Sweet Romance11 min read
A Contract, a Diamond, and the Perfectly Timed Revenge
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I found out Mark got married when I was scrolling through my phone on a rainy Monday and saw a photo of a red marriage certificate in his social feed.
"You're kidding," I told Kenzie, my voice too loud for the tiny rented living room. "He posted it."
"Post what?" Kenzie asked, already half laughing, half furious.
"The one that says he and Megan are married."
"Which of course he would do," Kenzie said. "Show off."
"I still can't believe he did it two weeks after we signed the house papers," I said. "Two weeks."
"He cheated," Kenzie replied simply.
"He didn't even tell me." I pressed my palms to my eyes. "We were supposed to put up the deposit next month. We had already planned the photos."
"Okay," Kenzie said. "Okay. You want revenge, right?"
"I want to breathe," I said weakly.
"Better," she said. "I have a plan."
She sent a message that night, long and dramatic, and then a profile: Nicolas Morgan — CEO, 29, 188 cm, lives in the big city, will give allowance, wants a one-year contract marriage, promises a twenty-million-dollar apartment if I sign the divorce on schedule.
"I can't fall in love," she said. "Promise me you won't fall in love with him."
"Promise?" I typed.
"No," she answered. "But go. Take the money. Wear the ring. Make Mark feel small."
I laughed through my tears and then agreed.
The meeting place was the city's big square. I saw him before I heard anything — tall, calm, wearing a black down jacket that screamed money without trying. Even with a mask and sunglasses, he looked like someone who had already used the world and kept the receipts.
"You're Kyleigh?" he asked.
"Yes." My voice felt thin.
"Do a short intro," he said.
I counted off a list like a nervous student. "Kyleigh Espinoza. Twenty-six. Graduated in business. Work in admin."
"I have your resume," he interrupted. "Tell me your strengths."
I blinked. "I know how to keep things tidy, I drive, I cook. I'm freshly divorced. I'm unobtainable."
He stared for a long second. "How much pocket money do you need?"
"One thousand a month if I quit. If not, one thousand is fine," I said honestly.
He reached for the files on his passenger seat. "Sign this. We go sign the certificate tomorrow."
He took off his mask, and I saw his face. It was more handsome than most photos. He was Nicolas Morgan, and he smiled like someone who had practiced kindness as well as power.
"I'll give you a small salary and a full apartment at the end," he said. "You agree?"
"Yes," I said.
I felt ridiculous. I felt relieved.
That night Kenzie squealed on the phone. "He is a legend, Kyleigh. Be careful. Do not melt."
"I won't," I lied.
The next morning a lawyer came to my door with proof: Nicolas's company was real, huge, and public. After I signed the agreement, I sat on my sofa and stared at the legal text that asked me to return any gifts and to be neat in the home. I thought about the red marriage certificate Mark had posted. I thought about the small glory of revenge: to be seen, to not be ignored.
"Nico asked his parents to come to the civil office," he texted that evening.
"You're bringing your parents?" I replied, stunned.
"Yes."
"Okay," I typed. "Got it."
The next day his parents were warmer than I expected. His father, Giuseppe Almeida by name, was a large, blunt man who made disapproving noises at first, then laughed like someone who had lost a bet but loved the prize anyway. His mother, Beatrice Andersen, was gentle and worried and unfolded a check for eighty-eight thousand as a meeting gift.
"Take it," she said, squeezing my hand. "This is for you to start."
I almost handed it back. It felt wrong to pocket a gift meant for a daughter. Nicolas winked, and I put the check in my bag. I signed the certificate under their watchful, slightly misty eyes.
"You don't really have to do all this for me," I told Nicolas as we left.
"I asked your family to not make this harder," he said. "Besides, you look better when you are slightly furious."
His hand found mine for a second, warm and sure.
We moved into his 350-square-meter river-view penthouse that week. It was overwhelming — smooth floors, windows that drank the skyline, and a kitchen stocked with knives I couldn't name. He said he'd be out during the day and I'd have the master room. He said not to touch his study. He told me the agreement again with a dry smile: "One year. No entanglement. You get the apartment."
"I can live with that," I said.
"Also," he added, matter-of-fact, "don't break the Hermes plates."
Two days later, I broke a plate. It was an accident. He took the shards to the kitchen, counted, and told me the cost as if naming a weather report. He asked politely to deduct it from my future pocket money.
"Do you really need to be that detailed?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "It's a contract."
Our days settled into a strange rhythm. I cooked; he paid. He critiqued my photos. I earned one thousand dollars sent to my phone each morning like an allowance for a child who had learned to stand.
"Peel the oranges properly," he would say, examining my work.
"Give me five dollars if I do it right," I told him.
"Done," he answered, and the ding of transfer notified the kitchen like applause.
One month passed like this. I found myself comfortable. I found my new bed, my new coffee mug, my new pattern of life. I even stopped thinking of Mark every day. Then, the group chat blew open like a curtain.
Mark invited someone called "Mark's Love, Megan" into the college group.
"She's inviting us to celebrate," someone wrote.
"She posted the Michelin restaurant and everything," another said.
