The Contract

Helena's POV

I never thought packing would feel like signing my own death certificate. Yet there I was—folding designer coats, matching underwear sets (for what?), and a small army of boots into two massive suitcases—preparing to move to Monaco. Monaco, of all places.

The irony?

It didn't feel foreign.

Not because it was beautiful or filled with yachts or tax-free billionaires. But because my mother was born there. Once a renowned concert pianist who played at the Monte Carlo Philharmonic, she gave up the stage when she met my father and followed him to Rotterdam like a love-struck teenager.

And now... her daughter was giving up her freedom to marry a man twice her age because of a business contract.

Life has a dark sense of humor.

I zipped my last suitcase shut, sat on it dramatically, and looked down at the ring on my finger. It was beautiful, if I was being objective—platinum band, oval diamond, probably worth more than a penthouse in Amsterdam. But it felt like handcuffs. Sparkly, pretentious handcuffs.

Our trip to the jeweler was all of twenty minutes. I pointed at the first ring that didn't make me want to vomit, and Toto—Mr. Efficiency—paid for it without blinking and had me back in my apartment in time for my afternoon tea.

I hated how efficient this all was.

How calculated. How cold.

How much they controlled my life.

⸻

The next morning, I hugged my mother, a tight, sad embrace, and gave my father a curt nod. He kissed my forehead like I was five years old again. Jan de Vries carried my carry-on bag like he was walking me down the aisle already.

Then I boarded Toto's private jet in Rotterdam without a single word. The air was stiff, the silence even worse.

He sat across from me, pretending to read emails on his iPad. I pretended to care about my cuticles. We were professionals at avoidance.

And why not?

We hated this.

But we both needed it.

I watched the clouds roll by and imagined my life before this moment: loud music, impromptu road trips with Isabella, dates with artists and environmentalists who wore linen shirts and talked about kombucha and crypto...

Now? I was flying to my gilded cage in Monaco.

⸻

Nice Airport smelled like perfume and polished money. A black Mercedes-Maybach waited for us. Toto didn't speak during the ride. I didn't either.

Fine by me.

His Monaco apartment was exactly what I expected: sleek, modern, and intimidating. Floor-to-ceiling windows, minimal furniture, soft lighting, and one ridiculously oversized balcony that overlooked the sea.

I walked toward it instinctively, needing air, but before I could step out fully—

"Wait." His hand closed gently around my wrist.

I turned, eyebrows lifted.

"I want to show you your room first."

Ugh.

"Am I not allowed to look at the balcony until properly briefed on house protocol?" I deadpanned.

He ignored the sarcasm. "Come."