The Runaway Heiress's Accidental Contract Marriage

The heavy door of the private VIP room clicked shut, instantly silencing the low jazz music from the main lounge.

Annabelle sat on the edge of a plush velvet sofa, clutching a cup of steaming Earl Grey tea. Her hands were still shaking slightly, making the china cup rattle against its saucer.

Gabriella sat across from her, her dark eyes full of concern. She pushed a plate of pastel-colored macarons across the marble table. "Eat something. You look like you're going to pass out."

As Annabelle reached for a macaron, her phone vibrated in her damp coat pocket—it had automatically logged into the lounge's guest Wi-Fi. She pulled it out, wiping a drop of rainwater from the screen. It was an email from a recruiter she'd messaged weeks ago in a fit of desperate hope.

We've reviewed your portfolio, it read. Welcome to Apex Digital Comics, New York. Your start date is next Monday.

Annabelle let out a choked gasp, a fresh wave of tears finally spilling over her lashes. A job. A real, salaried job she thought she'd never land. The heavy block of ice in her chest cracked just a little. But as she looked down at her ruined shoes, reality set back in. She had an income starting next week, but she still had nowhere to sleep tonight.

The warmth of the room and the tea began to thaw Annabelle's frozen limbs. She took a small bite of a macaron, the sugar rushing into her bloodstream. Slowly, she began to explain. She told Gabriella about losing her job, the desperate flight to New York, and the horrifying encounter with the creepy landlord in Brooklyn.

When she mentioned the tenant blowing smoke in her face, Gabriella slammed her teacup down. The sharp clatter echoed in the room.

"Absolutely not," Gabriella declared, her eyes flashing with anger. "You are not living in some disgusting rat hole with perverts. New York real estate is a nightmare."

Annabelle offered a weak, self-deprecating smile. "My budget doesn't exactly allow for a penthouse right now. I just need to find a safe studio."

Gabriella's eyes suddenly lit up. She leaned forward, reaching across the table to grab both of Annabelle's hands. Her grip was tight and excited.

"Move in with me," Gabriella said.

Annabelle's eyes widened. She pulled her hands back slightly. "What? No, Gabriella, I can't do that. That's way too much to ask."

"I'm not asking, I'm telling," Gabriella insisted. "I live at my family's place in Long Island. The Crestwood Estate. It's massive. There are literally dozens of empty bedrooms. You have to come."

"I can't impose on your family," Annabelle argued, her heart beating faster. The Barrera family. The very family her grandfather had arranged her marriage with. The coincidence was terrifying.

"You wouldn't be imposing! It's just my mom and some boring relatives right now. I am dying for someone my own age to talk to," Gabriella whined, shaking Annabelle's arm. "Please, Anna. We had so much fun at the track. My mom will love you. She loves artists."

Annabelle bit her lip. She thought about the dark, moldy hallway in Brooklyn. She thought about the man's greasy eyes. The fear in her stomach twisted. She had nowhere else to go tonight.

"Just until I find an apartment," Annabelle whispered, her voice cracking.

Gabriella squealed, throwing her arms in the air. She immediately pulled out her phone. "I'm calling the driver."

Ten minutes later, the lounge manager knocked on the door, bowing slightly. "Miss Barrera, your car is ready."

Gabriella pulled Annabelle to her feet. They walked out of the lounge together. The rain had slowed to a light drizzle.

A massive, midnight-black Rolls-Royce Phantom sat idling at the curb. A driver in a crisp uniform stood holding an umbrella. He took Annabelle's battered suitcase with the utmost respect and placed it gently into the trunk.

Annabelle slid into the backseat. The soft, buttery leather yielded beneath her. The air inside smelled of expensive cedarwood and faint leather. It was a completely different universe.

Gabriella pressed a silver button on the console. A hidden compartment opened, revealing a chilled bottle of champagne. She poured two flutes and handed one to Annabelle.

The heavy car pulled away from the curb, gliding silently through the wet streets of Manhattan. The neon lights blurred past the tinted windows.

Annabelle took a sip of the champagne. The bubbles tickled her throat, and the alcohol began to relax her tightly wound nerves. She listened to Gabriella chatter about shopping trips and room decorations, feeling like she had fallen down a rabbit hole.

An hour later, the city skyline faded, replaced by the dense, manicured trees of Long Island.

The Rolls-Royce slowed. Massive wrought-iron gates, adorned with a complex crest, loomed in the darkness. They swung open automatically.

The car drove up a long, winding driveway lined with ancient oak trees. At the end of the path, The Crestwood Estate appeared. It was a breathtaking, sprawling stone mansion, its windows glowing with warm, golden light against the night sky.

Annabelle stared at the mansion, her breath catching in her throat. She had just walked right into the heart of the Barrera family.