Sweet Romance14 min read
The Contract, the Wedding Cake, and My Butterfly Pastry
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I never thought a single printed page could change my life.
"Maria," my father said the night before the meeting, "this is for the company. You understand, right?"
"No," I answered, and the word felt small in my mouth. "I don't."
He looked at Henley and then at me, as if he had rehearsed which face to turn to. "It's about the group's future," he said. "If we ally with Aldo's family, the funds will secure the company."
"You mean you want me to marry a stranger?" I sat up on the sofa, the thin blanket slipping off my knees. I held the page of the deal like a shield.
"Not a stranger. A smart man who can help." Henley smiled, a smooth smile that never reached her eyes. "Think of the company, Maria. Think of the family."
I put my fingers over the little A4 contract on the coffee table. My mother used to keep paper safe like treasures. I thought of the one photograph in my drawer, of my mother and me, and the empty space where my father's picture had been cut out.
"How can you ask me?" I whispered. "I'm graduating. I have plans."
"You have one plan your father finds more convenient," Henley said plainly. "The rest are luxuries."
That night I lay awake and counted the beat of my heart. My father's quiet efforts, Henley's poker faces, the way my little sister Helen got all the warm light at the table—these had always been a cold arrangement. I had lived inside someone else's story for so long I forgot how to speak for myself.
"Promise," I said aloud to the empty room. "Promise I'll keep mum. Promise I can protect what matters."
The next day the dinner was a performance. I pretended sleep, but when I heard my father call, "Maria, come down," I rose and walked like an actor following a cue.
"Rain tomorrow," Dad said when I took the guest seat. "Aldo's son, Nico Reynolds, will come. It's best if you meet him properly."
"Is there a choice?" I asked, because asking felt like living.
Henley handed me a glass of wine and smiled wide. "Choices can be rearranged, sweetie."
A week later, my life changed with one wrong step in front of a hotel door.
I had been late to a hosting gig — a small job, three hours of work that paid a neighbor's rent. The pages of my notes fluttered like frightened birds when the wind hit them. I ran and collided with a tall man's shoulder. Papers flew. Embarrassment poured over me like rain.
"I'm so sorry," I said, kneeling to pick up my scattered pages.
He bent with me. The face above me was sharper than I expected. The jaw. The deep eyes. He smiled that small, steady smile I would later know too well.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"Yes. I'm fine." I looked up. He was Nico Reynolds.
"You shouldn't run in heels," he said lightly, then he handed me a page. "Is this yours?"
"Yes. Thank you." I touched his hand. For the briefest heartbeat his fingers felt solid and warm and honest. "You go to our university?"
"Sometimes," he said, then paused, and his eyes searched my face as though recognizing something he had seen at a different angle. "You're Maria Howard, right? Computer science, graduating this June."
How did he know? I did not know Nico then. The name Aldo Fournier had been spoken in my home like a spell. "Yes," I said. "I'm Maria."
"Welcome to the event," he smiled. "I'll be upstairs."
He did not come up as a guest. He stayed, watching me rearrange my notes on the crowded stage, and when I spoke, his attention felt like light. After the event he left quietly. I thought I had seen him only for a moment.
The next day Henley announced with syrupy certainty, "Nico will visit our home on Saturday. We should look proper."
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to run. I wanted to scream at the cheap bargain my father was planning to deliver on top of me. Instead I agreed to be ready. I said yes like someone learning to speak again.
When Nico arrived, he stepped into our living room clean and steady. He greeted my mother—my stepmother, Henley—with the perfect deference of a man used to rooms full of expectation.
"Maria," he said, and the two syllables sounded like a question and a promise. "It's good to finally meet you."
"Hello," I replied. My throat tightened. "Nice to meet you too."
I did not know then that Nico had a plan behind his easy manners. He told me later he had reasons of his own to propose marriage. "To gain trust, to build a future that looks unbreakable," he would say. But the first game he played with me felt soft, innocent. He suggested we walk the old promenade. He asked me questions about my dreams.
