Shy guy, that is marrying heirest

The study remained just as I remembered it, but the air felt hollow. I had come here expecting a confrontation with the "Ice Queen," Beatrice Fairchild. I had the documents ready—proof of her brother’s financial ruin, the leverage I needed to **** the marriage, and by extension, the keys to the kingdom.

But the chair behind the desk was empty.

A single envelope sat in the center of the mahogany surface. I didn't need to open it to know what it said. Beatrice hadn't just abandoned her duty; she had run off with her long-term boyfriend, leaving the estate, the vineyards, and her family name to the wolves.

I paced the room, my fingers tracing the edge of the desk. The silence was broken only by the distant, rhythmic sound of hooves hitting the dirt outside. I felt a surge of cold, calculated satisfaction. Without Beatrice, there was no resistance. Just the younger sister.

The door clicked open, and the person I had heard so much about—but never truly seen—stepped inside.

Helena walked in.

She was a vision of curated, high-maintenance perfection, standing at 5'5" with a slim-curvy silhouette that seemed entirely out of place in a dusty, man-made study. A blonde, she wore her hair straight, framing a heart-shaped face with a soft, rounded jawline and a full lower lip that was currently curled into a sneer of pure, unfiltered hostility. Her brown eyes, sharp and intelligent, cut through the room, landing on me with an intensity that made her dislike palpable. Even in a moment of crisis, she carried herself with the upright, stable posture of a born leader, her designer attire accentuating her status. She was the polar opposite of the environment: vibrant, aggressive, and undeniably spoiled.

She didn't look like a woman who had just lost her family’s legacy. She looked like a queen surveying a peasant who had wandered into her throne room.

"You're late, Simon," she said, her voice dripping with a casual, biting arrogance. "Or perhaps you're just early for the funeral of my sister's reputation?"

I adjusted my glasses, the thick lenses distorting my view of her, but not enough to hide the way she stood—defiant and dangerous. I felt that familiar, hollow lack of emotion that had protected me my entire life.

"Beatrice is gone," I said, my voice flat. "Which means the contract is in default unless I take the estate through the courts. It’s a messy, public process. I suspect you’d prefer to avoid the scandal.

"She didn't snap. She didn't throw a tantrum. Instead, she walked to the window, watching the Thoroughbreds in the paddock with a strange, predatory stillness. She turned around, her gaze locking onto mine—the same gaze she had used to judge me years ago when she’d caught me peeping at her mother. The disgust was still there, but beneath it, there was a sharp, calculating glint.

"The contract never specified which daughter, did it?" she said softly, not bothering to look at me. She turned around, her expression hardening. "You want the Fairchild name. You want the leverage. And you want to play master of the house."

She walked toward me, closing the distance until the air between us felt charged and volatile. She looked at me—truly looked at me—with a hatred that was almost visceral.

"The contract never said anyone by name," she repeated, her voice steady and mocking. "You will marry me."

The air in the room grew heavy, the silence stretching until it felt like a physical weight. Simon adjusted his glasses again, the plastic frame feeling slick against his sweat-dampened skin. He was thirty-six, a man who had spent his entire life in the shadows of others, whereas Helena was twenty-one—a girl who had spent her life under the spotlight. He had heard the rumors, of course. Everyone in their social circles knew about Helena Fairchild—the "Princess" of the campus, the girl who moved through life with the arrogance of someone who had never been told "no.""I know what you've heard, Simon," she murmured, her voice losing its mocking edge, replaced by a low, dangerous purr. "The stories about how much trouble men have around me. They act like they’re intimidated, or perhaps I’m just too much for them to handle—they struggle to even get hard, let alone finish."

Before Simon could process her proximity, she moved. She closed the remaining gap with predatory speed, sliding in behind him. He froze as he felt her press against his back; her frame was firm, and the sensation of her bust pressed against his shoulder blades was startlingly vivid, a sensory overload that his sheltered, emotionless life had never prepared him for.

She leaned in, her breath warm against the shell of his ear, her hands coming up to rest mockingly on his shoulders. He felt her thin hands pinch his ass with a bold, demeaning flick, before sliding back up to grip his shoulders. In a swift, practiced movement, she had taken total charge of his personal space.

"My girlfriends are a different story, of course," she whispered, a cruel, knowing smile audible in her voice. "They seem to have no trouble at all with me. But I’m no virgin, Simon. I know exactly what I am. But I also heard rumors about you—the black sheep of the Newton family, fifteen years my senior and still shivering like a schoolboy. I heard you’re a virgin."

She tightened her grip on his shoulders, her nails digging in just enough to be felt through his shirt.

"But you won’t be after our wedding night," she said, her voice dropping to a sharp, chilling ultimatum. "I will make you a man; that is the price of this contract. You will perform, and you will learn your place beneath me. Unless, of course, you want to be the one to breach the contract yourself and walk away with nothing."

I reached for the pen, my movements mechanical and steady. The procedure was brutally efficient. We didn't exchange vows of love or promises of devotion; we exchanged signatures. I watched my name—Simon Newton—transform into a legal liability as I signed under her lead. A local magistrate, summoned on short notice, processed the documents with a bored, clinical professionalism. There was no joy, no celebration, only the scratch of the nib on parchment and the hollow repetition of legal jargon. With a brief, perfunctory nod from the magistrate, it was done. The Fairchild estate was now legally anchored to my name, but the cost was absolute: I was no longer an independent man. I was her husband. I was her property.

The signature on the contract—my name, now formally linked to the Fairchilds—seemed to mock me from the paper. I pulled away from her, the sudden distance feeling like a physical rupture, but she didn’t retreat. She stood behind me, a silent, predatory weight.

I reached for the pen, my movements mechanical and steady. The procedure was brutally efficient. We didn't exchange vows of love or promises of devotion; we simply signed our names under the gaze of a lawyer who looked bored by the entire affair. I watched my name—Simon Newton—transform into a legal liability as I signed under her lead.

Once the papers were cleared, a man of the cloth was ushered in—a local officiant summoned on short notice for this transaction. He didn't care for the circumstances; he moved through the ceremony with the speed of a justice of the peace handling a traffic citation.

"Do you take this woman...?"

"I do," I said, my voice flat, devoid of inflection.

"Do you take this man...?"

"I do," Helena replied, her voice crisp and mocking.

There was no joy, no celebration, only the brief exchange of rings and the hollow repetition of religious jargon. With a brief, perfunctory nod from the officiant, it was done. The Fairchild estate was now legally anchored to my name, but the cost was absolute: I was no longer an independent man. I was her husband. I was her property.

The officiant left as quickly as he had arrived, leaving the study in a silence that felt heavier than before. Helena turned away, already moving toward the fireplace to pour herself a drink. She didn't look back.

"It’s done," she said, her voice devoid of any pretense of warmth. "You are officially a Fairchild. A temporary one, perhaps, but a Fairchild nonetheless."