Contract Marriage With My Enemy

The perfect shot was right there—this gorgeous street musician with his guitar case open, late afternoon sunlight catching the angles of his face just right. I crouched behind a food cart in Brooklyn Heights, adjusting my camera settings, when my phone started buzzing like an angry wasp.

I ignored it. This guy was Instagram gold, and I'd been hunting for the perfect addition to my "Handsome Strangers of NYC" series all week.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

"For the love of—" I muttered, glancing at the screen. Mom. Again. Third call in five minutes.

I hit decline and raised my camera again, but the musician had moved. The light was gone. The moment was ruined.

My phone immediately started ringing again.

"What?" I snapped, not bothering to hide my irritation.

"Stephanie Marie Cole, you get yourself to Manhattan this instant!" My mother's voice was shrill enough to shatter glass. "This is a family emergency!"

"What kind of emergency? Did someone die? Is the house on fire?"

"I cannot discuss this over the phone. Just come home. Now."

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone, a cold knot forming in my stomach. Mom never called me by my full name unless someone was literally dying or I was in deep trouble. And she definitely never used words like "emergency" lightly.

Twenty minutes later, I was on the subway to Manhattan, my camera bag clutched in my lap like a security blanket. The closer I got to the Upper East Side, the more my anxiety spiked. I'd worked so hard to build my life in Brooklyn, to carve out my own space away from the suffocating world of charity galas and business mergers that defined my parents' existence.

The Cole family mansion loomed before me like a monument to everything I'd tried to escape. Its limestone facade gleamed in the late afternoon sun, every window perfectly polished, every hedge meticulously trimmed. I used to love this house as a kid, but now it felt like a beautiful prison.

I found them in the formal dining room—a space that screamed "important family meetings" with its mahogany table that could seat twenty and oil paintings of dead relatives glowering from the walls. Mom sat at one end, her usually perfect blonde chignon slightly disheveled. Dad paced behind her, his face grave.

But what made my blood run cold was seeing Richard and Patricia Whitman seated across from my parents, their expressions equally somber.

The Whitmans. Which meant—

"Oh, hell no," I said, backing toward the door.

"Stephanie, sit down." Dad's voice carried that tone that used to make me instantly obey as a child.

Not anymore.

"Whatever this is about, I'm not interested. If you're planning some kind of business merger that requires my presence at boring dinner parties, count me out."

"Sweetheart," Mom's voice cracked slightly, "we're in trouble. Serious trouble."

That stopped me. Mom never showed weakness, never let her composure slip. The fact that her hands were actually shaking as she reached for a manila folder made my stomach drop.

"What kind of trouble?"

Dad pulled out a chair for me, his movements heavy with exhaustion. "Sit down, and we'll explain everything."

Reluctantly, I perched on the edge of the chair, ready to bolt at the first sign of manipulation. The Whitmans watched me with expressions I couldn't read—pity? Desperation?

"The company is bankrupt," Dad said without preamble. "Both companies, actually. Cole Industries and Whitman Enterprises."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "That's impossible. You guys are worth millions."

"Were worth millions," Patricia Whitman corrected, her usually immaculate appearance showing signs of strain. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her designer suit looked like she'd slept in it. "A series of bad investments, market crashes, some... unfortunate legal issues. It all happened so fast."

Mom spread papers across the table—official-looking documents with red stamps and bold letters that made my vision blur. Bank statements showing devastating losses. Legal notices. IRS forms that made no sense to me but looked terrifying.

"We're going to lose everything," Dad continued, his voice hollow. "The houses, the companies, everything. Hundreds of employees will lose their jobs. Families will be destroyed."

I stared at the papers, trying to process what I was seeing. Numbers with so many zeros they didn't look real. Dates showing the financial collapse had been happening for months while I'd been blissfully unaware in my Brooklyn bubble.

"But there's a solution," Richard Whitman said, leaning forward with the intensity of a man grasping at his last hope. "The bank is willing to extend us an emergency loan. Enough to save both companies, keep everyone employed, prevent total disaster."

"That's... that's good, right?" I looked between the four adults, confusion mixing with dread. "So what's the problem?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

"The loan comes with conditions," Mom said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "Very specific conditions."

"What kind of conditions?"

Another pause. Another exchange of glances between the parents that made my skin crawl.

"A strategic marriage," Patricia Whitman said, the words dropping like stones into still water. "Between our families. To show the bank that we're... unified. Stable. A good investment risk."

The room started spinning. "A strategic marriage between who, exactly?"

But I already knew. The way they were all looking at me, the way the Whitmans were here, the timing of this whole emergency summons—it all clicked into place with horrible clarity.

"You and Jason," Dad said, confirming my worst fears.

I laughed. Actually laughed, a sharp, hysterical sound that echoed off the dining room walls. "Jason Whitman? My Jason Whitman? The same Jason Whitman who put a dead frog in my backpack in third grade? Who sabotaged my science fair project in eighth grade? Who made my entire childhood a living nightmare?"

"Stephanie—"

"No." I stood up so fast my chair scraped against the hardwood floor. "Absolutely not. I don't care if you lose every penny. I don't care if the companies go under. I am not marrying that arrogant, insufferable—"

The front door slammed with enough force to rattle the windows. Heavy footsteps echoed through the foyer, getting closer.

"Speaking of the devil," I muttered.

Jason Whitman appeared in the doorway, and for a moment, I was struck by how much he'd changed since I'd last seen him at some family function years ago. He was taller, broader, his dark hair styled in that effortlessly messy way that probably cost more than my rent. His suit was perfectly tailored, screaming expensive taste and success.

But his expression was exactly the same as it had been when we were kids—pure, undiluted irritation.

"What the hell is this about?" he demanded, his eyes sweeping the room before landing on me. "And why is she here?"

"Charming as always," I shot back. "Did you gain weight? That suit looks a little tight."

His jaw clenched. "Did you get your eyes checked recently? Because your judgment's clearly impaired if you think you can—"

"Children!" Richard Whitman's voice boomed through the room. "Enough!"

We both fell silent, but the tension crackled between us like electricity. Jason took the chair directly across from me, his movements sharp with barely controlled anger.

"Now," Mom said, her composure returning as she straightened her shoulders, "let's discuss the details."