Contract Marriage With My Billionaire Boss

VENUS

I wiped my eyes before stepping into Mom’s ward. They must’ve been swollen. I hadn't stopped crying since dawn, and Dain? Still not picking up.

“Hey, Mom,” I said, faking a smile so fragile it could crack if she blinked too hard.

Her expression shifted instantly. “Venus, what’s wrong? You’ve been crying.”

Of course she saw through it. She always does.

“Yeah… my boss is being an ass again,” I lied. The truth would break her. And I couldn’t add one more crack to her already-fractured world.

“Venus—” she started softly.

“It was my fault. I don’t wanna talk about it,” I muttered, brushing it off like it didn’t weigh a ton.

She didn’t push. Just reached for my hand. “Okay, darling. You don’t have to.”

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Did Dain come by?”

“No... is he back home?” Her voice lifted, blooming with a hope that made me sick.

That man didn’t deserve her hope.

“No. He hasn’t.” My voice turned cold, sharp and bitter. She noticed.

“Venus—”

“I should go. You need rest. Chemo starts next week.”

Another lie. It scorched my throat. God, I needed to make it true before it killed her.

We hugged. She smelled like antiseptic and lavender. I held on too long. Then I left.

The hospital was close, but each step felt like dragging a dead body—mine. The weight of hopelessness pressed on my shoulders, heavy and relentless. I kept hearing it—his voice.

Marry me.

Was he serious? Was it a game? A trap he’d enjoy watching me writhe in?

The thought sickened me. The fact I was considering it? Worse.

When I reached home, the front door was cracked open.

No.

I knew I locked it.

I stepped in and there he was. Dain. Sprawled on the couch, reeking of sweat and stale alcohol. Passed out, useless.

Disgust burned up my throat.

I grabbed a cup, filled it with water, and dumped it on his face.

“Get up, you asshole.”

He bolted upright, sputtering. “What the fuck?! You little—”

“You stole my money, Dain! Where is it?!”

His bloodshot eyes lit up with smugness. “You had that much stashed and let Billy rough me up for peanuts? Selfish little bitch.”

“You were never supposed to touch it. It was for Mom’s chemo.”

He scoffed. “Why bother? She’s dying anyway.”

That was it.

“Shut up,” I snarled. “Shut your fucking mouth!”

And then he slapped me.

Hard.

“That’s no way to talk to your father,” he slurred. “Didn’t your mother teach you—”

I snapped.

My eyes locked on a broken shard of glass near the table. I grabbed it, hand trembling but firm.

“Get out. Now. Or I swear to God, I’ll gut you.”

He paused. Blinked.

The threat landed.

He raised his hands, backing away. “Let’s not be hasty—”

“I said get out!” I screamed, lunging a step forward.

He stumbled. Then bolted.

As the door slammed shut, I collapsed. Sinking to my knees, hands shaking, chest heaving. Then the tears came—violent, uncontrollable. Not soft sobs. This was grief, rage, helplessness all tangled in one.

I sat in that storm for a long time.

When the shaking slowed, I cleaned the house like it could scrub my shame. But I couldn’t outrun one thought:

Mr. Sinclair.

Maybe I should’ve listened. Maybe I should’ve asked more questions. Maybe—just maybe—he was serious.

I hated him. Hated how cold he was. How powerful. How he always seemed ten steps ahead. But I had nothing left.

Desperate people make stupid choices.

I picked up my phone.

He answered on the fourth ring.

“About your offer…” My voice was hollow. “Were you serious?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. No emotion. Just cold certainty.

“Then I’ll take it,” I whispered. My pride shattered like glass on tile.

“Good,” he said. Like he knew I’d fold. “We’ll discuss the terms tomorrow. At the office.”

Click.

Just like that, I traded my freedom for hope.

If it saves her... maybe it’s worth it.