"Why do you want to save your uncle's medical plan?" he asked.
I told him in a rush. "He's the only family I have left. If I sell the apartment Mother left me, I lose my memory of her. I can't do that."
Nico listened. Then, to my surprise, he said, "If I help your family, will you consider a partnership?"
"A marriage?" I flinched.
"An alliance," he corrected. "We make a contract. You help me with local resources. I help you with capital."
"We can write it down," I said immediately, the old writer in me needing ink and paper to bind the chaos.
We found a printing shop and made a mock-up. On a single A4 page I wrote, in bold, the part that mattered most to me: "After marriage, party B will help party A attain thirty percent ownership in Meng Group, not counted as marital property."
He signed on the spot.
"You're serious," I said, astonished at the way ink could make a promise feel less like a trick.
"Serious enough," he answered. "This is not for the cameras. This is for us."
So we married in a wedding that felt half-ceremony, half-transaction. I wore a borrowed dress. He put his hand over mine at the altar like a captain claiming a ship. We had a party in town, guests offering small smiles and polite applause, and then we went home.
"Just for appearances," we told each other.
"Yes," Nico said, that steady note again. "Publicly, we are married. Privately, we will be allies."
Yet he was never only an ally.
After the wedding, he gave me a room in a house he had prepared. "This is ours now," he told me, opening a door to a bedroom that smelled faintly of lemon and age-old books.
I wanted to refuse. I wanted to return to my small corner and the worn-out couch of my childhood. But the little spare room felt safe in a way the family home never had. I hesitated. "I can't pretend to forget everything right away," I said.
"You don't have to pretend," he said. "Only let me help."
He stayed. He made the best honey water I had ever tasted when I caught a cold. He brought small things from his trips: a watch for his father, a box of pastries from a shop in the old town. He watched me draw and praised my paintings with a sincerity that made me feel seen.
"You're a good artist," he said one night, looking at a sketch of a tired woman holding a child.
"You see the tiredness," I muttered.
"I see the strength too," he said. "You will not be alone."
My friends at university joked and gossiped. "You're being courted by a billionaire!" they teased. At the beginning I played along. "He's my boyfriend," I told them, when the rumor became a storm. It felt safer than the truth.
But not everything could be smoothed by sweet gestures. The deal we had was political. My father favored sooner rather than later; my stepmother's eyes grew harder each day. The house made me feel more exposed. Henley watched my small moves like a hawk. From the day I had signed the silly A4, she watched me as if waiting for a misstep.
"Remember," Nico said once when I panicked about a school rumor, "only say what you want public. We will deal with the rest."
He had strange possessive moments that took me by surprise. Once, in the library, a classmate named Shane Ray — a boy who had always been kind — tried to give me a book. Nico's voice cut across the stacks.
"She's with me," he said quietly, but the tone was warmer than a claim. A cold cord tightened in my chest.
"I'm not yours," I hissed later, when he held my hand a fraction too tight.
"Not yet," he said, and he was so serious I almost believed him.
Our contract was a strange peace at first. He kept his word in small ways. He transferred money to ensure the company's accounts had breathing room. I was terrified to notice how relief crept back into my father's face, then how quickly that mercy turned into expectation. When word spread that three hundred million had been injected into the account, my father smiled in a way I had never thought he could: a smile with sharp teeth.
"Now we can plan," he said, rubbing his hands.
I learned the cost. The gift for my uncle's treatment came with strings. He demanded my cooperation more openly. "You will sign whatever papers help the group," he told me. "We are a family that buries its problems by bargaining."
"I am not a bargaining chip," I said quietly to Nico later that night.
"What do you want?" he asked then, not scolding, only asking.
"I want the thirty percent," I said. "And I want it in writing. I want my name. I want protection from them." My voice tightened. "And I want my uncle's treatment to continue, without interruption."
