I stand still, glancing between the two of them and swallowing hard.

"Miss Hart," Mr Valentino says, his voice deep and smooth. "Please, come, sit."

And I do. Because what else can I do?

My legs move before my brain catches up. I cross the room and lower myself into the chair across from them, feeling my spine stiffen, my palms clammy against my thighs. I feel small in this room, in their presence, like a mouse sitting in front of two lions. I take my seat across from them, and I shift nervously before clearing my throat and focusing on them.

"Mr and Mrs Valentino... good morning..." I let out, trying my best to hide my anxiety.

Finally, Mrs Valentino speaks, her voice gracious and polite. "Good morning. I appreciate you coming on such short notice."

I force a nod, my throat dry. "Thank you for... the invitation. Though, I have to admit, the email didn't really say what the position was."

Mr Valentino gives the faintest smile, like he's heard this exact line before, like my confusion is part of some script. Mrs Valentino doesn't smile. She just tilts her head, studying me like a specimen under glass.

"Yes," she says slowly. "We tend to avoid formal job postings when something... delicate is involved."

Delicate? My heart jumps at the word. "Delicate?" I echo before I can stop myself.

She sighs, not irritated exactly, but as if she expected me to stumble over the puzzle. "Yes. This interview is not for a job. Not in the traditional sense." She folds her hands neatly on the table, her movements calm, controlled. Every gesture is purposeful. "This is a role. A responsibility. One that requires a very specific kind of character."

My stomach twists. "I don't understand. I didn't apply for anything-..."

"You didn't need to," Mr Valentino cuts in, gentle but firm, like a teacher correcting a child. "You've already been chosen. Vetted, in fact."

The words sink in like stones. Chosen? Vetted? By who? For what? I feel cold all over, like I've just stepped into a trap I didn't see coming.

"Chosen... for what?" My voice shakes, no matter how hard I try to steady it. There's a pause. They exchange a glance I can't read. And then Mrs Valentino speaks.

"We'd like you to marry our son."

My heart sinks to my feet, and my mind blanks. The words don't make sense. Did she really just say...

A L Y S S A

"W-What?" I whisper, my throat dry as dust.

"You heard correctly," Mr Valentino says, leaning back, eyes never leaving mine. "This is not a job interview, Miss Hart. It's a proposal."

A proposal.

It feels like some twisted joke. Like, there are cameras hidden in the walls, and someone's going to jump out and yell "Gotcha!" any second now.

"Why?" It's all I can manage to say, because none of this makes sense.

Mrs Valentino's lips curve into too calculated to be a smile. "Because you need money. And we need a wife for our son."

The chill that runs down my spine is like ice water. "But... you don't even know me."

"We know enough," Mr Valentino replies, his tone calm, factual. Like this is math, not madness. "Your mother is sick. The bills are overwhelming. You've exhausted every option. But you haven't given up. That makes you... suitable."

My fingers curl against the armrests of my chair, digging in hard just to keep myself steady. Suitable. Like I'm being measured for parts.

"This isn't real," I whisper, barely hearing myself over the pounding in my ears.

"It's very real," Mrs Valentino says. Her voice doesn't waver. "We'll pay off all your mother's medical expenses. In return, you will marry our son, Stephano."

Stephano.

When I was researching them, I didn't even think to look into them having any children.

I wasn't expecting this. I wasn't expecting any of this. My head feels too full, my chest too tight.

Do they really want me to marry their son?

I force myself to speak, even though my voice shakes. "And... what happens after?"

Mr Valentino doesn't hesitate. Not even a second. "The contract lasts two years. You provide an heir. After that, you're free."

An heir.

Not a wife. Not a partner. Just a vessel.

My heart thunders. I should get up. I should walk out. Laugh in their faces and slam the door behind me.

But I don't.

Because Mom is dying, and every other door is locked shut.

My voice cracks when I finally manage, "I... I need time. To process... to think..."

"You have until 4 PM this afternoon to decide if you don't decide now." Mrs Valentino says, her words clipped, final. "After that, the offer expires."

This afternoon. Meaning I have hours to decide if I'll sell myself to the Valentinos...

After that, she places an envelope on the table and slowly slides it across to me. The folder sits on the table between us like a loaded gun; thick, dark, ominous, and I don't touch it. Not yet.

I can feel their eyes on me. Mrs Valentino looks at me with calm detachment, like she already knows how this ends, while Mr Valentino leans back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, curiosity and focus clear on his face.

"There are, of course, conditions," Mrs Valentino says.

Of course there are. There's always a catch.

I lean back slightly, bracing myself for whatever comes next, remaining silent as I wait for her to go on.

"You will be married to our son, Stephano Valentino, by the end of this week. The ceremony will be private. Legal. No press."

My head spins. This week? Married? I blink at her, trying to process the words. "This week?"

Mrs Valentino doesn't flinch. "There's no time to waste. He will agree to the terms. You don't need to concern yourself with his opinion."

