Chapter5 Bride by Bargain

Ethan's POV

Her voice cracked over the phone, a jagged sob that grated on my nerves—"Ethan? Talk. Now." Despair oozed from her, tangled with a pathetic flicker of hope. My chest tightened, irritation spiking hard. She's falling apart again. Why's she my problem?

I'd seen Amanda last night at the Blue Diamond, swaying unsteady under the grimy lights, her hazel eyes glinting like broken glass—pretty enough, sure, with that messy chestnut hair framing her fragile face. She'd caught my eye, but it wasn't some grand thing. One night, a sloppy hookup, and now she's clinging like I'm her savior. She's pitiful. I just feel bad for her.

Now, pacing my penthouse, her call dragged me back into her mess. She'd spilled her guts over drinks—crying, begging, a total wreck. I wasn't heartless; I'd step up, but this wasn't love. She's a charity case. I'm stuck with her now.

"Meet me," I said, voice sharp, impatience bubbling. "My place. Let's sort this crap out." Hurry up. I've got better things to do.

The doorbell buzzed, and there she was—eyes puffy, lips quivering, coat clutched like it'd shield her. My jaw clenched, a flash of pity cutting through the annoyance. She's a mess. Who let her get this bad?

"Hey," I said, flat and curt, stepping aside. She shuffled in, shoes dragging, head down like a whipped dog. She's scared of me. Good lord, grow a spine.

She peeked up, eyes darting away fast, voice trembling. "You… you meant it? Fake marriage?" Her whisper was weak, pitiful, and my stomach twisted with frustration. She's begging again. Pathetic.

"Yeah," I said, forcing a smirk, though my patience thinned. "I don't waste words." Take it or leave it. I'm not begging you.

Her fingers twisted her sleeve, tugging until it tore, nervous and twitchy. "Why… me?" Her voice broke, tears welling up, and I rolled my eyes inwardly. She's fishing for something I don't have.

I stepped closer, irritation simmering. "Because you're a wreck who needs out. Last night, you were a mess—honest, sure, but a mess." My tone was cold, clipped. I'm not here to coddle her.

She flinched, arms wrapping tighter around herself, shrinking smaller. "I'm… nothing," she mumbled, voice thick with shame, and my temper flared. She's wallowing. Enough.

"Cut that out," I snapped, anger boiling over. "You think I'd bother if I didn't feel sorry for you? I'm not a hero—I'm just not cruel." She's dragging me down with this pity party.

Her lips parted, a shaky gasp slipping out, eyes wide and wet. "You… feel sorry?" Her voice quaked, grasping at straws, and I sighed, exhausted. She's so desperate. It's sad.

"Yeah," I said, voice hard, no softness left. "And I'm not letting your family bury you. That's it." I'm doing this out of guilt, not some fairy tale.

She chewed her lip raw, hands shaking as she clasped them tight. "Okay," she whispered, barely audible, and I felt a grim satisfaction. Finally. Let's move this along.

Relief hit, cold and sharp, but dread gnawed too—What am I signing up for? I snatched a notebook, hands steady despite the irritation, and scribbled fast. "We'll write it. Done." Get it over with.

She nodded, a tiny twitch, and perched on the couch edge, stiff as a board, hands clenched until her knuckles blanched. She's waiting for the rug to pull. Figures.

I scratched out the terms—Marriage. Fake. Ends when I say. My pen dug into the paper, frustration fueling each stroke. "This good?" I shoved it at her, voice tight. Sign it already.

She leaned in, slow and shaky, fingers brushing the page like it'd burn her. Her eyes flickered over it, wary, lips pressed thin. "No… feelings?" Her voice cracked, small and needy, and I snorted. She's clinging to fantasies.

"None," I said, flat and final, my patience razor-thin. "This isn't a romance." Get that through your head.

She swallowed, throat bobbing, a tear splattering the paper. "I… don't know," she whimpered, hands trembling as she wiped her cheeks. She's crumbling. Again.

"Then it's simple," I said, voice cold, hiding my growing exasperation. "You're out when I'm done. I'll cover you ‘til then." That's all she's getting.

Her head dropped, hair shielding her face, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. "No one's ever…" She choked, nails digging into her palms, and I felt a stab of annoyance. She's milking this.

"Save it," I muttered, shifting closer, my patience fraying. "I'm here. That's enough." Quit crying—I'm not your therapist.

She peeked up, eyes red and raw, lips twitching into a weak, pitiful smile. "Thanks," she breathed, so soft it grated on me. That smile's a trap.

I grabbed a pen, irritation surging, and signed—Ethan Blackwood. "Your move," I said, tossing it back, voice hard. Hurry up.

Her hand shook, pen wobbling, ink smearing as she gripped too tight. She bit her lip, another tear falling, and scrawled—Amanda Davis. It was messy, frail, like her. She's locked in now.

"There," I said, a smirk curling, cold and triumphant. "We're hitched—on paper." I'm free to walk anytime.

She stared at the page, breath hitching, fingers brushing mine—hesitant, clammy. "This… works?" Her voice quivered, eyes pleading, and I shrugged, detached. She's so needy.

"Works fine," I said, pulling my hand back, irritation flaring again. "You're covered—for now." Don't get comfy.

She shrank back, curling into herself, arms tight around her chest. "I… don't deserve it," she mumbled, voice breaking, eyes darting away. She's drowning in self-pity.

"Whatever," I growled, anger spiking hot. "You're here. Deal with it." I'm not her cheerleader.

Her head jerked up, eyes wide, a flicker of something—hope?—fighting the misery. "You're… sure?" Her voice trembled, hands twisting her sleeve to shreds. She's exhausting.

"Sure enough," I said, voice rough, leaning back to distance myself. "I'm not bailing yet." But I might.

She nodded, slow and shaky, tears streaming, and her hand reached out—tentative, trembling—grazing mine. "Okay," she whispered, a sob breaking free. She's clutching at me.

I pulled away fast, annoyance surging, my chest tight with frustration. She froze, eyes widening, hurt flashing raw. She's too fragile—I can't stand it.

"We're set," I said, voice cold, standing up to tower over her. "You and me—on my terms." She's not trapping me.

Her fingers clutched the couch, weak and desperate, and she nodded, tears dripping onto her lap. "Yeah," she breathed, voice a broken whisper. She's crumbling, and I don't care.