"Then we'll make it legally binding," he said. "We will sign the new contract and then we'll go to the registry."
We did. We printed another copy, this time with clauses that made my heart pound. "Upon registration, party B will allocate thirty percent of Meng Group shares to party A, to be retained as her separate property. Party B will not contest this transfer."
He adjusted lines, adding edges in his own handwriting. He wanted the power to rescind. "We have to protect ourselves," he muttered. "What if they use this to harm you? I need assurances, too."
I read it and swallowed. He changed one line to make it harder for me to leave, and I let him, because the hospital bills, my uncle, the memory of my mother—these were weighty.
"Sign here," he said.
We went to my grandma's small apartment to get the papers done officially. My grandmother, Ayako, still kept jars of pickled plums and a quiet radio. She laughed when she saw Nico. "You take good care of my girl," she told him.
"I promise," he said plainly.
We registered our marriage legally that day. The certificate felt like a cold coin in my hand. I posted a dry note on my university forum: "Like-for-like, my husband, as proof." Photos of the small book and a line of contract were uploaded. The rumors stopped.
For a while, life was quieter. I returned to my research, preparing for my defense. Nico called in favors during the night, connecting me with a sympathetic professor through a screen. He stayed up, helping me rehearse my presentation. "Open with the main theorem," he suggested. "You do best when you're precise."
During the defense week, news traveled that a rival investment group planned to buy Meng Group. I felt my stomach drop. "They will take everything," my father said.
"Let them try," Nico said. "We have groundwork in place."
We did. I sat in my little corner of the world and watched Nico move the pieces of high finance like a practiced hand. He negotiated and convinced, and soon the boardroom became the arena where our plan would be tested.
On the evening of the final board meeting, the rival offers hung like storm clouds. I sat across from my father and Henley, and for the first time I felt a strange power: not only the fear that had always lived in me, but a kind of demand.
"Maria," Bronson said. He used my childhood name like a tool now. "We've done so much for you."
"You did," I said. "You did a lot."
Nico placed a slim leather folder on the table. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, voice clear as a bell in the room, "we're here to discuss the future."
He slid printed documents across the mahogany. "These are the financials of Meng Group, and the terms of our arrangement going forward."
Henley's jaw tightened. Bronson's fingers drummed.
Behind the glass of the conference room, the city lights blinked. Outside, news vans had gathered. Someone had tipped journalists.
"What's that?" Bronson asked.
"Proof that your supposed 'friends' have been siphoning funds," Nico replied. He opened a tablet and projected an annotated ledger full of transfers. "And proof that documents were altered. This will be part of the audit."
Henley's eyes flicked to my father; then to me. For a second, she looked as if someone had turned off the light inside her.
"You're making accusations," Bronson said, voice low.
"I'm making facts," Nico said. "And I have witnesses."
We had prepared for this. We had volunteers in compliance offices. We had a legal team. But what none of them had expected was what happened next: the doors opened and the room filled with shareholders, auditors, and reporters, all buzzing. Someone from the rival firm had released a press alert. Cameras clicked. The hum of phones filled the room.
"Are you sure you want to go public now?" Henley asked, panic cracking her voice.
"Yes," I said. For once I spoke clearly, and the sound of my own voice surprised me. "I want the people who watch us to know the truth. I want them to see what has been done."
Nico nodded. "We will present the audit in public."
The first evidence was simple: bank statements. The second was a voice recording—my father's voice, arranging things in a conversation with a shell company. The third was Henley's fingerprints on a signed document that diverted funds to accounts abroad.
The room gasped as the details unfolded. Shareholders muttered. Cameras tilted in. Someone shouted.
"How could you?" a woman demanded. "You played the whole company for your gain!"
"What about the patients? The employees?" shouted a man in a suit.
Henley stood up as if struck. "This is slander," she stammered. "You—"
"These are bank transfers," Nico interrupted. "From company A to offshore accounts in Henley's name."