His opinion. As if it's irrelevant. As if the man I'm supposed to marry doesn't even get a say. I can't tell if that makes me more insulted or more terrified.

"You will live with him in the Valentino estate in Eastcliff," Mr Valentino continues, unfazed. Her tone is smooth, businesslike. "Your sole purpose for the duration of the two-year contract is to produce an heir or two. Preferably a male heir. Once that's accomplished, your obligations will be considered fulfilled."

My voice scrapes up from somewhere dry and small. "And then what?"

"You'll be released from the contract with a full financial settlement," Mr Valentino answers. His voice is softer this time, but it doesn't make the words any less heavy. "We'll also set up a trust to cover your mother's lifelong care, regardless of whether she recovers."

My throat is tight, and my mouth is dry. "And if I can't... have a child? Or if I due, and it's not a male...? And what will happen to the child afterwards?"

Mrs Valentino exhales deeply, her eyes deeply focused on me. "Stephano is twenty-seven. Young, healthy. The assumption is that the issue would not lie with him. As long as you produce a child for him, the deal will still stand. The child will become a Valentino. And so he will remain with his father. Whether or not you would like to leave or stay."

The implication stings, sharp and humiliating.

Mr Valentino cuts in, gentler. "We won't force artificial means. But if two years pass and no child is conceived, the contract ends. No penalty. However, the trust for your mother would not be renewed."

I swallow hard, trying to process that. "So it's a baby or nothing."

"Precisely." He answers, and the words sit like lead in my chest.

I look down at the folder again, but still don't open it. My thoughts are racing, overlapping, tangling together. None of this feels real.

Mrs Valentino closes her own copy of the file and folds her hands neatly. "You're being offered a clean escape from drowning, Miss Hart. We are not asking for your love. We're asking for your cooperation."

"And compliance," I mutter before I can stop myself.

A flash of amusement passes over Mr Valentino's face. "You'll find we're not as controlling as our reputation suggests. So long as you hold up your end, your freedom within our home is your own."

Home. As if I'll ever feel at home in a place like that.

"As for tonight," Mrs Valentino says, standing, "a car will be sent to pick you up at six. Someone will come to help with your hair, your makeup-..."

"That won't be necessary," I interrupt.

The room goes quiet. My words seem to echo against the glass walls.

Mrs Valentino raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"I don't need a stylist," I say, more firmly this time. "If I'm going to meet your son... this man I'm apparently marrying, I'd rather he meet me, not some polished version of me your staff puts together," I answer, my voice shaky, but still I don't look away.

Mr Valentino considers me carefully. "He will judge you regardless."

"Let him," I say, surprising even myself.

The Valentinos exchange a look.

Curiosity passes between them, then Mrs Valentino gives the smallest of nods. "Very well. No stylist. But the car still comes at six."

"I don't even know what he's like," I mutter, my curiosity getting the best of me.

"He's... complicated, our boy," Mr Valentino says, matter-of-fact. "He doesn't want this. But he knows the cost of disobedience."

"And what does that mean?" I ask slowly.

"It means," Mrs Valentino says, "you are not his prisoner. But you are not his partner either. This arrangement is not romantic, and knowing Stephani, it most likely never will be."

I look down again. This time, my fingers brush the folder.

None of this feels real.

It feels like a dream I'm going to wake up from. Or a nightmare.

"Open the envelope." Mr Valentino then instructs, then I look down at the table and slowly pick it up from the desk. It's a small envelope, rectangular, and feels somewhat heavy. I slowly open it, my eyes widening as soon as I see what's inside.

Money.

"That's $5,000. Cash." Mrs Valentino informs me, and I look back at them with nothing but disbelief...

A L Y S S A

"This is a gesture of faith," Mr Valentino says, his voice smooth and assured, like he's explaining an investment opportunity instead of handing me a sum of money that could alter the course of my life. "A retainer, if you will. Consider it a taste of what we're offering. Spend it on your mother. Or don't. It's yours."

The envelope sits in my hands, closed now, but I can still feel what's inside it. I can feel it like pressure against my palms, against my chest, against the part of me that still wants to believe I didn't just agree to sell my future in exchange for survival. My pride is screaming, loud and frantic, telling me not to take it, telling me that once I do, there's no pretending this was hypothetical, no pretending I still have one foot outside the door.

But pride doesn't keep hospital machines running. Pride doesn't make pain go away. Pride doesn't sit beside my mother's bed at night and whisper that she can rest now, that everything will be okay.

So I close the envelope with a hand that trembles despite my effort to stop it, and I slide it into my purse as carefully as if it might burn through the lining. I lift my gaze back to them and nod once.

"I accept," I say.

The words sound strange in my mouth, like they belong to someone else, someone braver or more foolish than I am.

Mrs Valentino's expression softens, just slightly, and Mr Valentino's mouth curves upward in something that looks like satisfaction. They exchange a glance that feels intimate, as though they've just completed a deal that was never truly in question.

