Page 9 of His By Contract

Georgia’s throat tightened. Even this small choice to see her own mother now required his permission. She’d known the price when she’d signed, but standing here in his presence, she felt the true weight of her decision settle over her like a shroud. A bitter taste filled her mouth, the flavor of gratitude mixed with resentment.

She belonged to Adrian Adler now. Her time, her choices, her future. All of it purchased with a signature and a phone call.

The contract sat between them on his desk, innocent as a viper before it strikes. Georgia stared at their names joined on the paper, wondering if this was how it felt to sign away your soul.

Georgia’s fingers closed around the thick manila envelope Adrian slid across his desk. The paper felt cold, clinical, like everything else in this sterile office. She fought the urge to wipeher hand on her skirt afterward, as though the envelope might contaminate her.

“The terms of our arrangement.” Adrian’s voice remained as controlled as his expression, his gaze fixed on her face as he spoke. No trace of victory crossed his sculpted features, no hint of satisfaction curved his lips. He simply presented the facts with the same calculated precision he’d shown throughout their meeting, his broad shoulders set with quiet authority as he waited for her response.

She opened the envelope, pulled out a stack of papers. Her eyes caught fragments of text that made her stomach turn. Dress code requirements. Public appearance protocols. Living arrangements. Scheduled events. Each line stripped away another piece of her autonomy. She’d expected the broad strokes of their agreement, but the meticulous detail of her captivity stunned her.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. She wanted him to say something, to gloat, to reassure her, anything. But Adrian simply watched her, his eyes unreadable as she skimmed through the pages that would dictate her life for the next year.

Adrian’s slight nod dismissed her as effectively as if he’d ordered her out. The conversation, if it could be called that, was finished.

Georgia’s legs felt wooden. The envelope weighed down her bag like lead as she walked to the door. Her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped her purse, fumbling with the strap as she adjusted it on her shoulder. She was painfully aware of his eyes on her back, assessing her reaction, perhaps even enjoying her discomfort.

She made it to the hallway before her composure cracked. The trembling spread from her hands through her entire body. Each step away from his office felt like walking through quicksand, dragging her deeper into the choice she’d made.

The city blurred past the tinted windows of his car, a kaleidoscope of neon and streetlights that meant nothing to Georgia. Her fingers twisted together in her lap, knuckles white with tension. She barely recognized these streets anymore. They belonged to a life she was leaving behind, a freedom she’d surrendered.

The car slowed to a stop outside the hospital entrance. Georgia sat frozen until the driver cleared his throat, gesturing toward the building with a practiced air of detachment. Her legs moved without conscious thought, carrying her through automatic doors into the harsh fluorescent lighting.

The sharp scent of disinfectant filled her lungs, making her head spin. Or maybe that was the exhaustion finally catching up with her. She walked the unfamiliar path to her mother’s new room, each step echoing in the quiet hallway. The contract in her bag was heavier than paper should be, its presence impossible to ignore. She wondered if others could sense it, this invisible brand she now carried.

The door to room 412 stood half-open. Inside, shadows pooled in the corners of the large room, broken only by the soft glow of monitoring equipment. Her mother lay still beneath lush hospital blankets, face peaceful in sleep. The steady beep of machines tracked each heartbeat, each breath, proof that Georgia hadn’t been too late, that her sacrifice meant something. That was what she needed to remember: this wasn’t about her anymore.

Georgia lowered herself into the chair beside the bed, its leather upholstery cool and firm. For the first time since signing her name, she let her guard drop. Her chest expanded with a shaky breath, then another, the weight of the day pressing down on her shoulders.

Sunlight crept across the linoleum floor, painting pale squares that stretched toward Georgia’s aching back. She’d dozed off in the chair, neck bent at an awkward angle. The rustling of sheets pulled her from fitful sleep, and her heart leaped as her mother’s eyes fluttered open. After a full night of silent vigil, the sight of consciousness sent a wave of dizzying hope through her chest.

“Georgia?” Evelyn’s voice came out rough, barely above a whisper.

Relief flooded through Georgia’s chest, but beneath it lurked something darker, the weight of secrets and contracts signed in the dark hours of night. The memory of that expensive office, the scratch of pen against paper, made her stomach clench with a familiar guilt. She leaned forward, clasping her mother’s outstretched hand. The skin felt paper-thin beneath her fingers, fragile as butterfly wings, so unlike the strong hands that had once bandaged her childhood scrapes.

“The bills…” Evelyn’s brow furrowed. “How did you?—”

“An anonymous donor.” The words scraped Georgia’s throat like broken glass. Each syllable felt like betrayal on her tongue, the lie she’d rehearsed a hundred times still sounding hollow to her own ears. She forced her lips into a smile, praying it looked genuine. “Everything’s taken care of.”

Evelyn’s eyes fixed on her face, sharp despite the medication coursing through her system. Georgia fought the urge to look away, to hide from that knowing gaze that had always seen straight through her defenses. The same penetrating look that had caught her sneaking in past curfew at sixteen, that had questioned her first heartbreak before she’d even admitted it to herself.

Her mother’s fingers tightened around hers, weak but insistent. The silence between them pulsed with things neither of them said, but both clearly felt. When Evelyn finally spoke, her voice carried a weight that made Georgia’s chest ache.

“Whatever you sacrificed for this, don’t let it take your soul.”

The truth of those words hit Georgia like a physical blow. How did she always know? That maternal intuition cut through her carefully constructed facade like it was nothing but tissue paper. She swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat, managed a small nod. But the contract in her bag whispered otherwise, its presence a constant reminder that she’d already signed away more than just her freedom. The weight of it pressed against her side like a brand, a physical manifestation of her bargain that no amount of hospital sanitizer could cleanse from her skin.

That evening, Georgia stepped into Adrian’s penthouse, her worn flats silent against marble floors that stretched into shadows. The space swallowed sound, leaving only the whisper of her breath and the soft click of the door sealing behind her. A sense of smallness washed over her as she stood in the vastentryway, feeling like an intruder in a museum rather than someone coming home.

Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a city she barely recognized from this height. Everything familiar had shrunk to insignificance, reduced to tiny squares of light far below. The furniture spoke of wealth without warmth, all sleek leather, cold steel, dark wood that absorbed what little sunlight filtered through. She found herself longing for the worn comfort of her own apartment’s mismatched pieces, each with a story behind it.

A woman in a crisp uniform appeared, leading her to what was supposedly her room. The space felt alien, no trace of her life. Her collection of vintage scarves, the chipped mug from design school, the photos of her mother, all left behind. In their place hung designer clothes she’d never choose for herself, their tags bearing names she’d only dreamed of wearing. The sight made her stomach twist with a strange mix of longing and revulsion.

The bathroom gleamed with products arranged by size, every bottle positioned at perfect right angles. Even the towels hung with military precision, stark white against dark walls. Georgia had always been comfortable with a touch of chaos—creative clutter, she called it—and the sterile perfection made her skin prickle with unease.

A leather folder waited on the bed, its surface unmarked. Inside, page after page detailed her new existence in bullet points and schedules. When she could leave. Where she could go. What she should wear for different occasions. Even her meals had been planned, times listed down to the minute. Each word felt like another brick in the wall being built around her life.

The reality of what she’d agreed to crashed over her. This wasn’t just a marriage of convenience, but a complete surrender ofcontrol. Every aspect of her life would now bend to Adrian’s will, shaped to fit his world of power and perfection. Her throat tightened with panic at the thought of being slowly erased and rewritten.

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