The Contract Lying on the Table
The door to the top floor of the Voss Building stood ajar.
Laila lingered in the doorway, her fingers clutching her worn handbag so tightly that the fabric crumpled beneath her grip. Inside lay only two things: a debt ledger signed by her father, and a scrap of paper torn from an old account book. The edges of the paper were curled, tucked deep inside the inner pocket. She had not touched it the entire way here, yet she could still feel its stiff outline pressing against her fingertips.
Silence hung heavy in the room.
A long polished table sat in the center, with three chairs arranged around it. Upon the table rested a marriage contract, a fountain pen, a formal seal, and an untouched cup of black coffee. The man seated behind the table lifted his gaze, yet he did not rise to his feet.
Enzo Voss.
He wore no formal evening attire today. His black shirt was buttoned all the way to the collar, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, his hands resting casually on the table’s edge. Two men stood at his side—one flipping through stacks of documents, the other standing guard in perfect silence. None of them spoke first.
Laila’s eyes fell straight to the contract.
Printed clearly on the first page was the marriage term: Two years.
She did not dare touch the paper, only stared rigidly at that single line.
“Where is my father?”
Enzo twirled his pen once between his fingers, then set it down slowly.
“Alive.”
“I’m asking where the man is.”
“That is exactly my answer.”
Laila’s throat tightened, her knuckles whitening around the strap of her handbag.
“You plan to settle all his debts in one go.”
“Let me rearrange the order.” Enzo slid the contract toward her, his fingertip pausing over one critical clause. “You marry me, and I clear every debt he owes. Your father leaves the old family house, and I take full charge of his hospital arrangements. As for those creditors lingering outside your door—they will never bother your family again starting tomorrow.”
Laila scanned the addendum line by line.
“Marriage in name only. Reside at the Voss manor. Attend all mandatory social functions. Maintain a united front in public. No unilateral divorce applications. No public disputes. No private media interviews.”
She read every term without lifting her eyes.
“You call this a marriage?”
“I call it a business deal.”
The lawyer standing in the corner closed his folder; the metal clasp clicked softly, cutting through the quiet.
Laila set her handbag on her lap and spoke in a flat, emotionless tone.
“What happens after the two years end?”
“You regain your freedom.” Enzo’s dark gaze locked onto hers. “I rid myself of this trouble.”
She stared into his deep, bottomless eyes and said nothing.
He leaned back slightly, tapping his fingertip rhythmically against the tabletop.
“You have ten seconds to decide.”
A cold, bitter smile tugged at Laila’s lips, devoid of any warmth.
“Your people combed through my father’s ledgers three times over—you left nothing untouched, not even a single teacup. Now you give me merely ten seconds? Is that your idea of being considerate?”
The bodyguard by the door shifted his stance, the sole of his boot pressing lightly into the carpet, yet he remained completely silent.
Enzo ignored her sharp retort.
“Nine seconds.”
Laila unzipped her handbag, her fingertips brushing against the hidden scrap of paper inside. She did not take it out. That fragile page bore the stamp of her father’s old company, with a string of handwritten numbers scribbled in the corner. She had pondered the entire journey here: if this man demanded something from her, what bargaining chip should she offer first?
“You want me to move into your home, stand by your side, and endure all the judgmental stares from high society.” She lifted her chin to meet his gaze. “What do you give me in return?”
“Name anything you want.”
“I want my father safe and unharmed.”
“You have my word.”
“I also want the old mansion kept under his name permanently.”
“Agreed.”
“And replace his entire medical and legal teams with your most trusted people.”
Enzo studied her quietly for several long seconds.
“You are negotiating terms with me.”
“You are the one who laid the options before me.”
He reached across the table and flipped the contract to its final page.
“You missed one condition.”
Laila’s breath caught, her gaze freezing.
At the very bottom of the sheet lay a line of fine print, the ink still fresh as if it had been added at the last minute. The words were blurred to her eyes, leaving only a blank signature line waiting to be filled.
“What clause?”
“Sign first.”
“Let me read it first.”
“You no longer have that luxury.”
Laila clutched her handbag tightly.
“Does my father know about this contract?”
“He knows half of it.”
“Which half?”
“That you would come here today.”
She stared at him, her breath hitching in her chest.
The pen on the table was pushed slowly toward her. Its silver barrel felt ice-cold, as if it had just been pulled from freezing water.
She made no move to reach for it.
“I have a rule,” she said softly. “I read every single word carefully before I sign any agreement.”
Enzo rose to his feet.
His movements were unhurried and silent; the chair did not make a single creak, only amplifying the oppressive quiet in the room. The men by the door stayed rooted in place, every pair of eyes fixed firmly on her.