My phone vibrated. Megan Poulsen serenely posted, tagged me, and asked me to come to the dinner that Friday. Then, silence. The chat waited for me to say something.
"Go," Kenzie shouted on the phone. "Wear the ring. Let them see."
"I don't want to go," I said.
"Come on," she pushed. "You don't need to go. But he can't have the last laugh."
I considered what Nicolas had taught me about appearances. Maybe showing was the point.
"Okay," I told Kenzie. "I'll go. But I won't face them alone."
"You should have him by your side," she said. "Make them jealous."
"I don't want to be used for that," I muttered.
"You already signed a contract," Kenzie retorted. "This contract includes showmanship. Go."
On Friday night Nicolas walked me to the car wearing sunglasses again. He put a scarf around my shoulders and sighed when my hands were cold.
"Don't worry," he said. "I'm outside."
"You're so theatrical," I told him.
"In our business, theater is a tool."
We walked into the Michelin restaurant together. It was all pale lights and small plates and perfect hair. Mark and Megan sat at the center like a prize displayed. Conversations dipped and rose like tides. A dozen eyes found me when I walked in.
"Oh, it's Kyleigh," someone said. "You look so…casual."
"You look like you just came from the laundromat," another whispered.
"She's Kyleigh?" someone else asked, surprised.
Yes. I was Kyleigh—divorced, small, the woman they'd all known. I felt the sting of their eyes.
"Hi," I said, trying to stand straight.
Then Nicolas stepped forward, slid an arm around my waist, and said simply, "This is my wife."
A hush went over the table like someone had dropped a tray. Mark's smiling face froze. Megan's fake grin faltered. People turned to sip their wines; a few recorded on phones.
"Your— wife?" someone asked.
"Yes," Nicolas said. "We live nearby. We walked. Small things matter."
Mark's expression soured. "You— you said you wouldn't—" he stammered.
"Say what?" Megan said, too loudly. Her face was a bright, wrong color.
"You posted your marriage just two weeks after our own paper signing," I said. "You were in my house less than a month ago. You told me one story. The internet told another."
The room shuffled. Someone murmured, "Oh, drama."
"Mark," Nicolas said softly, then aimed his voice like a small lance at the table, "do you want to explain why you celebrated publicly while you asked for private patience in person?"
Mark's face reddened. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Guests leaned forward.
Megan laughed too sharp. "This is a misunderstanding."
"It is?" I asked. "Then why the red certificate picture and the same weekend as our mortgage plan?"
Her laugh died.
Nicolas had a change in his manner — he became the man who could make anyone's small lie look laughable. "You were married to Kyleigh for three days before," he said quietly. "She took the brunt of what marriage brings, and then you posted a new beginning online. How brave of you."
People looked at Mark like he had misbehaved at a school exam. Kenzie hissed at me from across the room, lips forming "go on."
"Do you want to tell everyone about the messages you deleted?" Nicolas asked. "About how you told her your trip was for work but your photos show otherwise?"
My hands felt like steel. "No," I said. "I'll tell it."
I stood up. My voice trembled a fraction and then found a steady chord.
"Mark Avery," I said, "you stood at my parents' table and told them you would marry me. You asked my mother for advice. I told my friends that I'd planned a life with you. Then you pretended to step out for a conference and posted a red certificate with a woman who is not me. I thought I couldn't be more embarrassed. But here is what matters: I am no longer embarrassed. I'm disappointed. I'm not angry for me — I am angry because you used us as props."
Phones lifted like birds. Someone said, "Wow."
"And you, Megan," I continued, "it's fine if you love him. But you should not take a stage meant for a story I believed to be true. Take your photos, yes. But understand that people remember honesty more than color."
Megan's face was white. She sputtered. "I didn't know—"
"You did," a friend said, and then another friend nodded. The room buzzed.
A group of classmates started whispering about housing news and online posts. Old rumors reappeared. A woman near the head of the table leaned forward and asked, "Is this the girl who was a campus singer? She saved someone that New Year, right?"
"Yes," Kenzie called, loud and proud.
Mark's voice finally found air. "This isn't fair," he said. "Kyleigh, you knew the plan."
"I knew we'd planned a mortgage," I said. "I didn't know I would be used as a stepping stone."
The center of the table closed in with the tense hush of an audience watching a play end badly.
Megan had a meltdown. She reached for her phone and posted a long story about "miscommunication" and "private matters." But the damage was done. People were gathering like bees for honey. Some whispered that Mark had been unreliable. Some clicked pictures. Someone snapped a candid of Megan's tear, and the photographer's fingers were ready.
"Mark," Giuseppe said finally from the corner of the room where he had been silently watching, "you should have shown more honesty. Respect is earned, not posted."
The guests reacted: eyes sharpened, some applauded softly, and a few moved to take Mark's side and then awkwardly withdraw when others frowned. The restaurant manager, who had insisted the evening be perfect, watched with the small, cruel thrill of someone who enjoys a show.
Mark's face collapsed in stages. He first tried to laugh it off. Then he grew defensive. Then denial. "It was private," he said. "I had reasons."
"Your reasons," I said, "were to make yourself look like a prize while you discarded someone who trusted you."
