Terms of the Arrangement

Valerie fixed her gaze on Alaric. Her eyes held no trace of romantic expectation, only cold pragmatism. "I will draft a formal agreement mapping out our rights and responsibilities," she stated. Her voice cut through the quiet interior of the vehicle. "Our union will only be a sham marriage. Should you develop feelings for someone else during this time, I ask that you wait until we have been married for at least a year before seeking a divorce. My commitment stands firm. You will receive every cent promised as your compensation."

She reached out, spotting a pen and a small notepad tucked into the center console. Snatching them up, she scrawled a series of digits. She tore the page loose and pressed it into his large hand. "Here is my personal number. Take time to consider the proposal, but I need an answer within three days. Do not delay."

Without waiting for a response, she shoved the car door open. The heavy iron gates of the Caldwell estate loomed ahead, casting long, oppressive shadows. Valerie stepped out, the cool night air hitting her face, and walked toward the entrance with rigid, unyielding strides.

Inside the silent car, Alaric remained still. He glanced at the scrap of paper between his fingers, then looked up to watch her slender, determined silhouette fade into the gloom. A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest, breaking the stillness.

"Valerie, I'm back," he murmured into the dark. His grip on the steering wheel tightened, knuckles turning white under the streetlights. "I'll stand by your side no matter what you do." He let her walk into the lion's den tonight, knowing full well he would clean up whatever mess followed. Even if she possessed no memory of who he truly was, Wallace Caldwell did. And Wallace would never dare to lay a hand on her as long as Alaric was watching.

The grand doors swung shut behind Valerie, sealing her inside the stifling atmosphere of her family home. She bypassed the opulent foyer and headed straight for the dining room. The heavy silence hanging over the space felt suffocating.

"Ms. Kensington, you're back." Marta Jenkins, a maid who had been with the family for years, looked up in surprise.

Valerie ignored the thick, hostile glares burning into her from the other end of the large mahogany table. Wallace, Rowena, and Bridget sat in their usual spots, radiating orchestrated disdain.

"Dad, Rowena," Valerie muttered, giving a stiff nod. She pulled out a chair and sat down, accepting a steaming bowl of soup from Marta's trembling hands. Her stomach gnawed with hunger; she hadn't eaten a single bite since dawn. Alaric had offered to buy her a meal, but she had refused. She needed to face this firing squad eventually.

"Valerie, why are you only returning now?" Bridget demanded, exchanging a sly, sideways glance with Rowena. "Mom and Dad were too worried to even touch their food."

Wallace's face twisted into a dark scowl. He set his silverware down with a sharp clink.

Valerie scooped up the last drop of her soup and placed the spoon on her napkin. She didn't spare a glance at the expensive, cooling dishes spread across the table. Her voice was flat, carrying no emotion. "I went to visit Grandpa and Mom to inform them that Donovan and I have called off our engagement."

"And they didn't reprimand you?" Wallace sneered, his anger simmering just below the surface.

Valerie kept her eyes lowered, opting for silence. She refused to rise to the bait.

Rowena dabbed her lips with a cloth napkin, her voice dripping with fake concern. "Valerie, you really upset your father today. How could you humiliate him in front of all those important guests?"

"Mom, don't be too hard on her," Bridget chimed in, her tone laced with venom disguised as sympathy. "She is the eldest daughter of the Kensington family, after all. The designated heiress to Kensington Multimedia. Dad wouldn't hold a grudge against her. Think of what the shareholders might whisper if he did." Bridget stole another calculating look at Wallace.

Wallace's expression turned thunderous. He glared at Valerie as if she were a pest infesting his home.

Valerie focused on the small plate of vegetables Marta slid her way, chewing methodically. This was their daily routine. Rowena and Bridget would expertly stoke the flames of Wallace's temper, painting Valerie as the villain. Often, this orchestrated discord led to brutal shouting matches and, occasionally, worse.

Being born a Kensington while her father was a Caldwell remained her greatest sin in this house.

Instead of erupting, Wallace let out a derisive snort. He pushed his chair back roughly and stormed out of the dining room without another word. Rowena gave her daughters a pointed look before scurrying after him.

The moment the arched doorway emptied, Bridget's carefully crafted mask of sisterly concern shattered. A vicious smirk twisted her perfectly painted lips.

She leaned across the polished wood, her eyes gleaming with malice. "I am amazed you still have the nerve to show your face. If I were in your shoes, I'd have put an end to my miserable life by now. Throw yourself off a bridge, swallow a bottle of pills—anything is better than living like the pathetic joke you are."

Bridget let out a harsh, sarcastic laugh. "Your fiancé despises you. He cheats on you with your closest friend, right under your nose. Aren't you devastated? How do you even have the appetite to swallow that food?"

Valerie chewed the last bite of her meal, swallowed, and finally raised her head. She met her step-sister's vicious stare with chilling indifference. "I have found someone willing to wed me."