"Not true!" Henley cried. But it was too late. The ledger, the contracts, the emails—they made a net that could not be shaken.
I watched my father's face change. The dignified, tired man I had known shifted through colors: denial, then anger, then fear. His bravest mask fell away. He looked small.
Henley tried to press the glass between us, but shareholders were already murmuring about an emergency vote. "We will call the regulator," a board member said. "We will investigate."
People in the room reached for their phones. Cameras stayed fixed. The murmurs turned into a louder roar. A junior executive in the corner began to cry. A woman from human resources whispered, "All those promises to the staff—"
Henley tried to bargain aloud. "You can't—my reputation—"
Her words fell into empty air. The room turned like a tide. Once their improvised castle began to collapse, Henley and my father's allies scrambled like frightened birds.
"Do you remember," I said, surprising myself with the steadiness of my voice, "how they told me to sell the apartment? Do you remember they used my uncle as leverage?"
Henley swore again, louder, but the crowd only grew louder. A reporter shook a small recorder close to her face. "Ms. Schmidt, what's your response to the transfers to your personal account?"
"What? That's—" Henley lost control and started shouting, and for a moment she sounded like a child. People leaned in. "It's lies. They're after me."
"You're the one who redirected funds," Nico said quietly. "We have traceable transactions. You will answer to the board, to the regulators, and the public."
Around us, expressions hardened. The faces that had smiled at Henley now looked at her like strangers at a crime scene. The shareholders stood and demanded an immediate audit and an emergency vote to suspend Bronson and Henley from management.
"Look at your daughter," one shareholder said to my father. "Look at what you let happen in your house while your company bled."
Bronson started to protest and then slumped into his chair. Pride had been his armor; now it offered no defense.
Henley tried to run, to leave the room, to find a private corridor. Reporters blocked the way. Camera flashes stung her eyes like icy rain. People pointed. The murmurs turned into a chorus of judgment.
"This is public," a journalist announced to Henley. "Your name will be in tomorrow's headline."
At the foot of the room, a female board member stood up and walked to the head of the table. "We will vote now," she declared. "All in favor of suspending management pending investigation, raise your hand."
Hands went up like leaves in a storm. Henley stared at the sea of hands. Bronson's hand lifted weakly, then fell.
The vote passed. Media recorded the moment when Henley was asked to step down from her role, when my father's title was frozen, and when the regulators were called. Shareholders demanded forensic accounting. Employees in the hallway muttered about lost pensions and promises. People took out phones and filmed. The crowd outside the building grew as whispers spread like wildfire.
Henley did not just lose power. She lost her image. She had spent years polishing a lie and installing it like wallpaper over the house, and now, in front of cameras and auditors and our neighbors, she watched that wallpaper peel in front of her.
"Why are you doing this?" Henley screamed one last time.
"Because I will not let you sell my mother's company to cover your comforts," I said. "Because you used me like a card."
Her face crumbled in public. It was worse than private punishment. It was exposure: every smile, every plan, every cold calculation laid bare. People took photos, whispered, recorded. Henley trembled. She tried to deny it, then to beg, then to bargain. "Apologies," she said, but the word was small and had lost its edges.
"People will remember this day," the journalist said into the camera. "They will remember where the money went and who smiled while it did."
Outside the boardroom, a small group of workers who had once been silenced gathered. "Finally," one of them said. "Finally someone saw."
I had wanted the punishment to be public. Not to humiliate for cruelty, but to give the truth the dignity of light. The law would decide the rest. But the moment of reckoning—the loud gasp of watchers, the slow turning of the boardroom toward demand—this was the public punishment. The crowd's judgment, the cameras, the call for accountability: it was justice that tasted like cold tea and bright air.
After the vote, regulators sealed certain accounts. Henley was escorted from the building with security by her side. People in the hallway took photos. The press outside repeated the ledger numbers like a harsh lullaby.