He walked around the desk, stopping directly in front of her. Reaching out, he dragged the contract back toward him, pressing his fingertips over the hidden final clause.
“Even after you read it clearly, you will still sign.”
Laila held her ground, refusing to look away or back down.
“What if I refuse?”
“Your father will be moved into the accommodation I arranged for him tonight.”
“You are using him to threaten me.”
“I am simply telling you the inevitable outcome: the longer you hesitate, the more you will lose.”
He never raised his voice, yet his words landed heavy and final, leaving her nowhere to escape.
Laila’s fingertips turned cold. She set her handbag aside on the chair and reached for the pen. She paused just before the tip touched the paper.
“Is there something in that hidden half you intend to keep from me forever?”
Enzo looked straight at her, offering no reply.
He pushed the contract forward an inch.
She lowered her head and signed her name steadily.
Laila Bennett.
As the last letter was written, the back of her hand tensed involuntarily. The ink had not yet dried when his palm pressed lightly over her signature, covering the name she had just inscribed. She froze for a split second at his faint touch.
Laila lifted her head and locked eyes with him.
“From this day forward, do not visit your father’s residence without my permission.” He lifted his hand away. “And do not send anyone to inquire about private matters behind my back.”
“Afraid I’ll run away?”
“Afraid of unnecessary trouble.”
“Then why choose me out of everyone else?”
Enzo handed the signed contract to the lawyer without so much as glancing in her direction.
“You are the perfect fit.”
Laila swallowed those four heavy words, her fingertips pressing hard against the edge of the table.
Footsteps echoed briskly outside the door, stopping sharply at the end of the hallway. A man spoke in a low murmur just beyond the threshold, his words indistinct inside the room. Enzo turned his head, accepting another document from the lawyer and flipping it open casually.
“Arrange a car to take her to the West Wing.”
Laila stood to her feet.
“Now?”
“Immediately.”
“I haven’t packed any belongings yet.”
“The manor has everything you need.”
“My father—”
“He will be transferred to a private hospital ward starting tonight.”
She stared at him, searching for any hidden meaning behind his calm words, yet she found none.
As she turned to leave, the scrap of paper inside her handbag pressed against her palm, a quiet reminder that she had not yet played her final trump card. The door swung open, and the cold corridor air rushed inward—only then did she realize her back was soaked with cold sweat.
His voice stopped her from behind.
“Laila.”
She halted in her tracks but did not turn around.
“Do not make me repeat myself.”
She offered no reply, simply stepped forward and walked out.
At the end of the hallway, the elevator doors slid shut slowly. Her pale, taut reflection stared back from the mirrored glass. She lifted a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear; only when her fingertips brushed her earlobe did she realize she was trembling uncontrollably.
The scrap of paper still rested safely inside her bag.
She did not take it out, only pressed her palm firmly against the fabric, holding it in place.
The elevator descended floor by floor, numbers flickering past one after another. She stared blankly at the glowing display, her mind lingering only on that hastily added fine print at the bottom of the contract. She had not managed to read it clearly, yet the unease of half-truths being hidden from her already gnawed at her nerves.
When the elevator doors opened, a woman in a tailored gray suit waited in the hallway, name tag pinned neatly to her chest, hair pulled back in a flawless tight bun.
“Miss Laila, the car is waiting outside for you.”
“Who arranged this?”
“The master of the house.”
“Which master?”
The maid paused briefly.
“Mr. Enzo Voss.”
Laila walked forward with her handbag, asking no further questions. Headlights streamed through the entrance doorway; a black luxury sedan waited parked in the rain, its rear door already held open. She bent to climb inside, and as she settled in the seat, the driver in the front passenger seat handed her a thin paper envelope.
The envelope bore the embossed Voss family crest.
She did not take it immediately.
“What is this?”
“The master instructed you to open it first.”
Laila tore open the envelope and pulled out a key card and a check-in notice. Her name was printed neatly on the second page, with her assigned room number listed below. At the very bottom, two words were marked in dark ink:
Master Suite.
She held the paper between her fingers, remaining silent.
Rain lashed against the car window, streaking down the glass in endless trails. The driver started the engine, and as the vehicle glided forward, she caught sight of a figure standing beneath a black umbrella at the building entrance. Through the blurred curtain of rain, she could not make out his face—only the dark edge of the umbrella and his broad, unyielding shoulders.
She flipped the check-in notice over.
The back was completely blank.
She flipped it back again, her finger tracing the words Master Bedroom slowly. After a long pause, she folded the paper neatly and tucked it into her handbag.
As she zipped the bag closed, her phone vibrated quietly inside.
An unfamiliar number.
She tapped the screen awake. Only one message waited for her.
Don’t hand that piece of paper over to anyone.
