The contract

"Two days?" My voice cracks, barely above a whisper. I stare at Mr. Peterson, my landlord, whose weathered face looks more tired than angry.

"Two days, Ashley," he repeats firmly. "Two years of unpaid rent. I've been patient, but the bank's breathing down my neck."

My hands start to shake. The small, dusty apartment around me suddenly feels like it's closing in. At twenty-four, I've known hardship my entire life. Being an orphan meant learning to survive on my own, but this—this feels like rock bottom.

"Where will I go?" The words slip out before I can stop them. My entire life flashed in an instant from my parents I lost five years ago , who left me with nothing but a faded photograph and a locket.

Mr. Peterson's expression softens slightly. We both know I have nowhere to turn. No family, just me and my only shelter.

"Please give me more time," I begged but my pleas fell on deaf ears.

He drops the eviction notice on my coffee table. The paper looks official, with bold letters and scary stamps written on it.

The door slams behind Mr. Peterson, and I crumble. Tears stream down my cheeks, hot and uncontrollable. My body shakes with sobs that seem to come from the deepest part of my soul.

I'm completely alone.

The small refrigerator mocks me with its nearly empty shelves. One slice of bread. Half a can of cold beans. That's all that stands between me and total hunger. My bank account empty.

I think about the job I lost last week. The marketing startup couldn't "sustain" my position anymore. I was the first to go when budget cuts came. Months of hard work, gone in a single email.

And now I have just two days.

How does someone rebuild an entire life in just two days?

I wrap my arms around myself, surrounded by the few possessions I've managed to collect over the years.

My phone rings, cutting through the silence of my despair. My best friend Sarah's name flashes on the screen.

"Ashley!" Her voice is excited, breathless. "Are you sitting down?"

I let out a weak chuckle. "I'm basically collapsed on the floor, so yeah."

"I might have just saved your life," Sarah says. " surprisingly my boss called me earlier today and asked if I had someone that needed a job urgently? I recommended you to them but I don’t know what the job description is.

My brain struggles to process her words. "The Grayson Corporation?

"Exactly!" Sarah's enthusiasm is infectious. They're sending someone over with the job details and contract. Probably today or tomorrow."

Just as Sarah's words sink in, a sharp knock echoes through my tiny apartment. My heart races. Has Mr. Peterson returned to start the eviction process?

I approach the door cautiously, my hand trembling as I reach for the doorknob. For a moment, I hesitate, bracing myself for more bad news.

The door opens, revealing a tall, impeccably dressed man. He looks like he's been carved from marble, sharp features, tailored suit, eyes that seem to look everywhere and nowhere at once. Without a word, he extends a thick envelope toward me.

"For Ms. Ashley Thompson," he says, his voice professional.

Before I can ask a single question, he turns and walks away. Just like that. No explanation, no small talk.

With shaking hands, I close the door and stare at the envelope. The Grayson Corporation logo is written in silver on the top right corner. My breath catches in my throat.

I sink onto my worn-out sofa, fingers tracing the edges of the file.

Slowly, I open the envelope.

The letter reads:

Ms. Ashley Thompson,

We are offering you a contract marriage with one of the Grayson brothers.

This is a life-changing opportunity. We will provide financial security, a home, and a future. In exchange, we require your agreement to marry one of our sons.

If you want to know more, call the number below. You have 3 hours to decide.

Confidential Contact Number: 555-GRAYSON

Time is running out.

My hands are shaking. A contract marriage? With a billionaire? Is this the job offer they meant?

The eviction notice from Mr. Peterson sits on the coffee table. My empty refrigerator mocks me from the kitchen.I had no money in my bank account.

I look at the number. I look at my life falling apart around me.

Three hours to decide if I'm willing to marry a stranger.

I pick up my phone. My finger hovers over the number. What kind of crazy person agrees to marry a stranger?

What do I have to lose?

Before I can talk myself out of it, I dial.

A crisp, professional voice answers on the first ring. "Grayson Enterprises, Contract Division."

"I... I received a letter," I stammer. "About a marriage contract."

There's a pause. Then: "Ms. Thompson. We've been expecting your call. We will pick you up now. “

Two hours later, a sleek black SUV pulls up outside my apartment. A woman in a perfectly pressed black suit steps out and opens the door for me.

The drive is silent. The car's interior smells of leather and expensive perfume. Nothing like anything I've ever experienced before. I feel like an imposter, my worn clothes a stark contrast to the luxury surrounding me.

We arrive at a massive glass building in the city's financial district. The kind of place I've only seen in movies. The woman guides me through a maze of corridors, her heels clicking against the marble floor.

She leaves me in a massive waiting room. White leather chairs. Glass tables. Artwork that probably costs more than I'll earn in a lifetime.

I sit, my hands twisting in my lap. What am I doing here? I don't belong in a place like this. I'm just Ashley Thompson. An orphan. A girl with nothing.

The room feels enormous. Cold. Intimidating.

Minutes tick by. My anxiety grows with each passing second.

Then the door opens.

Mr. Grayson enters. The richest man in the city. He looks like power personified, silver-touched hair, a tailored suit that probably costs more than my entire life's savings. His presence fills the room, commanding and overwhelming.

Mr. Grayson doesn't waste time with pleasantries. He sits across from me, his piercing eyes locked onto mine.

"Our family needs assistance from you and we’ve done our research on you, Ashley Thompson," he continued. "Orphaned at eight. No family. Currently facing eviction. Recently unemployed."

I shrink slightly in my seat, feeling exposed.

"We need you," he continues, "to marry one of my sons. A contract marriage. One year and six months. In exchange, you'll receive financial security, a comfortable life, and a future you've never imagined possible."

My mouth goes dry. " Bu…but why me?"

A slight smile crosses his face. "Because you're the best fit. We get a wife, You get stability. A mutually beneficial arrangement."

He slides a thick contract across the glass table. My hands tremble as I take it, reading through pages with shock all over my face, especially at the final page. Three names stare back at me:

- Liam Grayson

- Lucas Grayson

- Logan Grayson

It’s say choose between the triplets, but.. I have never met any of them, how can I possibly decide.

"That’s correct, you have to choose one without meeting them. That’s the rules. “ Mr. Grayson says simply.

I stare at the names. Three identical last names. Three strangers. How can I possibly choose?

My finger hovers over the page. Liam? Lucas? Logan?

Who would be my husband?