I let out a sound that might have been a laugh if it didn’t crack halfway through.
“I haven’t even kissed him,” I whisper. “And he has plans for my uterus.”
Emily snorts despite herself. “That’s one hell of a leap.”
I keep reading, sections and wording snagging in my mind.
Shared bed.
Exclusive marriage.
Minimum term.
Termination clauses that read less like exits and more like locked doors.
Emily squeezes my arm. “So, you can’t just… leave.”
“No,” I say quietly. “Not unless he agrees.”
Silence settles between us, heavy and uncomfortable.
“I don’t like that,” she says.
Neither do I.
But I keep reading anyway, because this is what I do. I assess. I survive. I gather information even when it hurts.
Then we reach the section that makes my stomach turn.
Emily leans closer, squinting. “Hold on... what’s that?”
I read it again, slower this time, because I couldn't have read it right.
Bonus structures.
Continuation incentives after year three.
Additional compensation per child.
Performance incentives tied to public appearances.
Bile bubbles in my throat.
Emily stares at the page like it might bite her.
“Lucy,” she says slowly. “Is he… paying you to stay married?”
Heat floods my face. Not embarrassment... anger.
“It’s not like that,” I say automatically.
She looks at me. “It is exactly like that.”
Something snaps. I stand, my heart starts racing, breath coming shallow and sharp. The room feels too small, the walls too close.
“I need air,” I mutter.
I escape into the hallway bathroom and lock myself in a stall like I’m fifteen again. I brace my hands against the wall and force myself to breathe.
