The King's Reluctant Vow

Juniper

The heavy ring on his sausage finger makes a dull thud against the oak table. Again. Thud. A punctuation mark for my terror.

“The problem, little librarian,” Milo says, leaning forward until the smell of stale cigars and cheap cologne fills my lungs, “is that interest doesn’t care about sob stories.”

I keep my hands clenched in my lap, knuckles white. The late afternoon sun streams through the tall windows of the reading room, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. A place that has always been my sanctuary now feels like a tomb. His two hulking associates stand by the only exit. Their presence is a physical weight, pressing the air out of the room.

“I told you, I need more time,” I whisper. My voice is a frayed thread.

“Time expired last Tuesday,” Milo counters, his smile showing too many teeth, one of them capped in gold. “One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That’s not pocket change. Your father, he liked to play high roller.”

My father. The man who taught me to love the smell of old books and the quiet rustle of turning pages. The man who also hid a second life in backroom poker games and bad bets, a life that apparently cost exactly one hundred and fifty thousand dollars more than he had. A life that ended with a heart attack two months ago, leaving me with nothing but his worn copy of Moby Dick and a debt that could swallow the world.

“I’m a librarian. My salary…”

“Is a joke. We know,” he cuts in, waving a dismissive hand. “Which is why we’re moving on to collateral.” His eyes drift around the quiet, hallowed space. They land on the rare books collection behind its protective glass. “Maybe we start taking things piece by piece.”

My blood runs cold. “You can’t. This is city property.”

“I can do whatever I want.” He stands, the legs of his chair scraping against the polished floor. The sound is like a scream. “And today, I want a down payment. Or maybe,” his gaze slides over me, greasy and appraising, “you have another asset you can liquidate.”

A wave of nausea crashes over me. I push my chair back, my body trembling. I would rather die.

The heavy front doors of the library swing open with a gust of wind, startling us all. Two men in immaculate black suits walk in. They move with a silent, predatory grace that makes Milo’s thugs look like clumsy amateurs. They are out of place here, like wolves in a sheep pen.

The taller one, with silver at his temples and eyes like chips of ice, walks directly to our table. He doesn’t even glance at the two goons blocking the door.

“Milo Anton,” the man says. It’s not a question. His voice is calm, crisp, and utterly commanding. “My name is Alistair Sterling. I believe you are trespassing and attempting to collect on a debt that is no longer your concern.”

Milo puffs out his chest. “Who the hell are you?”

Mr. Sterling places a slim leather briefcase on the table and clicks it open. He doesn't produce a weapon. He produces a single sheet of paper. He slides it across the polished wood. “That is a confirmation of a wire transfer, effective immediately, for the full amount of the late Mr. Vance’s debt, plus a twenty percent inconvenience fee. Your business here is concluded.”

Milo stares at the paper, his jaw working silently. He looks from the paper to Sterling, then to me. Confusion and suspicion war on his fleshy face.

“Who paid this?” he demands, his voice a low growl.

“My client,” Sterling says smoothly. “Who he is, is not your concern. What is your concern, is that you will leave this building, you will delete Miss Vance’s contact information, and you will never, ever approach her again. If you do, the consequences will be… substantial.”

There’s no overt threat in his tone, but the air crackles with it. Milo’s thugs shift their weight, suddenly looking less confident. Milo snatches the paper, folds it, and shoves it into his pocket. He gives me one last, hard look before turning on his heel. “Let’s go.”

They leave. Just like that. The heavy doors swing shut behind them, and the silence they leave in their wake is deafening. I can’t breathe. My heart is a frantic bird beating against my ribs.

I stare at the man in the suit. “I… I don’t understand. Who are you?”

“As I said, Alistair Sterling.” He gestures to the chair Milo just vacated. “Please, Miss Vance. Sit. We have a matter to discuss.”

I sink into the chair, my legs threatening to give out. My mind is a whirlwind. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Gone. Just like that. But nothing is free. I know that much about the world.

“You said… your client?”

“Yes,” Sterling says, folding his hands on the table. He is the picture of corporate precision. “My client has taken an interest in your situation. He has solved your immediate problem. Now, we must discuss your repayment.”

Of course. The relief that had begun to bloom in my chest withers and dies. I’ve just traded one monster for another, more polished one.

“I don’t have any money,” I say, the words tasting like ash. “I can’t possibly pay back that amount. Not ever.”

“My client is not interested in your money,” he replies, his voice perfectly even. “The terms of your repayment are… unconventional. My client requires a wife.”

The world stops. The dust motes freeze in the sunbeams. I stare at him, certain I have misheard. “A what?”

“A wife,” he repeats, as if discussing a stock purchase. “Specifically, you. You will marry him. In return, the debt your father incurred is permanently erased. You will be provided with housing, security, and a generous stipend. The arrangement is for a term of five years.”

This is insane. This is a dream. A nightmare. “Why? Why me? I don’t know him. He doesn’t know me.”

“The reasons are my client’s own. He requires a wife who is… suitable. Unattached, with a clean public profile, educated. You are a librarian, for God’s sake. You are perfect. You have no family to create complications. You have a motive for accepting. Desperation is a powerful incentive.”

