Leigh Madrigal stood barefoot on the cracked tiles of their tiny kitchen, her fingers trembling as she washed the last of the dishes. The water had turned cold hours ago, but her Aunt Celine had insisted everything be spotless—like a clean house could cover years of cruelty.
She was twenty-three. Young. Beautiful. And stuck.
Her long, dark hair was tied back loosely, strands clinging to her damp cheeks. Her eyes—wide, soft, unsure—had learned to hide pain behind silence. In the dim light, her reflection in the window looked like someone else entirely. Someone tired. Someone invisible.
From the corner of her eye, she saw her Uncle Ferdie tossing back his fifth bottle of beer. The clink of glass on the table made her flinch.
"Pretty face. Good for nothing," he muttered. "Walang silbi."
She kept her head down. She always did.
In this house, survival meant quiet. Silence was safer than pride.
But something was different tonight. There was a strange energy in the air. The tension had a weight, and Leigh could feel it pressing on her lungs.
Aunt Celine came out of the bedroom with an unfamiliar outfit draped over one arm—a pale beige dress, pressed and simple, yet more expensive than anything Leigh had ever worn.
"Go bathe," Celine ordered, tossing the dress on the couch. "Put this on. We're going somewhere."
Leigh blinked. "Where?"
Ferdie slammed his bottle down. "Don't ask. Just do what you're told."
She didn't argue. She never did.
---
The water was cold. She washed in silence, scrubbing her skin as if she could scrub away the uncertainty clinging to her like mud.
The dress fit awkwardly, like it didn't belong to her—because it didn't. She looked at herself in the mirror. She didn't look like a bride. She looked like a girl being sent to her execution.
The car that pulled up outside wasn't familiar. Sleek. Expensive. Black as night. Its tinted windows hid whoever waited inside.
Leigh's heart began to race.
"Get in," Celine said, pulling her out by the wrist.
"I don't understand," she whispered. "Where are we going?"
Celine's smile was tight. Cruel. "To meet your husband."
Leigh's feet froze. "What? What do you mean—husband?"
"You're getting married tonight," Ferdie said with a laugh. "Congratulations."
Leigh stared at them, stunned. "I—I didn't agree to anything—"
"You don't have a choice," Celine snapped. "Do you think you have the right to choose anything in this life? We raised you. Fed you. And now you're finally going to be worth something."
Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She had learned long ago that crying did nothing.
The ride was silent. The man driving didn't speak. Leigh sat between her aunt and uncle, numb, her thoughts spiraling.
Married? To a stranger?
Why?
The car stopped in front of a towering building, cold and glimmering under the city lights. The sign on the wall read:
Montverra Holdings, Inc.
She had never heard of it. But it looked like a place where power lived. Where people like her didn't belong.
The elevator ride up to the top floor was suffocating. The higher they went, the further her old life drifted below.
The doors opened to a private lounge—modern, immaculate, terrifying.
Then he entered.
Ervin Dale Montemayor.
He didn't need an introduction. Leigh recognized him from news articles and gossip headlines. Billionaire. CEO. Ice in human form. He was everything she had never known: polished, controlled, dangerous.
His sharp eyes scanned the room. Then they landed on her.
"She's the one?" he asked without emotion.
Celine answered eagerly. "Yes. She's young, obedient, and... untouched."
Leigh flushed with shame and rage. She opened her mouth to speak—but Ervin didn't even look at her as he stepped forward.
"My grandfather believes tradition secures legacy," he said coldly. "He made it clear: marry within the year, or lose the company."
His tone was detached, like this was a business deal, not a life-changing decision.
"I don't need a wife. I need a placeholder."
Leigh's voice was hoarse. "Then why not choose someone who agrees?"
Ervin turned his eyes on her now. "Because women who agree tend to want things in return."
"And women like me don't?" she said, bitterness slipping through.
His gaze didn't soften. "I know your type. Quiet. Timid. Helpless. That's the bait."
Her eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
"You were sold to me. And yet you look me in the eye like you're better than this." He stepped closer, inspecting her like a product. "But I've seen your kind before. Gold-diggers pretending to be victims. Girls who cry poor until a billionaire walks in."
Leigh's throat tightened. "You don't know anything about me."
"And I don't need to," he said sharply. "This is a transaction. You play your role, and in a year, we go our separate ways."
She wanted to scream at him. Slap him. Run.
But the contract was being signed. Her uncle and aunt already had the check in their hands.
So she stood there, numb, while Ervin slid the simple platinum ring onto her finger. There were no vows. No kisses. Just a pen, a deal, and a silence so loud it made her ears ring.
---
The Montemayor estate was massive. Cold. Guarded. Every hallway felt like a reminder: this was not a home.
Leigh was given a room—far from his.
The wedding dress she wore was taken from her before she could even sit down.
She wasn't a wife.
She was a legal obligation.
At dinner, they sat across from each other. The table stretched wide. Not a word was spoken.
Ervin watched her carefully. Every movement. Every glance.
He didn't trust her. Not one bit.
And Leigh knew it.
On the first night, she cried alone into the pillows of a bed too large for her pain.
On the second night, she stopped crying. Not because it hurt less—but because she knew he wanted her to break.
She would not give him that.
Not now.
Not ever.