His Uncle My Contract Husband

Rosalind

I'd imagined this moment countless times—standing in City Hall, clutching a marriage certificate, heart fluttering with excitement and joy. In my daydreams, I'd be fighting back happy tears, barely able to contain the emotion of finally becoming Mrs. Montgomery.

Yet here I was, twenty-two years old, holding that very certificate, and feeling... nothing. Just a hollow, echoing emptiness where excitement should have been.

I suppose I should introduce myself. Rosalind Blackwell—now technically Rosalind Montgomery—daughter of the once-prestigious Blackwell family, whose influence in Boston society had been steadily declining since I was in pigtails. I'm what people politely call a "classic East Coast beauty"—which is just code for pale skin that burns after ten minutes in the sun, dark hair that never quite behaves in humidity, and eyes my mother always described as "expressive" when what she meant was "too large for your face, dear."

My parents had spent the better part of my formative years reminding me that our family's restoration to former glory rested squarely on my shoulders—or more accurately, on my ability to marry well. By "well," they meant Calloway Montgomery, heir to the most powerful family in Boston.

And technically, I had fulfilled their wishes. I had married a Montgomery.

Just not that Montgomery.

No, the man standing beside me wasn't Boston's most eligible bachelor. He was just an ordinary white-collar worker who happened to share a last name with the city's elite family. According to his words, he'd spent years working as a sailor in Kyrenna before returning to America, and now worked at one of the companies owned by the real Montgomerys - the only thread connecting him to the family I'd been groomed to marry into. A coincidence that had made him perfect for my desperate plan.

I stole a glance at my new husband, feeling a strange disconnection from reality. Beckett Montgomery was devastatingly handsome, but not in the magazine-perfect way of Boston's elite. There was something weathered about his appeal—the kind of rugged attractiveness that spoke of years spent under foreign suns and salt air. His features were sharp and defined, with the sort of tan that couldn't be bought from any salon and laugh lines that suggested he'd seen more of the world than most. Tall with broad shoulders that filled out his suit with an easy confidence, he carried himself with the controlled grace of someone accustomed to dangerous waters.

He looked about thirty, though I couldn't be sure. We hadn't exactly discussed trivial details like age during our hasty arrangement. Two days ago, I hadn't even known he existed.

"Second thoughts already, Ms. Blackwell?" His voice broke through my mental wandering, that slight smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "The ink isn't dry yet. You can still walk away."

I glanced down at the marriage certificate, my fingers toying nervously with the already creased hem of my shirt. Five days ago, I'd been sitting across from Calloway—my fiancé of five years—at what I thought would be a romantic dinner. Instead, he'd delivered the most chilling words I'd ever heard.

"Our marriage, Rosalind, has been nominally set for five years now, hasn't it? We've waited." He leaned back in his chair, swirling his wine with casual indifference. "Hannah's birthday is coming up next month. I've been thinking about what to get her." His eyes met mine with cold calculation. "Your bone marrow would be perfect. Do this for her, Rosalind, and I'll finally marry you."

Hannah. My cousin. Sitting beside him, her once-vibrant complexion now pale and waxy, dark circles shadowing her eyes. Her hair had thinned noticeably, and she wore a soft knit cap that couldn't quite hide the effects of her treatments. Despite her condition, she managed a weak smile as her fingers intertwined with Calloway's. The man I'd loved since returning to America at seventeen. The man I'd spent five years trying to become the perfect wife for—learning to cook his favorite meals, mastering the art of hostessing, molding myself into the ideal Montgomery wife.

"And if I don't?" I'd asked, though I already knew the answer.

"I'm not negotiating with you, Rosalind. I'm informing you. If you refuse, I could deny you the right to be Mrs. Montgomery." His voice turned colder, a distinct sneer in it. "And with that one refusal, your parents' most cherished, lifelong ambition will be for naught. All their hopes, turned to dust by your hand."

I clenched my fists against the cold chair in the waiting room, the memory still raw and painful. I'd been such an idiot, believing Calloway's familial obligation to marry me would eventually bloom into love.

What a fool I'd been.

"No," I replied to Beckett, my voice surprisingly steady. "I won't walk away."

He raised an eyebrow, studying me with those penetrating eyes. "Three conditions," he said, rubbing his fingertips together relaxedly. "One, this arrangement lasts exactly one year. Two, we don't interfere in each other's private affairs. And three—" he paused, his eyelashes fluttering as he lowered his head slightly, "—don't fall in love with me."

That last condition almost made me laugh. Love was the furthest thing from my mind at this point.

"I can assure you, Mr. Montgomery, that won't be a problem."

"Good. Let's go then."

As we approached the registration desk, I watched young couples around us, beaming happily as they began their lives together. My vision blurred for a moment. How many times had I dreamed of this exact scenario, with a different Montgomery by my side?

My phone vibrated. Calloway's name flashed on the screen.

I answered without thinking.

"When are you going to the hospital?" His voice was annoyed, expecting compliance.

Something inside me broke. Or perhaps it finally mended. A laugh bubbled up, ironic and dry.

"What's wrong?" Beckett asked, noticing my expression.

I held up one finger as I spoke into the phone. "I won't be coming to the hospital, Calloway. Not today. Not ever."

"What are you talking about?" Anger crept into his voice. "We had an agreement."

"No, you had demands. I've found an alternative solution." Tears flooded the corners of my eyes, but my look was cold. "I got married today. To someone else."

The stunned silence was worth every moment of pain he'd caused me.

"You're lying,"

"Goodbye, Calloway." I hung up, sighing deeply.

"Everything alright?" Beckett asked.

"Never better," I replied, surprising myself with how much I meant it. "Let's get this done."

An hour later, we received our marriage certificate. I placed a hand over my lower back, near my hipbone, sighing in relief. For now, I was safe. Safe from forced marrow donation. Safe from Calloway's manipulation.

But a new worry surfaced—my parents. They would never understand why I'd married a nobody when they'd spent years grooming me for a Montgomery of consequence.

As if reading my thoughts, Beckett shoved the certificate into a pocket, his sleeve pulling back just enough to reveal a glimpse of what looked like a gold watch—an oddly expensive accessory for the ordinary white-collar worker.

"The proper way to do this next is to visit your parents, I assume?"

I stared at him, shocked. "My parents? Now?"