Page 63 of Silken Chains
“This has to be a joke.” I slap a hand over my mouth, shocked. After a beat, I pull the contract closer, trying to make sense of the crazy figure printed on it.
Monthly Allowance and Shopping Provision Clause
“The Husband agrees to provide The Wife with a monthly allowance of Two Hundred Thousand Dollars ($200,000) for her personal use and shopping needs, in line with his status. A personal account will be set up for The Wife, with a payment card for full access to these funds, deposited on the first business day of each month.”
My hand flies to my face, rubbing my eyes once, twice, thrice, as if that could somehow change the numbers on the page.
“In line with his status?” I echo, my voice a mix of incredulity and a slight hint of amusement.
“Does that mean diamond-studded toothpicks and gold-plated… what, everything?”
I let out a low, mocking laugh, shaking my head with a bemused chuckle.
Well, if this isn’t a whole new level of madness, I don’t know what is. My brain is struggling to make sense of this.
This has to be a typo, right? Yet, I doubt they’d make a mistake like this.
“Is this their idea of pocket money?” I whisper. “Two hundred grand? Shopping for what, a small country?” I half-shout, disbelief making my eyes widen. I reread the clause, but it stubbornly remains the same.
Rubbing my eyes again, I lean closer, as if proximity could somehow alter the reality of the figures before me.
“This is real,” I utter, reading the clause again and then once more for good measure. My hand unconsciously covers my mouth as I let out a low whistle, the absurdity of it all making my head spin.
“And here I was, worrying about paying rent on time,” I say with a laugh that’s more disbelief than amusement. The thought of that kind of money, just for me, every month, is wilder than anything I could’ve imagined. It’s like I’ve stepped into an alternate universe where numbers have lost all meaning.
Shaking my head, I push the contract aside for a moment, needing a break from its surreal promises. “Well, at least shopping won’t be an issue,” I quip.
As my pulse races, I try to steady my breath, not wanting my heart to burst through. “Calm down, Laur,” I whisper, urging calmness into the chaos of my thoughts.
My focus returns to the contract.
“You shall not ask anything about Morozov Corp’s business,” I read out loud.
Ha, like I’d ever want to ask about his business!
What do I care about how many people he’s offed or how many women he’s kidnapped to play house with?
Ridiculous.
Then my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline, and I can feel my face heat up, reading the next line:
“Both parties, by signing below, agree to share living quarters in the same room. This setup is part of the agreement and must be followed for the entire length of the contract.”
“Wait, you mean we’re sharing a room?” Panic flares up, half-tempted to yank at my hair, a desperate move to keep from spiraling. But I force my hands down, clenching them into fists instead.
And then, the grand finale of absurdity hits me. My eyes snag on the last line.
“Both parties agree not to develop romantic feelings or engage in a love relationship.”
I laugh sharply. “Yeah, right, as if I’d fall for my captor,” I say, rolling my eyes. The entire situation is just absurd—the lavish allowance, the strict rules, and now, a clause about not falling in love. “Only in a mafia contract would love be listed like a grocery item,” I whisper under my breath, shaking my head in disbelief.
But this whole thing… It’s not as dire as I feared, though.
All of a sudden, the door creaks open unannounced.
First, it’s the scent that hits me—a mix of jasmine and something fiercely expensive—it’s her.
My head snaps up, my entire body going rigid as she strides in.
