One Year Wife

(Flora POV)

The papers were already on the table when I walked in.

I didn't sit at first. I stood in the doorway of Noral's study and looked at them—white, neat, waiting. A pen beside them. A glass of water I hadn't asked for. Everything was arranged like the decision had already been made.

Maybe it had.

"You wanted to see me," I said.

Noral stood by the window, back to me, looking out at the grounds. The morning light caught the line of his shoulders. He didn't turn.

"Close the door."

I did. Then I walked to the chair across from the desk and sat. The leather was cold.

He turned.

He looked the same as he had last night—controlled, unreadable, precise. But something was different. Something in the way he held himself. Like he'd been awake all night too.

"The terms," he said, and gestured to the papers.

I didn't look at them. I looked at him.

"You first."

A flicker. Almost a smile. Almost.

He walked to the desk and sat across from me. Then he folded his hands and spoke like he was reading from a script.

"One year. You live here. You attend family functions. You present as my wife to the board, the press, and the Consortium."

"And?"

"You don't speak to the media without approval. You don't file any legal claims against the estate. You don't leave the country without notice."

I let the words sit between us.

"And the child?"

"Full custody remains with you," he said. "Protected by marriage. The board loses its standing. The guardianship clause is satisfied."

I nodded slowly. "And you?"

He didn't blink. "I provide protection. Access. Resources. The Vane name."

"Like a cage with better wallpaper."

Something shifted in his eyes—a flicker of recognition. He remembered. "You said that to Lyon."

"I say a lot of things."

"Most of them are true."

I looked away first. I hated that he could do that—make me feel seen when I wanted to be invisible.

The silence stretched.

Then I made myself look at the papers.

One year.

I thought about the child. The way he laughed when I chased him around the kitchen. The way he curled into my shoulder when he was tired. The way he said my name like it was the only thing he trusted.

If I didn't sign, the board would take him. The Vanes would take him. The system would swallow him whole.

If I did sign, I'd be trapped. Controlled. Watched.

But he'd be safe.

One year.

I could survive one year.

Losing him was not survivable.

I looked up at Noral. He was watching me—not with impatience, not with pressure. Just watching. Like he already knew what I would choose.

"Where do I sign?"

He slid the papers toward me. The pen was heavy in my hand. The signature line was blank.

My hand almost shook.

Almost.

I signed.

The ceremony was private.

Two witnesses. A registrar. No flowers. No music. No family.

Mrs. Bell stood in the corner with her hands folded. A man I didn't recognize stood beside her, holding a leather folder—someone from the legal team, probably. The registrar read words I didn't hear. Noral said vows I didn't feel.

I said mine.

The ring was cold. Platinum. Simple. It fit like it had been sized for me.

Which meant someone had measured my finger without asking.

Afterward, Noral disappeared into a meeting.

I stood in the foyer, alone, staring at the ring on my hand.

The doorbell rang.

Mrs. Bell answered. Then she turned to me, her face carefully blank.

"Ms. Flora. There are reporters at the gate."

I frowned. "Reporters?"

"Several."

I walked to the window.

Through the iron gates, I could see them—cameras, microphones, vans with station logos. A crowd of them. Waiting.

I hadn't told anyone. Noral hadn't told anyone. The wedding had been private.

So how did they know?

I stepped outside.

The gates opened—someone must have buzzed them—and the reporters surged forward like water through a broken dam.

"Ms. Hale! Ms. Hale!"

"Is it true you married Noral Vane?"

"Did you marry your sister's husband?"

"How does it feel to take your dead sister's place?"

The questions hit like fists. I stood frozen for half a second, my mind scrambling.

Then one voice cut through the noise.

A woman in a red coat pushed to the front. Her eyes were sharp. Her voice was calm.

"Ms. Hale—did you know your sister was planning to divorce Noral before she died?"

The world went silent.

I stared at her.

Her expression didn't change. She didn't blink.

She knew.

Someone had told her.

Someone had planted that question.

I opened my mouth. I closed it. The cameras clicked. The vans hummed. The silence stretched.

Then a hand closed around my arm.

Noral.

He pulled me back through the gates without a word. The iron clanged shut behind us. The reporters shouted through the bars.

I looked up at him.

His face was stone. But his eyes—his eyes were on fire.

"Who told them?" I asked.

He didn't answer.

"Noral. Who told them?"

He looked at me then. Long. Hard. Unreadable.

"Someone who wants to hurt you," he said quietly. "And they just declared war."