By the time we left, the room had split into two camps: those who thought Mark had been foolish, and those who were simply entertained. Megan's new posts were overwhelmed with comments — not praise, but questions. Mark's friends pulled him aside and spoke in low tones.
I stepped outside into the cold air with Nicolas's arm sliding into mine. My phone buzzed. Messages poured in: support, shock, a few "attaboys." Kenzie texted me a string of exclamation marks. I felt a dizzy pride.
That night, Mark texted me: "Can we talk?"
I stared at it, then at Nicolas, who handed me a bowl of warm soup like a man who knew how to comfort with food.
"Do not," he said. "Confrontations are not therapy."
I deleted the message.
After that evening Mark's social feed softened into silence. Megan's posts turned apologetic and then defensive. People who had admired their couple photos now asked questions in private messages. Mark called a few friends and was left with polite distance. For a man who had wanted applause, being background noise hurt more. People who had once smiled with him now glanced away.
That was the public punishment: being openly exposed while an audience watched and turned its sentiment. Mark's faces had contorted — first smug, then stunned, then pleading. The classmate who had always wanted to host intimate dinners looked at him as if the man had mispriced honesty. The restaurant photos were shared. The commentary trended in our group chat. Megan's PR-conscious smile fractured into awkward defensiveness. That night, while some sipped expensive wine, Mark discovered the cost of performance. He had tried to make an image; everyone instead watched the man behind the mask collapse. People near him whispered. People pointed. People took sides. The scene played out like a slow, public unmasking.
After the dinner, as we walked back to the car, Nicolas squeezed my hand.
"You handled that well," he said.
"I didn't plan it," I said. "You did."
He smiled. "I prepared the props. You delivered the truth."
"Why did you care?" I asked.
"Because you don't deserve to be used," he said simply.
We went home, and for the first time since the divorce, I slept without the sour taste of betrayal.
We fell into a new rhythm. He teased me about my cooking. I stole his sweater. We argued about trivial things. We shared small heartbeats.
"Do you ever get jealous?" I asked once.
"Of who?" he said.
"Of your past. Of people who might have meant something to you."
He looked at me like I was a homework question he'd been waiting to solve. "Tell me who you mean."
"Elise Clarke," I said. "The woman you greeted tonight."
He blinked. "She was a childhood friend. We had a nonsense promise made when we were small. It never meant much."
"She sounded—"
"She sounded nostalgic," he interrupted. "Not threatening."
He touched my face as if measuring a truth. "You are not a prop. You were always more than that."
"Are you sure?" I whispered.
"Because you sang to a stranger on New Year's once? I listened to that story before I met you. I asked Kenzie to push the message so I could see if you'd catch. I wanted you to be mine before I even knew you."
My mouth opened. "You asked Kenzie?"
"Yes," he admitted. "I wanted a reason to reach out. I didn't expect to sign a contract marriage six months later and then realize I didn't want to let you go."
He leaned closer. "Stay until the contract ends, then we'll see. Or, hold on — I think I prefer the version where this wasn't a contract at all."
"That's cheating," I said.
"In love?" he asked.
He kissed me then, not like a rehearsal but like a closing curtain.
Weeks later, when the year was nearly over, friends asked about the ring. Mark's marriage faded in the rumor mill. Megan left town with her head down. She tried to post a bright photo once, and the comments were bland. Mark reached out, then apologized, and I realized I had nothing left to say. He had already been examined by the light and found wanting.
My life with Nicolas was oddly normal. We argued about plates. We transferred money for dinner. We made small jokes into habits. One night he told me something in a voice thick as a winter blanket.
"I did not want to be a man who used others," he said. "I wanted to be one who chose once and stayed. I think I'm choosing you."
"That's a big word," I said.
"Then don't call it that," he said. "Call it practice."
I laughed, and the sound in his chest loosened. He kissed my forehead, and it felt like a promise without a contract.
Months passed and the apartment became truly mine. Friends visited. Kenzie called every night with gossip. Mark eventually moved to a smaller city; his new posts were private. Megan resurfaced in a faraway timeline with a different name.
At a reunion months later, someone asked me about that night in the restaurant.
"You humiliated them," someone snorted.
"I just told the truth," I said. "They humiliated themselves."
Nicolas squeezed my hand under the table. I looked up and saw Elise across the room. She smiled a small, honest smile at me and lifted her glass. I lifted mine back and felt the loop close. I had my ring, my apartment, and a man who showed up in the kitchen to criticize my photos and to help me with the plates I'd smashed.
One winter afternoon, while the river outside had frozen slivers of light, Nicolas stood in the doorway holding a small box. He knelt like a practiced man of habit and opened it. Inside was a simple band — not a showring, not a trophy. It fit me.
"Will you stay?" he asked.
I looked at his face, at the soft lines around his eyes when he smiled, at the way his voice softened when he called my name. I thought of the red certificate in a social feed and the way truth had grown teeth.
"Yes," I said. "But no contracts. Just honesty."
He laughed softly and said, "Done. No contracts. Just honesty. And maybe some kitchen lessons."
We kissed, and the penthouse felt like home.
The End
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