Updated Oct 1, 2025 • ~8 min read
The lawyer’s office smelled like old leather and desperation. Juliette Sinclair clutched her purse tighter, feeling the worn strap dig into her palm as she perched on the edge of a chair that probably cost more than her monthly rent. The mahogany desk between her and Mr. Albright gleamed under fluorescent lights, a barrier of polished wood and unspoken judgment.
“Miss Sinclair,” he said, sliding a manila folder across the expanse. “I want to be perfectly clear about what you’re agreeing to.”
Juliette’s throat felt like sandpaper. She’d dressed carefully this morning—her best blouse, the navy one without any fraying at the cuffs, pressed slacks she’d ironed twice to get the crease right. As if looking professional could mask what she was really here to do.
Sell herself.
No. Not sell. Marry.
The distinction felt razor-thin.
“The arrangement is straightforward,” Mr. Whitaker continued, his voice carrying the practiced neutrality of someone who’d brokered stranger deals than this. “You will marry Roman Carver in a private ceremony at Ironwood Correctional Facility. The marriage will be legal and binding in every sense. In exchange, a substantial sum will be transferred to your account—enough to clear your family’s debts entirely, with additional funds for your personal use.”
Her father’s medical bills. Her mother’s second mortgage. Her brother’s student loans that had gone into default after he’d dropped out to work double shifts at the plant. Three years of financial hemorrhaging, of watching her parents age a decade in months, of fielding calls from collection agencies who didn’t care that her father’s cancer treatment had cost more than their house.
“How much?” The words scraped out of her.
“Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
The number hung in the air like a grenade with the pin pulled. Juliette’s vision swam. That was… that was everything. That was her father’s treatment. That was her mother keeping the house. That was breathing room, real breathing room, for the first time since the diagnosis.
“Why me?” she asked, because she needed to understand. “Why would anyone pay that much for a marriage to a stranger?”
Mr. Albright’s expression remained carefully blank. “Mr. Carver’s reasons are his own. What you need to know is that he’s terminally ill. Stage four cancer, metastasized. The prison medical staff gives him six months, perhaps less. He has… certain assets that he wishes to protect, and a legal spouse provides him with options his current status does not afford.”
Terminally ill. Six months.
Juliette’s stomach twisted. She’d be a widow before her first anniversary. The thought should have brought relief—this wasn’t forever, just a transaction with an expiration date built in. Instead, something cold and horrible settled in her chest.
“Have you met him?” she heard herself ask.
“Once. To discuss the terms.” Mr. Albright’s fingers drummed once against the folder, a single crack in his professional veneer. “He’s… intense. Intelligent. He was convicted of second-degree murder eight years ago. The appeals have all failed. His release is not anticipated.”
A murderer.
Juliette’s hands went numb. She was going to marry a murderer. A dying murderer who somehow had three-quarters of a million dollars to spend on a wife he’d never touch, never know, never see outside prison walls.
“Miss Sinclair.” Mr. Albright leaned forward, and for the first time, something almost kind flickered in his eyes. “You don’t have to do this. There are other options—”
“No,” Juliette interrupted, her voice steadier than she felt. “There aren’t. Not real ones.”
She’d looked. God, she’d looked. Personal loans she didn’t qualify for. Crowdfunding campaigns that raised hundreds when they needed hundreds of thousands. Her own job as a bookkeeper at a small nonprofit paid enough for rent and ramen, nothing more. She’d already sold her car, her laptop, every piece of jewelry she owned except her grandmother’s wedding ring.
This was the only door left open. And it was closing fast.
“The ceremony is scheduled for Friday afternoon,” Mr. Albright said, taking her silence as acceptance. “Three o’clock. You’ll need to bring identification and your birth certificate. The marriage license has already been expedited—Mr. Carver has… resources within the system.”
Of course he did. Murderers with briefcases full of cash tended to have resources.