I stayed silent until the room emptied. My father looked at me and, for the first time, his voice was like someone else's. "Maria," he began, then stopped.
"You used me," I said simply.
He lowered his head. "I thought it was the only way," he whispered.
"It was never the only way," I answered. "But I forgive the wounds you didn't know how to carry. I will not forgive the plans you made against people who trusted you."
Nico took my hand, and for the first time his fingers were not steady like a map—they were steady like a home.
"We will fix this," he said. "Together."
The public punishment had been long and loud. People outside who had once murmured about our family now spoke of our need for change. Henley would have hearings. Bronson's name would be questioned. The company would be audited and reformed. People watched, and then they whispered about what comes next.
In the months after, the board appointed a temporary council. Investigations began. Regulations were involved. The media still fed on the story: "From Mansion to Courtroom," read one headline. The air had changed.
But life in small moments had changed too. Nico would bring me butterfly pastries he knew my grandmother loved. He would sit through my most boring code tests and laugh at my bad jokes. He kept his side of the contract in private ways: in insisting my uncle's treatment continued, in making sure the company money went to pay real bills instead of shell games.
"Will you ever regret it?" I asked one night.
"Regret what?" he asked slowly.
"Marrying me because of a deal. Loving me after that."
"The deal gave us a place to start," he said. "You... gave me something I didn't know I needed. A reason to be better."
I smiled. "You told me you had to win the board to get their faith."
"I thought so," he admitted. "Then something else happened along the way."
"What?" I nudged him.
"You asked for the thirty percent," he said. "And you didn't let go. That stubbornness... I admired it."
We learned to be tender. We learned to be furious and kind in equal parts. We learned that curiosity can be a weapon or a balm.
In the end, I kept the apartment my mother had left me. I kept the memory in a small box and the photo album with a space where a face had once been. I kept the printed A4 that was silly and brave in equal measure. When I placed it in my drawer, Nico laughed.
"You will keep that?"
"I will," I said. "It's how I started."
"Don't forget the butterfly pastry," he said, leaning in to kiss my temple. "You loved that."
"I did," I agreed, smiling.
We walked through the city market one quiet morning, hand in hand. I bought a box of the famous butterfly pastries and kept one to myself. I tasted a piece and remembered the night I had run too fast, the tiny collision by the hotel door, the loose pages that had flown like birds.
I kept the wedding contract folded into the back of a drawer and the pastry crumb on my tongue and the knowledge that the most dangerous thing I had learned was how to make my own terms.
"Do you remember," I asked him as we crossed the quiet street, "the A4 we made?"
He smiled. "I do. It smelled of printer ink and hope."
"And the pastry?"
"And the pastry," he said, "which you insisted on buying for your grandmother."
"I saved some for you," I added.
He shrugged, pretending to be annoyed. "You always save the best parts for me. That's selfish."
"Good," I said. "Be selfish then."
We laughed. The city hummed around us. The cameras had long since moved on to another scandal. But when I closed the drawer that night and pressed my thumb to the crease of the signed paper, I felt the solid curve of my own choice underneath my skin. The public had seen the lies. The board had seen truth. My uncle had the medicines he needed. Henley had been shown to the light of a thousand lenses. My father had learned something that would take longer than a trial to fix.
In the quiet, Nico held my hand. The little paper in the drawer had gone from contract to memory. The pastry crumbs had dissolved on our tongues. My name on a certificate had turned a rumor into a reality I could stand inside.
"Tomorrow," he said softly, "we go to the factory and meet the workers. People should see how this company is rebuilt."
"Tomorrow," I agreed.
I bent to kiss the back of his hand and heard the soft sound of a promise between us. It was not the page that had saved me. It was the small, repeated things: the honey water, the pastry, the signatures that bound both risk and protection, the choice to say no and the courage to say yes.
And that A4, folded and warm in the drawer, would always remind me of the day I refused to be only a note on someone else's page.
The End
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