The car interior was a sealed vault of cold, uncompromising affluence. Stephanie felt every dollar of its meticulous design—from the cushioned hush of the engine to the faint, sophisticated scent of cedar and something sharp, almost antiseptic, in the circulated air. Oliver's world was a fortress of silent, flawless power.
Stephanie, however, felt like a clumsy, discordant note in a symphony. A bundle of wrinkled linen and chafed skin, her emotions raw, her exhausted body feeling too loud and too coarse. Every polished surface—the dashboard, the console, the window frames—seemed to actively reject her presence, making her feel like a smudge on its perfect aesthetic.
Oliver was utterly still. He drove with one hand resting easily on the wheel, the other poised on the console. His composure was a deliberate, maddening act of control. The tension between them was a heavy, living entity, a static hum that pressed on her chest.
She couldn't stand the silence. She needed a small, futile act of defiance.
"You didn't have to drive me," she muttered finally, fixing her stare on the neon streaks passing the window. "I could've taken the bus."
"You're welcome," he replied, the words a flat, polished dismissal.
She rolled her eyes. "People usually say that after someone thanks them."
"You didn't thank me."
"Exactly."
His lips twitched—a fleeting, phantom smirk, gone before it registered.
A few minutes later, he broke the silence again, his voice dropping slightly, the new subject hitting her with the precise, cold force of a surgical instrument.
"Your grandmother's health condition... it is in severe decline, isn't it?"
Stephanie's head snapped toward him, her entire body rigid. Her breath hitched.
"How did you know that?" she demanded, her voice a low, desperate tremor.
"I know a lot of things," he said simply. He did not look at her. "I performed due diligence."
Her hands curled into fists in her lap. "You don't have to pretend you care."
"I don't," he said plainly. "But you'll burn yourself out trying to save her."
Her chest ached—not from his cold tone, but from the brutal truth of it. He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like her pride was just a coin to toss aside.
"I don't want your money," she hissed, though no money had been offered.
"You need it."
"You think everyone needs saving? Or that you can just buy your way into people's lives?" She turned to him, her voice cracking despite the venom. "I know people like you—you don't give without expecting something back."
His hand tightened around the steering wheel, the tendons in his forearm flexing. It was the first sign of a crack in his perfect, marble facade.
"Maybe," he said, his eyes fixed ahead. "But not everything is a transaction, Stephanie."
She let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Spare me. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't."
Before he could reply, she unbuckled her seatbelt, the metallic click cutting through the tension. As she twisted away, consumed by the need to escape, Oliver's free hand executed a swift, imperceptible move from his coat. A slim, cream envelope stamped with a gold crest vanished from his grasp. His hand deftly slipped it deep inside the main compartment of her cheap, oversized purse, which rested near the floor. It was a silent, arrogant act of complete assurance.
"Stop here," she muttered, her voice trembling.
He didn't argue. The car rolled to a stop at the entrance of her street. The cracked asphalt and a single, flickering lamppost made everything look lonelier.
She pushed the door open before the car had even settled, the gritty night air hitting her face.
"You didn't have to drop me off," she said quietly, refusing to meet his eyes.
She slammed the door shut, the sound a dull, final thud.
He watched her walk away without a word.
***
The walk home felt longer than usual. The street grew darker, quieter, until the outline of her grandmother's small wooden house came into view — chipped paint, sagging porch, curtains drawn. The kind of place the world forgot about.
There was a single envelope wedged into the mailbox, its paper thin and garish, addressed to her in her stepsister's loopy, juvenile handwriting. Her stomach tightened. It was never good news.
She carried it inside. The house smelled faintly of lavender and disinfectant—the scent that never seemed to fade. The silence was deafening. Her grandmother's old chair stood empty, her blanket folded neatly on the armrest.
She tossed the letter onto the counter and dropped her purse beside it which resulted in clasp becoming loosened and the contents spilled out — lipstick, keys, a few loose coins… and another envelope.
She froze.
This one wasn't hers.
The cream paper was thick, smooth, stamped with a gold crest she recognized instantly — Oliver's family seal. Her fingers trembled as she picked it up, hesitating before unfolding the flap.
Inside, a stack of crisp bills sat neatly folded — more money than she had seen in months. Her breath hitched. Beneath the cash, a single card rested flat against the bottom.
Dinner Invitation.
Her heart sank.
She looked at the other envelope on the counter—the one from her stepsister. She tore it open with a mix of dread and resignation. A single card, printed on cheap, scented paper.
"Family Dinner! Don't be late. We need to discuss the house."
Two invitations. One from the people she swore never to be beholden to again, a summons to be humiliated and likely begged for money she didn't have. The other from him—a silent, arrogant offer of what she couldn't take.
Choices. Both equally cruel.
Her eyes burned as she sank onto the old couch, the dim light flickering above her. The night stretched long and empty around in, and for the first time, she didn't know what to do — because no matter what she chose, she was already losing.
***
The marriage agreement: Mr. CEO has got a wife is 10 chapters in!!! ^_^
Thank you so much for reading and following Stephanie's story this far, your support means a lot to me. 🫶