“Will I meet him before?” The question came out smaller than she intended. Childish. But she needed to know what face would be standing across from her when she promised forever to a dying stranger.
“Briefly. You’ll have ten minutes in a consultation room before the ceremony.” Mr. Albright opened the folder, revealing page after page of dense legal text. “Everything is outlined here. You’ll retain your maiden name unless you choose otherwise. There’s no requirement for physical cohabitation, obviously. No consummation clause. The marriage ends upon his death, at which point you’ll receive an additional fifty thousand dollars as a widow’s settlement.”
Eight hundred thousand total. For six months of being Mrs. Roman Carver on paper.
Juliette reached for the pen he offered, her fingers trembling so badly she almost dropped it. The metal was cold, heavier than it should be. She flipped through the pages, pretending to read when the words blurred into meaningless shapes.
She thought of her father, skeletal and gray in his hospital bed last week, joking about finally losing that spare tire. Her mother’s hands, raw from taking in sewing work at night. The way her little brother had stopped talking about going back to school, his dreams shelved indefinitely in the space between hope and reality.
“Where do I sign?”
Mr. Whitaker turned to the final page, his finger indicating a blank line at the bottom. Above it, another signature already waited in bold black ink: Roman Carver.
His handwriting was sharp, almost aggressive, each letter precisely formed. Not the scrawl of someone resigned to death. The signature of someone who still fought, still claimed, still demanded.
Juliette pressed pen to paper.
Her hand shook as she formed each letter of her name, the movements mechanical. Juliette Marie Sinclair. Twenty-six years old. Bookkeeper. Daughter. Sister. And now—now she was adding another title to that list.
Wife.
The pen scratched against paper, and with each stroke, she felt something inside her shift and settle. This wasn’t romance. This wasn’t even kindness. This was survival, pure and brutal, the kind of choice you made when all the good options had already died.
“There.” She set the pen down with a click that sounded too loud in the quiet office. “It’s done.”
Mr. Albright gathered the papers with efficient movements, sliding them back into the folder. “The funds will transfer within the hour. I’ll send confirmation to your email. And Miss Sinclair?” He paused, meeting her eyes. “Friday afternoon, wear something simple. The facility has strict dress codes. Nothing red, nothing orange. No wire in your bra, no excessive jewelry.”
Prison wedding etiquette. Of course.
Juliette stood, her legs unsteady beneath her. She’d walked into this office as herself, free and unencumbered. She was walking out engaged to a convicted killer, bought and paid for, her signature still drying on a contract that felt like a deal with the devil.
The autumn air hit her face when she stepped outside, cool and sharp. Chicago sprawled around her, indifferent to the fact that her entire life had just pivoted on the edge of a pen. Cars rushed past. People hurried by with coffee cups and cell phones. Normal lives. Uncomplicated lives.
Her phone buzzed in her purse. She pulled it out with numb fingers.
A text from her mother: Doctor called. Dad’s counts are up. Small miracle. Love you, sweetheart.
Juliette’s eyes burned. She typed back quickly—That’s wonderful news—and shoved the phone away before the tears could fall.
Four days until the wedding. Four days until she walked into Ironwood Correctional and became Mrs. Carver. Four days to memorize how it felt to be just Juliette, unbought and unburdened.
She started walking, her heels clicking against the pavement in a rhythm that sounded like a countdown. Three blocks to the train station. Forty minutes home. A lifetime of wondering what the hell she’d just done.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, an email notification.
Wire transfer received: $750,000.00
Juliette stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at the screen. The number didn’t look real. Numbers that big never looked real when they were yours.
But it was real. The money was real. The contract was real.
And Friday, Roman Carver would be real too.
She clutched the phone against her chest and kept walking, even though her legs wanted to buckle, even though her heart hammered against her ribs like it was trying to escape. This was the right choice. The only choice.
So why did it feel like she’d just signed away more than her name?
Her hand shook as Roman’s name appeared beside hers in ink—permanent, binding, impossible to take back.
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