Ruthless Tycoon: Protecting My Contract Wife

The heavy canvas bag hit the frayed carpet of the entryway with a dull thud.

Amira kicked off her worn sneakers, her heels throbbing with a dull, persistent ache after standing for ten hours straight at the Hamptons catering gig. She dragged her feet down the narrow, dimly lit hallway of the Queens apartment, desperate for a glass of cold water.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

Her mother's shrill, rapid-fire voice sliced through the crack of the half-open living room door.

"She drops out. That's it."

Amira stopped breathing. Her chest tightened as if an invisible band had just snapped around her ribs. She pressed her shoulder against the peeling wallpaper, straining to hear.

Inside the cramped living room, Agnes was pacing. She waved a piece of paper in the air-a tuition bill from NYU with Jax's name on it. Another, for Amira Johns, lay discarded on the table. The numbers printed on it were staggering.

Her father sat on the sagging couch, his face buried in his hands. He let out a pathetic, muffled sigh.

"Mr. Henderson is willing to pay a fifty-thousand-dollar dowry," Agnes said, her voice rising to a fever pitch. "Fifty thousand in cash, as long as Amira marries him next month."

Bile rose in the back of Amira's throat. Mr. Henderson. The fifty-something-year-old man who owned a string of local dry cleaners. The man whose eyes always lingered on her chest when she walked past his shop. Her stomach churned violently.

"She has real talent in art," her father mumbled through his fingers. "Dropping out is a waste."

Agnes shrieked like a stepped-on cat. "Art degrees don't pay the rent! They don't buy groceries!"

Agnes stopped pacing and pointed a sharp finger at the floor. "Jax is the future of this family. Sacrificing a daughter to secure a son's future is how the world works. She owes us."

The words hit Amira's chest like a physical blow, cracking her ribs. The last fragile illusion of family warmth shattered into a million jagged pieces.

Her hands began to shake. Extreme shock morphed into a hot, blinding anger that rushed to her head. Her elbow slipped, slamming hard against the wooden hallway cabinet.

The dull thud echoed loudly.

The arguing inside the living room stopped instantly.

Agnes whipped her head around, her sharp eyes piercing through the crack in the door.

Amira didn't hide. Her heart hammered against her sternum so hard it hurt. She shoved the half-open door, the rusty hinges screaming in protest.

The sickly yellow light of the living room hit Amira's pale, furious face. She stared dead at her parents.

A brief flash of panic crossed Agnes's face, but she quickly masked it with cold, self-righteous defiance. Her hand went up to touch the cheap gold-plated necklace at her throat.

"Are you really planning to sell me like a piece of livestock?" Amira asked. Her voice shook, but she forced the words out through clenched teeth.

Her father dropped his head lower, his eyes glued to the scuffed floorboards. He couldn't look at her bloodshot eyes.

Agnes straightened her spine, taking a step forward. "It's what you owe this family!"

Agnes closed the distance, her voice shrill and invading Amira's space. She started listing the cost of food, clothes, and rent from the past twenty years, demanding Amira fulfill her duty as the eldest sister right now.

Amira looked at her mother's unapologetic face. Her eyes burned, but she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. She tasted copper. She refused to let a single tear fall.

"I am not dropping out," Amira said, her voice dropping to a deadly calm. "And I am never marrying that old pervert."

Agnes's face twisted in rage. She raised her hand and swung it hard toward Amira's cheek.

Amira jerked her head back, the wind of the slap fanning her face. The massive disappointment turned her heart into a block of ice. She spun around, sprinting back to the entryway. She grabbed her heavy canvas bag and her damp jacket.