"Thank you, Alyssa," Mrs Valentino says. "We will be in touch."

And just like that, it's over.

No signatures. No paperwork slid across the table. No formal closing to the conversation that has just reshaped my entire life. Just expectation hanging in the air, thick and quiet, like something waiting to be fulfilled.

I stand slowly, my legs stiff, my body lagging behind my thoughts as if it needs extra time to catch up. I manage a nod that feels awkward and out of place, then turn toward the elevator without another word.

I do not look back.

The elevator doors close with a soft hiss, sealing me inside a narrow mirrored box that reflects a version of me I barely recognise. Pale. Eyes too wide. Lips parted like I've forgotten how to breathe properly.

What just happened?

The question circles my mind as the elevator descends, the numbers lighting up one by one. I wait for panic to hit, for my chest to tighten, for tears to come. None of it happens. There is only a strange quiet, a blank stretch inside my head where thoughts should be colliding. It feels like something in me has gone still out of self-preservation, as though shutting down emotion is the only way I can keep standing upright.

I open my purse and pull the envelope back out.

The cash is real. I slide my thumb over the bills, half expecting them to fade into nothing, to reveal this whole thing as a hallucination brought on by exhaustion and stress.

Five thousand dollars.

The number alone feels unreal. More money than I have held at one time in years. Enough for another round of treatments. Enough for another stretch of hope.

I fold the envelope again and press it briefly against my chest before tucking it away, like a secret I am not ready to look at for too long.

The elevator doors open.

The lobby is just as polished as before, marble floors gleaming beneath my feet, the receptionist offering me the same polite nod as if I hadn't just walked out of a meeting that has effectively sold my future. I step outside, and the city crashes back into me all at once.

Horns blaring. People rushing past. Voices overlapping. Life is moving forward without hesitation.

Everything looks the same.

But nothing is.

I pull my coat tighter around me and start walking, not toward any particular destination, just away. The cold air bites at my cheeks, stinging enough to remind me that I am still here, still in my body. It helps. A little.

It is nearly midday.

Six hours until the car comes.

Six hours until I meet the man I am supposed to marry.

Six hours until this thing I have agreed to takes on a face.

By the time I reach my apartment, my head feels full again, thoughts stacking on top of each other in ways that make it hard to breathe. I unlock the door and step inside, letting it slam shut behind me with a sound that echoes through the small space, too loud, too final.

I stand there with my coat still on, purse clutched tight to my chest, afraid that if I set it down, I will lose the only proof that this is real. My legs feel stiff, my body unwilling to move forward.

This is real.

I said yes.

My phone vibrates in my hand, and when I take it out of silent mode, I see the missed calls immediately. Carmen. Too many of them.

As if summoned, the phone starts ringing again.

I hesitate, staring at her name on the screen, then answer.

"Hey."

"Alyssa!! Why weren't you picking up my calls?!" she shouts. "I've been trying to reach you all morning! I was about to call hospitals!"

I pull the phone away from my ear. "Good morning to you, too." I let out with a deep sigh.

"You disappeared," she says. "What happened?"

"I had an interview."

There is a pause, then her tone brightens instantly. "Really? That's great. How did it go?"

"It was... different."

The shift is immediate. "Different how?"

"I'm home," I say instead. "Can you come over?"

Another pause. "I'm on my way."

Ten minutes later, she bursts through the door like a storm, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail of red hair, cheeks flushed, eyes scanning me like she's checking for injuries.

"Okay," she says. "Talk."

I don't answer. I just moved toward the coffee table and set my purse down, pulling the envelope out and placing it in front of her.

Her gaze follows it. She stops moving.

"What is that?"

"Open it."

She hesitates, then does, and when she sees what's inside, her breath catches.

"Alyssa," she says quietly. "How much is this...?"

"Five thousand dollars." I let out as I keep my eyes on her.

She looks up at me, eyes wide. "From who??"

"The Valentinos."

Her reaction is instant. She stiffens, then looks at me like I have lost my mind. "What? How? Why would they give you this much money? They hired you and paid you up front?"

I sink onto the couch, exhaustion crashing into me all at once. "I didn't work for them."

Her voice rises. "Then what did you do?"

I close my eyes for a moment, then open them and meet her gaze.

"They want me to marry their son."

The silence that follows feels endless. Until finally she responds.

"What?!"

"Two years," I say. "A contract. A child. Then I'm free."

She stands abruptly. "No. No, absolutely not. This is insane!! This is how people disappear!! Have you never watched a crime documentary in your life?!"

"They're paying for my mom's care," I say. "All of it."

Her mouth opens, then closes again.

"And you're actually considering this...?" she says.

"I already said yes."

She stares at me, horror and worry battling in her eyes.

"Alyssa," she whispers. "What have you done...?"

I look down at my hands, at the envelope still sitting on the table between us.

"I did what I had to."

And even as I say it, I know this is only the beginning.