The cold, brutal logic of it hits me. I’m not a person to them. I’m a solution to a problem. A box to be ticked.

“And if I say no?”

Sterling’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Then we withdraw our payment. Milo gets his money back, and you get your problem back. I doubt his next visit will be as civil.”

He lets the threat hang in the air. The image of Milo’s leering face flashes in my mind. He’s right. I’m trapped. My father didn’t just leave me in debt. He left me in a cage, and this man is offering me a different one. It might be larger, more comfortable. Gilded, even. But it’s still a cage.

“This offer is non negotiable, Miss Vance,” Sterling adds, a note of finality in his voice. “It is on the table for the next five minutes. My client does not like to be kept waiting.”

My client. The words echo. Who is this man who buys people like they are pieces on a chessboard? “Who is he?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

“His name is Jack Rourdan.”

The name hits me like a physical blow. Jack Rourdan. The world’s most reclusive billionaire. A ghost who runs a global tech empire from the shadows. No one has seen a current photo of him in a decade. He’s more myth than man. And he wants to marry me, a librarian from Brooklyn.

Five minutes. I look around my library. The books I’ve spent my life loving, the quiet corners where I’ve hidden from the world. It’s not enough to save me. My choices are a greasy loan shark or a phantom billionaire. There is no choice at all.

“Okay,” I say, the word feeling alien on my tongue. “I agree.”

Alistair Sterling allows himself a small, thin smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Excellent. A car is waiting.”

An hour later, I’m in a penthouse that feels like it’s on top of the world. The entire west wall is a single pane of glass, revealing a panoramic view of the city skyline as the sun begins to set. The room is cavernous, minimalist, and cold. Black leather, polished chrome, grey marble. There isn’t a single book. Not one personal touch. It’s less a home and more a monument to wealth and emptiness.

Alistair Sterling stands by the window, while I stand awkwardly in the center of the room, still in my simple work dress, clutching my purse like a lifeline.

Then he enters.

Jack Rourdan moves with the same silent grace as his lawyer, but where Sterling is a wolf in a suit, Rourdan is a panther. He is tall, broad shouldered, and dressed in a simple black shirt and dark trousers that do nothing to hide a physique that speaks of disciplined power. His face is all sharp angles and severe beauty, his dark hair cut short, his eyes a startling, pale grey. He’s devastatingly handsome, but there’s no warmth in him. He looks at me not like a future wife, but like an acquisition he’s inspecting for flaws.

“Miss Vance,” he says. His voice is a low, resonant baritone that seems to vibrate in the air. “Thank you for coming.”

I just nod, my throat too tight to speak.

“Let us be clear about the terms,” he continues, stopping a few feet away from me. The sheer force of his presence is overwhelming. “Sterling has purchased your father’s debt. You now owe me. This marriage is how you will repay it. It is a business contract.”

He paces slowly, his movements fluid and controlled. “For the next five years, you will be Juniper Rourdan. You will attend public functions with me. You will smile for the cameras. You will live on my estate. You will play the part of a devoted wife. The press will find our story charming. A reclusive billionaire and a humble librarian. A modern fairy tale.” His lip curls slightly, as if the very idea disgusts him.

“In private,” he says, his pale eyes pinning me in place, “we will be strangers. My life is my own. Yours will be yours, within the boundaries I set for you. There will be no emotional attachment. There will be no intimacy of any kind. This is not a marriage of the heart, or of the flesh. It is a transaction. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I manage to say.

“Good.”

There is a low sound from the corner of the room, and for the first time I notice the dog. It’s enormous, a beast of charcoal fur and muscle, lying silently on a simple mat. A Cane Corso, I think. It gets to its feet as Sterling takes a step to hand Jack a folder.

A deep, guttural snarl rips through the silent room. The dog’s lips peel back from its teeth, its body coiled like a spring. It’s a terrifying, primal display of aggression aimed directly at the lawyer. Sterling freezes instantly.

“Nyx, enough,” Jack says, his voice sharp.

The dog doesn’t listen. The growl intensifies. Instinctively, my head turns. My eyes meet the dog’s. It’s a strange moment. The world seems to slow down. The raging fury in the animal’s dark eyes just… vanishes. The snarl dies in its throat, replaced by a soft, confused whine. The dog sinks to the floor, its head on its paws, its gaze fixed on me with an expression I can’t decipher. It looks almost… apologetic.

The silence in the room is absolute. Sterling looks stunned. I’m just as confused. I’ve never been particularly good with animals.

I look at Jack. His cold, controlled mask has slipped. Just for a second. His eyes are narrowed, fixed on the now docile dog, then on me. There’s a flicker of something in their pale depths. Not surprise. Something sharper. Something ancient and unreadable. It’s there and then it’s gone, replaced by the same icy indifference as before.

He dismisses the entire event with a single word. “A fluke.”

He turns back to me, the moment forgotten, or at least intentionally buried. “The contract is prepared. You will sign it now. Your new life begins today.”

He holds out a pen. I look from his impassive, beautiful face, to the strange, quiet dog, to the view of a city that suddenly feels a million miles away. This isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a prison sentence with a skyline view. But it’s the only option I have.

My hand trembles as I take the pen. “I understand.”