The Contract That Stole His Ex

“Mr. Sterling, I’ll marry you,” Aria Bennett slurred. She’d just finished most of a bottle of gin, and her words felt thick and clumsy in her mouth.

A long pause followed her declaration. Then a low, sleep-roughened voice came through the line, annoyance evident beneath the husky tone. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

She blinked at her phone screen, finally registering the numbers: two a.m. “Right. Sorry. I’ll… call back tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Jasper Sterling muttered.

She froze. “Wait, what did you say?”

“I’m leaving for a business trip first thing. I’ll be back in a month. We’ll sign the paperwork then,” he stated, his voice devoid of any particular emotion.

“Oh… alright.”

The call disconnected. Aria stared at the darkening screen, her mind reeling.

It had started two weeks ago with a call from her aunt Claire, who lived out in a quiet suburb.

“Aria, darling, my neighbor Eleanor—sweetest woman—has a grandson, Jasper. Top of his class, good university, a stable job in the city with benefits, even gets a holiday bonus. I think I should set you two up.”

Aria had agreed just to end the conversation, fully intending to never follow up.

That very evening, however, Jasper had called. “I don’t have time for dates or getting-to-know-you chats,” he’d said bluntly. “If you’re serious, we go straight to the marriage license.”

‘Is this man completely insane?’ she’d thought, utterly thrown.

He hadn’t waited for a reply. “Think it over,” he’d said, and hung up.

She hadn’t given it another thought—not until tonight, drunk and utterly alone, she’d scrolled to his number and pressed call.

Aria swiped through her social media feed, and the internet was still in a frenzy. Trending at number one: Evelyn Monroe, A-list superstar, was pregnant. And the man the entire world was convinced was the father was Sebastian Fox, the famously married leading man.

The “homewrecker” accusations were flying when Grayson Hayes, the spare heir to the Hayes conglomerate, suddenly stepped into the fray.

He posted: [She’s with me. The baby is mine. We’re getting married. End of story.]

When doubters pushed back, Grayson released a clip from Evelyn’s most recent birthday party: him on one knee, a velvet ring box open, and her hands flying to her mouth with a tearful ‘yes’.

Overnight, the comments section transformed into a sea of heart emojis and congratulatory messages.

Now the top trending tag read simply: [#EvelynsGroom]

Aria stared at the screen, a hollow laugh escaping her. ‘I’m his girlfriend, and he’s publicly proposing to someone else? Eight years, and I don’t even warrant a private heads-up? Perfect. Time to exit before I become the punchline.’

And Jasper had said it so matter-of-factly on the phone: “I want the straightforward arrangement. Mutual support, no drama, grow old together.” That one sentence had sealed it for her.

It sounded mundane, perhaps. But to her, it sounded like peace. Grayson had never once offered her anything resembling peace.

She took a deep, steadying breath and pulled her suitcase from the closet. The penthouse was in Grayson’s name; she was merely a long-term guest who’d overstayed her welcome. It was time to vanish before the newly-engaged couple decided to make their grand return.

Aria had an early shift, so she’d managed only a few hours of fitful sleep before forcing herself out of bed and downstairs.

Grayson was sprawled on the sofa, his hair a mess, his brow furrowed as if the remnants of last night’s whiskey still had him in a vise.

She stepped around the discarded jacket on the floor and moved to the kitchen to start breakfast.

As the coffee machine gurgled to life, Grayson shuffled in, his breath still laced with alcohol, and leaned heavily against her from behind.

He groaned into her shoulder. “Baby, my head is killing me. Make me the magic potion, will you?”

Aria stiffened. “Go sit down. I’ll bring it to you.”

“But I want to stay here with you,” he mumbled, his eyes still shut.

“You smell like a distillery,” she said flatly, turning her face away.

“Do I?” He lifted his arm and sniffed his sleeve, grimacing. “Fine. Shower first.”

She filled the blender with ice, a handful of fresh mint leaves, orange juice, a generous squeeze of honey, and a pinch of salt. It was the homemade remedy she’d perfected over the years for his frequent ‘business dinners’ that ran late.

The blender whirred loudly. The sound was a direct portal to every other morning after. ‘Eight years of fixing his hangovers; zero years of fixing his loyalty,’ she thought with a bitter internal laugh. ‘Alright. One last time. The final period on this sentence.’

By the time he came back downstairs, dressed and damp-haired, the frosty glass was waiting on the counter. He pressed it to his forehead, took a long sip of the minty slush, and said absolutely nothing about the previous night’s spectacle.

“Congratulations,” she said, her voice unnervingly calm.

“For what?” He looked up, genuinely confused.

“After all those years of birthday proposals, Evelyn finally said yes,” she stated, watching him closely.

She had always known about Evelyn. The obsession had spanned fifteen years, starting in their freshman year of high school. On every single one of Evelyn’s birthdays, Grayson would get down on one knee and propose. He never missed a year, not even during the eight years he was supposedly with Aria.

‘Did it hurt? Of course it did.’ The admission was acrid, but she had loved him enough to pretend it didn’t matter.

Grayson’s brow furrowed. “You saw the posts?”

Aria simply held his gaze, silent.

“It’s damage control,” he said, as if announcing the day’s forecast. “Once the media circus dies down, we file for an annulment. Relax.”

She let out a short, humorless laugh. “Damage control? So you’re actually obtaining a marriage license and having a real ceremony?”

“Obviously,” he replied, irritation creeping into his tone. “Otherwise, my family would never believe it.”

“Then how is that just damage control? You are literally getting married,” she fired back.