My Contract Husband Is A Cursed Billionaire

"No."

The word was quiet, but it landed in the center of the cavernous living room like a stone. Chloe Sharp didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.

Her brother, Jaleel, sighed, the sound full of a businessman's impatience. "Chloe, don't be difficult. Seraphina is not well. You will take her place."

"I said no."

Her gaze flickered to her younger sister, Seraphina, who was tucked under Jaleel's arm, her face a mask of delicate sorrow. She didn't look unwell at all. She looked triumphant.

"It will bring ruin to this family," Chloe stated, her voice flat. "I've told you. The vow I took..."

"We're tired of hearing about your mystical vow," her younger brother, Damarion, sneered. He lounged on the velvet armchair, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Tired of your stories from that little cult you ran off to."

Jaleel ignored her warning, his eyes cold and pragmatic. He gestured to the maid, Maeve O'Connell, who stood trembling by the doorway. "Maeve. Bring it here."

Maeve, a girl no older than Chloe, shuffled forward. Her hands shook as she held out a silver platter. On it sat a single, perfectly cut sandwich.

Chloe didn't need to see it up close. The scent hit her first, rich and unmistakable.

Peanut butter.

The air in her lungs seemed to turn to ice. Her stomach clenched into a tight, painful knot. It wasn't just an allergy; it was a promise of a swift, suffocating death.

She took a step back, her body acting before her mind could. "What are you doing?"

Jaleel's expression remained unchanged. He took the plate from Maeve. "The choice is simple. You either agree to marry Aurelio Finley, or you eat this sandwich."

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. This was it. This was how they were going to do it. Not with a gun, but with a sandwich.

Damarion chuckled, a low, ugly sound. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an EpiPen, dangling it between his thumb and forefinger. The orange and blue plastic was a beacon of life, and he was holding it just out of reach.

"Don't worry, sister," he said, his smile widening. "We have the antidote. Once you've made the right decision, of course."

The itch started in her throat, a phantom symptom born of pure terror. Her breath hitched. "You're insane."

"I'm practical," Jaleel corrected, stepping closer. He held the sandwich just inches from her face. The smell was overwhelming, a thick, cloying poison. "The Finley merger is everything. Our family's future depends on it."

"Sister, please," Seraphina whimpered from behind him, her voice choked with fake tears. "I can't marry him. They say he won't live another year. I don't want to be a widow."

Chloe's skin began to prickle. A faint rash was already blooming on her neck, a testament to how sensitive her body was. Her vision started to swim at the edges.

She tried to back away again, but Jaleel's hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around her arm like a manacle. His grip was merciless.

"Don't you dare walk away from me," he hissed, his composure finally cracking.

"The pact..." Chloe gasped, her airway starting to feel tight. "The pact I made holds the Sharp Corporation together. If I marry, it all comes crashing down. It will be the end of everything."

Jaleel and Damarion exchanged a look. It was a look she knew well. The look that said, she's lying again. She's making things up.

"Enough of your fairy tales," Damarion said, his amusement fading into annoyance. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the EpiPen. It flew across the room, landing with a soft thud on a distant sofa, a tiny splash of color in a sea of beige upholstery.

Hope died.

Her lungs were on fire. Each breath was a shallow, ragged gasp. Black spots danced in her vision.

Just then, the landline on the mahogany console table rang, its shrill tone cutting through the tension.

Jaleel, still holding her arm, reached over and answered it, pressing the speakerphone button.

Her mother's voice, sharp and laced with irritation, filled the room. "Is it done? Has she agreed yet?"

"Not yet, Mother," Jaleel said, his eyes fixed on Chloe's face, watching her struggle for air.

"For God's sake," Eleanor Sharp sighed on the other end of the line. "If she doesn't see reason, just let her be. I've had enough of that unlucky, ungrateful child. Let her die. It might be for the best."

The words were not a knife. A knife is quick. This was acid, dissolving everything inside her, leaving only a hollow, aching void. She had always known her mother favored Seraphina, that she saw Chloe as an inconvenient shadow. But to hear the death wish, spoken so casually, so dismissively...

It broke something deep within her. The fight, the warnings, the desperate need to make them understand-it all evaporated.

What was the point in saving people who wanted you dead?

Let it all burn.

With the last of her strength, she forced her constricted throat to work. Two words scraped their way out, barely a whisper.

"I agree."

The change was instantaneous.

Damarion, who had been watching her suffocate with a detached curiosity, sprinted to the sofa and snatched the EpiPen.

Jaleel released her arm. She crumpled to the floor, her body a dead weight.

A moment later, Damarion was kneeling over her. He didn't bother to be gentle. He ripped the cap off the injector and slammed the needle into her thigh, hard. The sting of the needle was nothing compared to the agony in her chest.

Adrenaline flooded her system. Her body convulsed. She coughed, a violent, hacking sound, as her airway finally opened. She dragged in a desperate breath of air, the oxygen a balm on her burning lungs.

"She said yes!" Seraphina shrieked, her tears miraculously gone. She threw her arms around Jaleel.

The room erupted in cheers. Jaleel was smiling. Damarion was laughing. They were celebrating, patting each other on the back as if they'd just closed the deal of a lifetime.

No one looked down at Chloe. No one offered a hand. She was just a piece of equipment that had served its purpose, left on the cold marble floor.

She lay there, listening to their joyous laughter, her body trembling from the aftershocks of the adrenaline.

And just when she thought the violation was complete, a new sensation bloomed in her throat.

It wasn't the tightness of an allergic reaction.

It was warm, and thick, and tasted of rust.

It tasted like blood.