Sign

Irene Jones POV

“Why should I leave you?”

Did he really just ask that?

I didn’t even know this man, and he was way too close.

“I should be asking why the hell you’re doing this. What’s wrong with you?”

“Because I want to sleep with you," he said with a smirk.

My stomach twisted. My soul was ready to leave my body.

The audacity of this guy needed to be studied.

"I’m your brother’s bride. How can you even talk like this?" I shoved at his chest, but he caught my wrists, pinning them above my head.

Pain shot through my back as I arched away from him.

His lips curled, pleased. "Yet to be a bride. And a substitute at that." The back of his knuckles grazed my jaw, featherlight. "And what's the issue in sleeping with a handsome man like me? A man who has more value than my disabled cousin?"

The words hit harder than any shove.

Why does everything always come down to looks or money?

The Myers family was shaping up to be just as bad—if not worse—than mine.

I clenched my jaw. "Listen to me carefully. I don't give a shit about you or your so-called values." My voice was low, sharp. "At least my husband isn’t molesting someone."

His expression shifted—stunned. Like no one had ever dared to throw his own filth back at him.

I might be forced into this marriage, but that didn’t mean I'd let myself be treated like Misha—who only cared about appearances and money.

"How much do you want?" His tone dripped with condescension. "Girls like you love to pretend. If you’re willing to marry in your sister’s place, isn’t it because of how powerful our family is?"

My fingers curled into fists. Could I punch him?

My mood was already in shambles, and this asshole had the nerve to act like he knew everything about me.

Assumptions.

There was no way I’d marry for money.

Not that I hated money. It just wasn’t what I wanted in a marriage.

I wanted someone who made me feel safe. Someone who let me be myself.

So many dreams had already shattered, but a part of me still clung to the hope that maybe—just maybe—this marriage might finally pull me out of the mess my family had trapped me in.

Years of pretending.

"I'm talking to you. Don’t ignore me." His grip tightened.

I exhaled slowly. "A price, huh? Sounds like you have one. That’s why you’re so obsessed with mine—because people who come with price tags always go looking for others."

Saying it out loud felt good.

I’d had enough of people treating me like I was disposable. Enough of the slaps I got just for standing up for myself. Enough of my mother’s insults.

She had no idea how hard I tried to make myself small. How I hid behind waterproof makeup and ugly clothes just so her precious stepdaughter, Misha, could shine. How she wanted Misha in her good graces, even if it meant using me as the scapegoat.

Even today, while my bridal makeup was being done, no one noticed how I had already masked my skin to look dull and lifeless.

And for that, I was grateful.

The last thing I wanted was to be discovered.

And here I thought today couldn’t get any worse.

A forced marriage.

A husband who didn’t even show up.

And now, his asshole cousin had me pinned down, spewing filth.

"Interesting."

He finally let go, stepping back. I rubbed my wrists.

"No need to take any interest in me," I said. "I have none in you."

"We’ll see about that." He cocked his head toward the door. "For now, get out of my car."

Like I wanted to be here in the first place.

Without hesitation, I threw the door open. Before stepping out, I turned back one last time—and flipped him off.

"Miss Jones, wait."

I froze mid-step, my pulse spiking.

The voice was familiar.

Turning, I saw the man who had brought me here—Albert, one of the Myers family’s bodyguards.

He approached with an air of formality, holding a file in his hands. "Please sign these papers."

He extended them toward me.

I frowned. "What are these?"

Albert remained impassive. "Since the young master couldn’t attend the wedding, he sent the marriage registration papers. He’s already signed them."

His voice was polite. Too polite.

Like he was simply delivering a package—not handing me the legal proof of my forced marriage.

My stomach twisted.

I stared at the file, my fingers itching to tear it apart.

Every bit of this felt wrong. Not just the situation, but the casual way Albert explained it—like this was normal. Like I was just supposed to accept it.

Not that it was his fault.

But still.

I clenched my fists, forcing down the frustration. "And if I don’t sign?"

Albert didn’t flinch. "Then you'll have to discuss it with the Jones family directly."

I almost laughed. As if I had any real choice in this.

My throat burned.

I had fought so hard to escape my family's mess only to land in another.

Even though I owned an apartment now I knew refusing this marriage would only make things worse.

I took the file, flipping it open.

My so-called husband's signature was already there—bold, precise, like this was just another business transaction to him.

No vows. No ceremony. No face-to-face acknowledgement.

Just ink on paper.

I swallowed back the bitterness.

And with a deep breath, I picked up the pen.

Can’t even blame him, I thought bitterly. If his cousin talks about him like that, he might be in a tight spot too. Being crippled doesn’t help either.

My hands trembled as I signed my name.

The moment the ink dried, something inside me cracked.

It was done.

I wasn’t Irene Jones anymore.

I was Irene Myers.

And I had no idea what that meant for me.

"Congratulations."