Bridget scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Wake up. Do you honestly think parading around as the Kensington heiress means anything anymore? No one wants you."

Valerie just stared. Bridget spent her days projecting elegance and refined grace to the outside world, but Valerie knew the ugly truth hiding beneath that designer exterior. She often wondered why Bridget bothered pretending. Valerie played the role of the weak, indifferent victim because survival in this house demanded it. But Bridget? Bridget had a choice, yet she chose to be cruel.

"What are you looking at?" Bridget snapped, her voice rising to a shrill pitch. Valerie's calm, effortlessly charming face always managed to push Bridget over the edge. In Bridget's mind, it was unfair. Valerie had the wealthy bloodline, the rich grandfather, and a face that turned heads without trying.

Enraged by Valerie's unshakable composure, Bridget grabbed a heavy ceramic dinner plate. With a sudden, forceful swing of her arm, she hurled it straight at Valerie's head.

Valerie leaned back sharply. The plate clipped the edge of her chair and smashed against the wall, shattering into dozens of sharp fragments that rained down onto the hardwood floor.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway. "What is going on in there?" Rowena called out.

Bridget stood panting, glaring daggers at Valerie. In the past, Valerie would have scrambled to her knees, apologizing loudly to Rowena and claiming she had dropped the dish by accident.

Tonight, Valerie remained standing, facing her attacker in dead silence.

Marta rushed forward, her face pale with fear. "Mrs. Caldwell, I am so sorry!" the maid cried out toward the hall. "I lost my grip on a plate. It was my fault."

Bridget and Valerie both turned their attention to the trembling woman. Bridget shot Marta a look of pure disgust before spinning on her heel and marching out of the room.

As the tension broke, Marta reached out and gently tugged Valerie's sleeve. "Ms. Kensington," she whispered, her voice thick with desperation. "Just endure it. Please. This too shall pass."

Endure. It was the same hollow advice her late mother had given her. It was the mantra Marta repeated every time Valerie was pushed into a corner. But standing amidst the broken porcelain, a cold realization washed over Valerie. Enduring had never protected her. It had only invited more cruelty.

Valerie turned away from the mess and headed for the stairs. She needed to escape the heavy stench of the dining room. Walking down the hall, she slipped into the guest bathroom and peeled off the ruined white dress. The fabric felt like a physical weight, carrying the immense shame of the party's disastrous events. She scrubbed her skin until it turned pink, washing away the traces of the night, then dressed in oversized pajamas.

She climbed the stairs to the second floor and walked to the end of the hall, pushing open the door to her bedroom.

It was a stifling, windowless, 110-square-foot storeroom.

Years ago, she had occupied the massive, sunlit suite decorated by her grandfather. But a mere month after Rowena and Bridget moved in, that room had been ruthlessly usurped by her step-sister. Every time Valerie made a supposed mistake, her living quarters were downgraded. Eventually, she was cruelly relegated to this dark, cramped closet. She didn't even have an attached bath, forcing her to share facilities with the household staff. To everyone but Marta, she was a ghost.

This was the grand reward for her endless endurance.

The summer heat trapped inside the small space was suffocating. Fresh air only filtered in when the door was open, but she couldn't bear to leave it ajar and risk seeing one of them walk past.

Valerie crawled onto the uncomfortable single bed and curled her body into a tight ball. She closed her tired eyes, but sleep refused to come. Her mind began replaying the day's catastrophic events, viewing them with the detached precision of an outsider looking through glass.

The exact origin of Donovan and Roxanne's sordid affair remained a puzzle. She searched her memory for warning signs but came up empty. Since Donovan had returned from his studies abroad, he had thrown himself into his family's corporate empire. Their time together had been scarce. Valerie, always playing the role of the perfectly compliant and supportive girlfriend, had never once interrupted his important work. She had molded herself into the quiet, understanding partner he supposedly needed, waiting on the sidelines while he built his career.

During family gatherings, Donovan had never treated her exceptionally well, nor had he treated her exceptionally poorly. He was simply there, a steady if distant presence.

But lying in the pitch-black room, staring at the unseen ceiling, a disturbing pattern began to click into place. She recalled the recent holidays and dinners. Despite claiming he disliked Bridget when they were children, Donovan and her step-sister had become uncomfortably close over the past year. They shared hushed conversations in the corners of rooms, lingering near each other by the fireplace, and exchanging knowing looks that Valerie had brushed off. Why had Donovan suddenly grown so fond of Bridget? And why had Bridget, who hated Valerie with every fiber of her being, been so welcoming to Valerie's fiancé?

The pieces of the puzzle shifted, forming an ugly, terrifying picture of the isolation she had been living in. Everyone had been playing a part, stringing her along while they plotted behind her back. She had to get out. Marrying Alaric was no longer just an option; it was her only lifeline.