Congratulations, mi cielo

Congratulations, mi cielo
ROME'S POV

I couldn’t believe I was doing this. Sitting here like a goddamn idiot in Zayn Sanchez’s office, pretending this was just another business deal. Some years ago, I had promised myself I would never speak to him again, not after the way everything ended between us, not after the words we both spat like knives.

I thought I hated him enough to bury it all. I thought I had finally grown past him. Turns out, desperation is a hell of a drug.

I hated myself for even showing up, hated the reason even more. But the offer... the offer was too good. Clearing out all my debts , every single bloodsucking loan and favor I'd been choking under.

Paying off my sister’s hospital bills so she could finally get the surgery she needed without collectors breathing down my neck. All it cost was one year of my life. One miserable, long, suffocating year of pretending to be Zayn’s husband.

I kept my jaw tight as I stared down at the contract lying on the polished big desk. The paper looked clean, official, stamped with Zayn's signature.

His assistant, a jittery man in thick-rimmed glasses, had dropped it in front of me like he was terrified I’d bite him. I didn’t blame him. I was two seconds away from flipping the whole fucking desk.

My fingers tightened around the edge of the first page as I started reading. Each clause sent a wave of anger and shock through me.

1\. Clause 5.1: The spouse of Mr. Sanchez will refrain from engaging in any physical intimacy with other individuals, as this may negatively impact the integrity of the marriage contract. Any violation of this clause will result in financial penalties.

2\. Clause 6.2: In the event of an argument or disagreement, the spouse of Mr. Sanchez will immediately defer to Mr. Sanchez’s decision to ensure smooth resolution.

4\. Clause 7.1: Mandatory public appearances as the spouse of Mr. Sanchez. Attendance is non-negotiable.

5\. Clause 7.2: Physical displays of affection are expected during such events to maintain the integrity of the marital facade.

6\. Clause 8.1: The spouse of Mr. Sanchez must accompany Mr. Sanchez to all social and corporate events, regardless of personal preference or conflicting schedules.

7\. Clause 9.3: Mr. Sanchez reserves the right to monitor all communications between the spouse of Mr. Sanchez and any third parties, including but not limited to phone calls, emails, and text messages.

6\. Clause 10.1: During the duration of the contract, the spouse of Mr. Sanchez will be required to maintain the same physical appearance as agreed upon in the preliminary meetings, which includes weight maintenance, grooming, and general physical presentation. Non-compliance will result in a monetary fine.

There were more. God, there were pages of it. Absurd clauses tucked between cold legal jargon, each one painting the same ugly picture: Zayn didn’t just want to buy my presence. He wanted control. Full, absolute, suffocating control.

I felt my blood pressure spike as I shoved the contract back onto the desk and leaned back in the chair, arms crossed tight across my chest. Rage simmered under my skin, hot and restless. Was this what he wanted all along? To watch me crawl back and hand him the leash?

The door opened with a soft click. I didn’t have to look up to know who it was. The temperature in the room seemed to drop the second he stepped in. Same expensive cologne, same carefully pressed suit, same look in his dark eyes, calm, collected, and so goddamn smug I wanted to punch it off his face.

Zayn walked toward me, unhurried, like he already knew he had won. He stood on the other side of the desk, hands in his pockets, his gaze steady.

"You’ve read it," he said simply, his voice smooth as ever.

I didn’t bother answering. I let the contract speak for itself, pushing it forward with two fingers like it was something filthy.

"What the hell is this?" I said, my voice low but sharp enough to show how annoyed I was. "This isn't a marriage contract. It's a fucking owner’s manual."

Zayn’s mouth quirked into a small, almost lazy smile. "It's necessary. I’m protecting my investment."

"Investment," I echoed, tasting the word like ash on my tongue. "You mean me."

He didn’t deny it. Of course he didn’t.

"You agreed to the terms," Zayn said, shrugging like it was already a done deal. "You knew the conditions."

"I didn’t agree to being micromanaged like some goddamn toy you can lock away when you're bored," I snapped, pushing up from the chair so fast it scraped against the floor with an ugly screech. "Monitoring my calls? Banning me from leaving without your say-so? Controlling who I see, where I sleep, who I fucking breathe next to?"

"You’ll be my husband," Zayn said calmly, like that explained everything. "It’s not unreasonable."

"It’s insane," I shot back. "You don't want a husband, Zayn. You want a pet."

For the first time, something flickered across his face , a crack in the armor. It wasn’t guilt. It wasn’t shame. It was something darker. Possessiveness, pure and simple. And it scared the hell out of me how familiar it felt.

"You walked away once," he said quietly, stepping around the desk until he was in front of me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him. "I’m not giving you the chance to do it again."

I swallowed hard, my fists clenching at my sides. I hated that I understood him. I hated that a part of me, stupid, broken part, remembered what it felt like to be wanted that fiercely.

"You can’t own me," I said, even though we both knew it was a lie the second the ink dried.

Zayn’s hand brushed the edge of my jaw, his touch maddeningly gentle compared to the steel in his eyes. "Watch me."

My stomach twisted painfully, fury and something worse tangling until I didn’t know which way was up anymore. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to tear the whole world apart.

Instead, I grabbed the pen and signed my name across the bottom of the contract, the letters ugly and hard. Rome Calloway. A brand new signature for a brand new mistake.

When I threw the pen down, Zayn smiled, not the charming smile he wore for the cameras, but something real and sharp and dangerous.

"Congratulations, mi cielo," he murmured. "You’re mine now."

And no matter how much I hated him, I knew he was right.

When the Calloways found out I was marrying Zayn Sanchez, you would’ve thought I’d cured cancer with how excited they got. Congratulations flying everywhere like I’d just won the damn lottery.

Meanwhile, all I could think about was how screwed I was. I wasn’t marrying for love. I was marrying for survival. For debts. For my sister. For a contract filled with chains I couldn’t see but could already feel tightening around my neck.

Still, the next day, we walked into that damn civil bureau office, signed the papers, and just like that , Rome Calloway was legally married.