THE CONTRACT

The air in Ling Zhao’s office was colder than the winter rain outside. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city skyline like a painting, sterile and distant. Inside, everything gleamed — marble floors, chrome accents, polished glass. Everything, except for Ling herself.

She sat behind a black lacquered desk, posture perfect, her suit crisp, her face unreadable. Her hands, resting calmly on the armrests of her wheelchair, gave no hint of the storm beneath her still surface.

Across from her, Orm Li couldn’t stop fidgeting.

Her paint-stained hoodie and worn jeans looked out of place against the glass-and-steel modernism. The only color in the room came from the red scarf wrapped loosely around her neck, fraying at the ends. She gripped it like a lifeline.

Ling didn’t look at her. She was reading something on a sleek tablet, lips pressed in a hard line.

“You asked to meet me?” Orm said, trying to sound confident. Her voice wobbled anyway.

Ling set the tablet down and finally met her eyes. Her stare was sharp, analytical — the kind of look that made people squirm. Orm held her ground, but barely.

“I need a wife,” Ling said without preamble.

Orm blinked. “Excuse me?”

“A contract marriage. Three years. Appearances only. In exchange, I’ll transfer twenty million yuan into your account. Tax-free. You’ll live here, attend public functions, and do exactly what I say.”

The silence that followed was thick and stunned.

Orm’s mind blanked. “Is this… a joke?”

“I don’t joke,” Ling said coolly.

Orm stood abruptly, her chair scraping the polished floor. “I’m not some escort. I don’t sell myself—”

“It’s not about sex,” Ling cut in, her tone sharp. “You’re not my type. This is business.”

Orm stopped, narrowing her eyes. “Why me, then?”

Ling hesitated — a flicker of something under her mask. “Because you’re harmless. And desperate.”

The words stung. But they weren’t wrong.

Orm thought of Wei. Pale, sleeping, the beeping of machines keeping him alive. The way the hospital bills stacked up like silent death threats.

“What do you get out of it?” she asked quietly.

“Stability,” Ling replied. “My uncle is trying to wrest the company from me. The board is watching. A stable marriage makes me look unshakable. Settled.”

“Is this about pity points?” Orm gestured vaguely toward Ling’s wheelchair.

Ling’s jaw clenched, but she didn’t look away. “This is about control.”

Orm sat again. Slowly this time.

“I need to think about it.”

“You have 24 hours,” Ling said. “Then the offer vanishes.”

Orm looked into Ling’s eyes — dark, cold, unreadable — and realized something.

This woman wasn’t asking for love. She was asking for armor.

And maybe, just maybe, Orm could be that armor.

Let's dig in this short story around the cold ceo ling and bubbly orm....😃