The Ceo's Contract Wife

Chapter Five: Signing The Contract

Evelyn

"Miss, I've told you three times already. Your name is not on the list."

"And I've told you three times that Mr. Blackwell is expecting me," I said through gritted teeth, clutching my purse so tightly my knuckles turned white. "Can you please just call him?"

The security guard, a mountain of a man with a buzz cut and an expression as warm as a freezer, stared down at me like I was something stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

"Mr. Blackwell doesn't take unexpected visitors," he said slowly, like I was a child. "If you were expected, your name would be on my list."

Were all rich people this paranoid? Or was this Alexander Blackwell's way of backing out of our deal?

Son of a—! How dare he stand me up like this? I bet the arrogant jerk forgot all about our meeting. Probably too busy counting his money or terrorizing his employees to remember the woman he casually asked to marry him yesterday.

I took a deep breath, trying to keep my voice steady. "Look, I understand you're doing your job. But I drove—"

"Took the bus," he corrected, glancing at the public bus stop half a mile down the road.

My cheeks burned. "Fine. I took the bus all the way from the suburbs. It took me two hours. Mr. Blackwell specifically asked me to be here at 7 o'clock."

The guard checked his clipboard again, shaking his head. "Not on the list, miss."

This morning had started with such promise too. I'd woken up early, butterflies dancing in my stomach as I went through my pathetic excuse for a wardrobe. Everything I owned screamed "underpaid receptionist," not "future wife of billionaire." In the end, I'd settled on my one good dress, a simple blue wrap dress I'd bought for my law school graduation three years ago.

It felt like a lifetime ago now. Back when I'd had plans, dreams, a future that didn't involve selling myself in marriage to pay off my family's debts.

The bus ride into the city had been long, hot, and crowded. I'd spent the whole time rehearsing what I'd say to Alexander Blackwell, what conditions I'd demand for this fake marriage. Equal respect. Separate bedrooms. A detailed exit strategy. A written guarantee that my family's debts would be paid in full.

But I never expected to be left stranded at the gate like some unwanted delivery.

"Is there perhaps another entrance?" I asked, desperation creeping into my voice.

The guard almost smiled. Almost. "This is the only entrance, miss."

I was about to admit defeat when I heard the crunch of tires on gravel. A sleek black Mercedes pulled up beside us, the engine purring like a contented cat.

Thank God. Maybe somebody with actual access could help me get—

The window rolled down, and there he was. Alexander Blackwell himself, looking annoyingly perfect in a tailored suit that probably cost more than my yearly salary. But the expression on his face was nothing like the cool, collected man from yesterday.

He looked like he'd seen a ghost.

His face drained of color, his eyes wide with shock. He stared at me like he was seeing someone else entirely.

"Riga?" I heard him whisper, so softly I wasn't sure I'd heard correctly.

What the hell was a Riga?

For a brief moment, he just stared at me, his knuckles white against the door frame. Then something shifted in his expression, realization, followed by what looked like pain, then anger.

He blinked, his jaw clenching as he seemed to come back to himself.

"Miss Evelyn," he said, his voice suddenly cold and formal. "I see you've arrived."

"Yes, 20 minutes ago," I said, unable to keep the edge from my voice. "Your security team has been very... thorough."

The guard straightened immediately. "Sir, I didn't know she was expected."

Mr. Blackwell waved him off. "A miscommunication on my part, Wilson. Let her through."

The guard nodded, suddenly all smiles and politeness. Amazing what money could do.

Mr. Blackwell wasn't smiling. He was rummaging through a briefcase on the seat beside him, his movements sharp and irritated. When he looked up again, his eyes were hard like he was pissed at me.

What the hell did I do?

"I wasn't expecting to do this here, but there's been a change of plans," he said, pulling out a thick folder. "These are the marriage contracts. Sign them."

No explanation. No apology for forgetting our meeting. No invitation to come inside the massive mansion looming behind the gates. Just "sign them," like I was one of his employees.

Which I was sadly.

But still, is this guy for real? One minute he's looking at me like I'm a phantom, the next he's ordering me around like a robot. What the actual hell have I gotten myself into?

"Here? Now?" I stared at the papers he thrust toward me through the window.

"Is there a problem?" he asked, his voice clipped.

Yes, there's a problem, you arrogant jerk! You forget our meeting, leave me stranded at your gate for minutes, then expect me to sign legal documents without even reading them? What kind of lawyer would I be if I did that?

But I thought of Dad in the hospital. Of Mom's worry. Of the loan sharks' threats.

Silently, I took the folder and opened it, skimming the first page. Pre-nuptial agreement. Confidentiality clauses. It looked standard enough, though I'd need more than thirty seconds to be sure.

"A pen?" I asked.

He handed me an expensive-looking fountain pen, our fingers brushing briefly. He flinched at the contact, pulling back like I'd burned him.

What was his deal?

I signed quickly, feeling like I was signing away my soul. When I handed the folder back, he barely glanced at my signature before closing it.

"I'll have someone come by your place tomorrow to help you move your belongings," he said, not meeting my eyes. "There will be no wedding, just paperwork really. I've already arranged for your father's medical bills to be paid in full by end of day."

My heart skipped a beat at those words. Dad's bills paid. The loan sharks off our backs. My family safe.

Before I could say anything, thank you, go to hell, anything at all, he was already signaling to his driver.

"I'll send a car for you tomorrow at nine," he said as the window began to roll up. "Don't be late."

And just like that, he was gone, the Mercedes gliding through the now-open gates and up the long driveway to the mansion.

I stood there on the sidewalk, the sun beating down on my head, wondering what the hell had just happened.

I'd just signed marriage papers with a man who couldn't even look me in the eye.

And tomorrow, I was supposed to move in with him.

What have I done?