The Pain In My Marriage

"Sign it, Layla."

The pen hovered over the thick stack of papers, trembling between her fingers. Ethan Ashford's voice was flat, stripped of emotion. He stood on the other side of the mahogany desk, a marble statue in a tailored charcoal suit. His icy blue eyes watched her every movement, unblinking.

"You said you'd help her," Layla whispered, barely able to hold back the quiver in her throat.

"And I will. Once you sign the marriage contract." He leaned forward, his breath brushing her face. "You want your sister to live, don't you?"

Her green eyes locked on his. She searched for humanity-mercy, empathy, anything. But Ethan Ashford was built of stone. Not even the mention of her dying sister softened his expression.

She looked down again at the document: ten pages of legally binding coldness. No room for love. No room for mistakes.

"You'll pay for her surgery? All of it?" Her voice cracked.

"Every cent." He adjusted the cuff of his shirt, casually. "In exchange, you become Mrs. Ashford for the next eighteen months. You'll smile at the cameras, play the doting wife, and do as you're told."

Layla hesitated.

"Time's ticking, sweetheart. Nova's lungs aren't going to heal themselves."

That did it. With a strangled breath, she signed.

---

The wedding was a media circus.

Lavish. Empty. Mechanical.

Layla wore white, but there was no purity in it- only surrender. Ethan slipped the ring onto her finger like he was sealing a business deal. When the cameras flashed, he smiled. When the guests toasted, he remained indifferent.

And when the vows were done, he didn't even kiss her.

---

Their first night in the Ashford estate was like stepping into a palace built on ice.

The grand foyer echoed with silence. A butler offered to take her bag, but Ethan waved him away and walked ahead.

"You'll sleep in the west wing," he said without looking back. "Stay out of my way."

She followed in silence, the walls towering around her, dripping with wealth and indifference. The art on the walls mocked her masterpieces she would have killed to display in her gallery. Now she was trapped behind them.

That night, she sat on the edge of the unfamiliar bed, staring at her wedding ring.

Nova better live, she thought bitterly.

---

The abuse didn't start with fists.

It began with silence.

Ethan ignored her in public and undermined her in private. He took her phone. Canceled her credit cards. Laid off half her gallery staff.

"Why would I fund something that no one visits?" he said one morning, sipping espresso as she stood across from him in the kitchen.

"It's my career."

"It's a hobby, Layla. And a useless one."

She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palm. "You promised to let me continue working."

"I promised to pay for your sister's surgery. And I did. Now I expect obedience."

She stormed out of the kitchen-but even the slamming of the door felt powerless in that house.

---

One week later, her gallery shut down.

No warning. No explanation. Just an email.

She collapsed in the hallway outside the bedroom, the phone slipping from her hand. Tears streamed down her cheeks as her dreams crumbled into static.

Ethan stepped over her like she wasn't even there.

---

The first slap came during a dinner party.

Layla had dared to speak.

A conversation about modern art had come up. She had tried to contribute.

"Actually," she had said, her voice bright for once, "the piece at the MET-"

"No one asked for your opinion, darling," Ethan cut in with a tight smile. His grip on her wrist under the table was steel.

When they got home, he didn't speak. Just pulled her into his study, shut the door, and slapped her hard enough to split her lip.

"Next time, keep your mouth shut."

The sting bloomed across her face, and with it, something cracked inside her.

---

It didn't stop there.

The bruises came in places clothes could hide. The words came sharper than blades.

"You're pathetic."

"No wonder your father left."

"Your sister's only alive because of me. Don't forget that."

She started flinching when he entered a room.

She started checking mirrors for damage before leaving the estate.

She stopped laughing.

---

And still-still-she stayed.

Because Nova's lungs had begun responding. Because Damien, Nova's doctor, sent encouraging reports.

Because if Layla left, everything would unravel.

---

Katherine Wood showed up a month later.

"Layla!" she gushed, arms outstretched. "Congratulations, darling! I always knew you'd land someone powerful."

Layla forced a smile, even as her stomach churned.

There was something in Katherine's eyes. Something cruel.

That night, she caught them.

Katherine's legs wrapped around Ethan's waist. Ethan's mouth on her neck. The sound of her name slipping between laughter and moans.

Layla froze in the doorway.

Katherine looked up and smirked. "You were never meant to last here."

Layla's voice shook. "You son of a"

Ethan didn't flinch. He zipped his pants slowly and turned to her, expression bored.

"You knew this wasn't about love."

"You're disgusting."

"And you're a transaction. Your sister's lungs aren't free, sweetheart."

Her vision blurred.

Katherine laughed. "Poor thing. Still hoping for affection in a contract marriage."

Layla ran.

---

The next morning, she packed a bag. But before she could reach the door, Ethan blocked it.

"Leave, and Nova's treatments stop."

She stared at him. "You can't-"

"Watch me."

His fingers dug into her arm. She yanked free.

"You're a monster."

He only smiled. "And you're trapped."

---

She didn't leave.

But something in her did.

---

Weeks passed. She started spending time at the hospital, volunteering to help Damien. It was there she met Ryder.

He was warm, funny, and kind.

"You look like someone who forgot what sunlight feels like," he said the first time he saw her.

She actually laughed.

He looked at her differently than Ethan did. He saw her.

He saw the bruises, too. But he didn't ask.

He simply offered coffee. A walk. A conversation that didn't leave her bleeding.

---

She began living for those hospital hours.

Until one day, Damien pulled her aside.

"Layla, I need to tell you something about Nova's donor-"

The door burst open.

Ethan.

Eyes dark. Jaw clenched.

"We need to talk. Now."

Layla backed away. "I'm busy."

He grabbed her wrist. Ryder stepped forward.

"Let her go."

Ethan's fist connected with Ryder's face before anyone could stop him.

Layla screamed.

Damien yelled for security.

And in the chaos, the nurse's voice rose over everything:

"Code Blue. Room 306. Nova Monroe is crashing!"