Contract Marriage With My Secret Zillionaire Husband

The screech of the subway brakes echoed in Dahlia's ears. Mrs. Rose's voice cut through the noise. It was an order for afternoon tea, not an invitation. "I will be there in an hour," Dahlia said. Her voice held zero emotion. She ended the call. She walked back into her cramped apartment. The sky outside the dirty window was turning black. Thick clouds rolled in. Dahlia walked to her cheap dresser. She pulled open the top drawer. She reached all the way to the back and pulled out a dark blue velvet box. Her thumb rested on the soft fabric for one second. She popped the lid open. The five-carat pink diamond sat perfectly still inside. It was the ring Kirt had given her. A brief ache squeezed her throat. She remembered the day he put it on her finger. But the memory faded fast, replaced by the cold reality of her bank account. She snapped the box shut. She shoved it deep into her purse. She ordered an Uber on her phone. The car drove into the gated community. Heavy rain began to smash against the windshield. The drops sounded like rocks hitting the glass. The driver looked at the massive iron gates in front of them. He glanced at Dahlia through the rearview mirror. The red light on the security camera blinked as it scanned her face. A heavy mechanical clunk echoed in the rain. The iron gates slowly groaned open, allowing the modest Uber to pass through the heavily guarded perimeter. The contrast between her cheap ride and the sprawling estate made her chest tighten. Dahlia handed the driver a cash tip as the car pulled right up to the massive front porch. She pushed the car door open. She stepped out, her eyes immediately locking onto a brand-new, bright red Porsche parked in the prime spot. It was Kirt's. The sight of it-a frivolous, million-dollar purchase made while her family drowned in debt-sent a hot spike of anger through her veins. She gripped the strap of her bag, her knuckles turning white. The wind whipped a stray gust of freezing rain against her bare legs as she rushed to the covered entryway. She reached the massive front porch. She brushed the water off her trench coat. The double oak doors pulled open from the inside. Maeve, the head housekeeper, stood there in her stiff uniform. Maeve looked at Dahlia's wet clothes. A flicker of pity crossed her eyes. She handed Dahlia a dry white towel. "Thank you," Dahlia said. She wiped the cold water from her cheeks. She kept her spine completely straight. "Madam is waiting in the sunroom," Maeve said in a robotic tone. "Please change into the guest slippers. The carpets were just cleaned." Dahlia stepped out of her muddy leather shoes. She slid her cold feet into the thin slippers. Her movements were slow and deliberate. She walked down the long hallway. The air smelled heavily of expensive agarwood and fresh roses. It made her head throb. She looked at the console table against the wall. The silver framed photo of her and Kirt was gone. The tabletop was completely bare. Her chest tightened. That empty space confirmed exactly what was about to happen. Dahlia stopped in front of the French glass doors of the sunroom. She sucked in a lungful of air. Maeve pushed the doors open and announced her. Mrs. Rose sat on a velvet armchair. She held a cup of Darjeeling tea. She did not look up. The rain hammered against the glass roof of the sunroom. Inside, the heater blew warm air. The physical difference made Dahlia feel sick. Dahlia walked to the empty sofa across from Mrs. Rose. She did not wait for permission. She sat down. Mrs. Rose finally lifted her chin. Her sharp eyes cut across Dahlia's damp hair. Mrs. Rose set her teacup down on the saucer. The porcelain clinked loudly in the quiet room. "Your father left a massive hole," Mrs. Rose said. She stated the exact dollar amount of the Mcdonald family debt. Dahlia did not argue. She reached her hand into her purse. Her fingers wrapped around the velvet box.