The phone buzzed for the fifth time in ten minutes. Sloane Mitchell ignored it and kept her eyes on the blueprints spread across her kitchen table. The community center she'd been designing for months was finally taking shape—curved walls, a rooftop garden, windows that caught the morning light just right.
The buzzing stopped. Then started again.
She grabbed the phone. "What?"
"Miss Mitchell." The voice was smooth, unhurried. She recognized it immediately—Silas Webb's personal assistant. "Mr. Webb would like to remind you that the deadline is in sixteen days."
"I haven't forgotten."
"Good. He also wanted me to pass along a message." A pause. "Your father's rehab facility called. Apparently, he's been asking to leave. Mr. Webb thought you should know that if your father checks himself out, the terms of his debt change."
Sloane's grip tightened on the phone. "What does that mean?"
"It means the protection Mr. Webb has been offering expires the moment your father is no longer in a supervised facility. And without that protection…" The assistant let the sentence hang.
"Tell Webb I'll have the money."
"Sixteen days, Miss Mitchell. Don't be late."
The line went dead.
Sloane stared at the blueprints. Two million dollars. Sixteen days. Her entire savings—what little was left after her father's last relapse—wouldn't cover the interest. She had a degree in architecture from Columbia, a job designing bathroom renovations for clients who wanted their showers to "spark joy," and a father who had gambled away his pension, their house, and now his life.
She picked up her laptop and opened a browser. Her fingers moved before she could talk herself out of it, typing the address she'd found three weeks ago in a late‑night rabbit hole of desperation.
Alliance Conjugal.
The website was beautiful—soft gold lettering, photographs of smiling couples, testimonials from women who called it "a miracle." But buried in the terms of service was a line she'd read so many times she had it memorized: "Contract arrangements available for qualified applicants. Discretion guaranteed."
She'd filled out the application weeks ago and never hit send.
Now she opened it, scanned the answers she'd given—age twenty‑six, employed, no criminal record, reason for applying: financial emergency—and pressed Submit.
Her phone rang again before the confirmation page loaded. She almost didn't answer, but the number was blocked, and something told her to pick up.
"Ms. Mitchell." A woman's voice, British, professional. "I'm calling from Alliance Conjugal. Your application is… intriguing."
"Intriguing how?"
"You have the profile our client is looking for. Educated, presentable, no criminal record. And your motivation—financial—is straightforward. He appreciates straightforward."
Sloane's mouth went dry. "Who is the client?"
"That will be discussed at the interview, should you proceed. Are you available tonight at eight?"
"Tonight?"
"The client is… particular about timelines. If you're not available, we have other candidates."
Sloane thought about her father. About sixteen days. About two million dollars. She thought about the loan shark's assistant saying "without that protection" in that silky, threatening voice.
"I'll be there."
"A car will pick you up. Dress formally. And Ms. Mitchell?" The woman's voice dropped, intimate. "Whatever you think you're walking into, you're wrong. Prepare for that."
The line went dead.
Sloane looked down at her hands. They were shaking. She walked to her closet and pulled out the only formal dress she owned—a black sheath she'd bought for a college awards ceremony five years ago. It fit differently now. Tighter in some places, looser in others. She laid it on the bed and stared at it.
Her phone buzzed again. A text from an unknown number: "He knows about your mother. Come prepared to explain."
Sloane's blood went cold. Her mother had disappeared when she was twelve. Fourteen years ago. No calls, no letters, no explanation. Her father said she couldn't handle the gambling. But this text—he knows about your mother—what did that mean?
She typed back: "Who is this?"
No response.
She sat on the edge of her bed, the blueprints still spread across the kitchen table, the dress laid out like a uniform for a war she didn't understand. Outside her window, Veridian City glittered—a metropolis of glass towers and hidden darkness. Somewhere in those towers, a man was waiting to interview her for the position of his wife.
She had sixteen days to save her father. She had no other options. And somehow, inexplicably, her mother—the woman who had vanished without a trace—was part of this.
Sloane picked up the dress and held it against her body. The fabric was cool, expensive once, now worn at the seams.
"You can do this," she whispered to herself. "It's just a contract. Just one year. Then you're free."
But even as she said it, she didn't believe it. Nothing about this felt like freedom.
Her phone buzzed one more time. The same unknown number. A
single sentence: "Don't sign anything until you hear what he's not telling you."