The street smelled of smoke and stale bread. Sabrina stood on the balcony in an old, frayed sweater, wrapping herself in it like armor against the biting wind and the bleakness of her world. Below, her mother emptied a bucket of murky water onto the cracked pavement, a daily ritual of futility. Her father sat on a toolbox, the ember of his cigarette a lone point of light in the gray afternoon.
“Sabrina!” a weak voice called from inside.
She rushed back into the room. Her younger sister, Maggie, lay on the sofa, pale and still, her lips tinged with blue. The oxygen machine wheezed, a desperate, rattling sound. Her father had recently patched it up using a tutorial he’d found online. A new one was an impossible dream.
“We have to decide,” her father said, his voice heavy with a weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion. “And quickly.”
Sabrina knelt beside her sister, stroking her hair, which was as thin and fragile as spun silk. Maggie was sixteen, a top student, a gifted dancer who dreamed of studying biology. She was vibrant and full of life, or she had been, before the illness had taken root.
“I’ll do something,” Sabrina whispered, more to herself than to anyone else. “Hold on, Maggie. I won’t let you die.”
The next morning, Sabrina left the house in a borrowed dress and a threadbare coat, her heels tucked into her bag to protect them from the grimy stairs. In her clutch was a folder filled with her sister’s medical records—a testament to a battle they were losing. She was not deceiving herself. She knew exactly what she was walking into.
Albert Brun was a cold, wealthy widower. There was not a drop of warmth in him. He looked at her as a collector might look at a rare, beautiful object he intended to acquire.
“I won’t pretend,” he said, his voice as sharp and clear as cut glass. “I don’t need a wife. I need a beautiful, silent figure to stand beside me. You understand what I mean, don’t you?”
“I agree,” she said, her own voice a faint echo in the cavernous, sterile room.
He didn’t ask why. He didn’t care. He just nodded, and the deal was done.
A few weeks later, Sabrina was walking home from her evening shift at the hospital, her body aching with a bone-deep exhaustion. Suddenly, a black Audi, a model so rare it was almost mythical, pulled up beside her. The window slid down, and a familiar, commanding voice cut through the night.
“Sabrina. Get in the car.”
It was not a request. It was an order. She complied, too numb with fatigue to feel fear or surprise. The car’s interior was a world away from her own, all polished wood and supple leather.
“I won’t beat around the bush,” Albert said, staring straight ahead. “Marry me.”
A bitter, broken laugh escaped her lips. “What? My sister is dying. What marriage?”
“You will become my wife,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “I’ll dress you, polish you, and you will be the most exquisite woman in this city. People will talk about you, and they will envy me. In return, I will give you everything you need.”
“Everything?” she whispered, her heart beginning to pound.
He took a folder from the glove compartment. Inside was a contract with a prestigious Swiss clinic, Maggie’s name printed in bold letters.
“What is this?”
“Her treatment. The place is paid for. It begins as soon as you agree. You’re not a fool, Sabrina. You know I’m buying you. But I’m not a boy, and I won’t play with feelings. Think it over. But don’t take too long. Your sister may not have much time.”
The car stopped in front of her building. She stepped out, staggering, the weight of his offer pressing down on her.
That night, she stood in the kitchen, her hands trembling, and told her parents about the miracle that had fallen into their laps. Her mother’s immediate, tearful relief was a stark contrast to her father’s horrified silence.
“You don’t understand what kind of man he is,” he said, his voice a low growl. “He’ll break her. How can you trade one daughter’s life for another’s?”
“She’s not going to the streets!” her mother screamed. “She’s marrying a rich, respected man! A small price to pay for the life of a loved one!”
Sabrina stood between them, her own decision already made. “I couldn’t live with myself if Maggie died and I did nothing. I’m an adult. This is my choice.”
Her father stood, his eyes filled with a mixture of pride and pain. He pulled her into a tight, fierce hug. “I’m proud of you,” he whispered. “And my heart is breaking for you.”
The week before the wedding was a blur of procedures and training. At Albert’s insistence, Sabrina was flown to Dubai, where a team of specialists cleansed, whitened, massaged, and sculpted her into a flawless work of art. She was taught how to walk, how to sit, how to remain silent with dignity. Each evening, she stared out at the glittering, soulless city and repeated her mantra: Maggie will live. That’s all that matters.
On her wedding day, she was no longer the tired nurse with shadows under her eyes. She was a vision in white, a delicate, handcrafted doll—expensive, fragile, and decorative. The grand hall was filled with the city’s elite, their whispers of admiration a constant buzz in her ears.
“What taste Albert has. They say she’s from a simple family, but you’d never know it.”
She walked down the aisle on Albert’s arm, their steps synchronized, their expressions serene. They exchanged rings, his touch cold and business-like. During the entire time they had known each other, they had spoken less than a hundred words, none of them personal.
“You will be a shadow,” he had instructed. “Beautiful, but a shadow.”
As the evening wore on, a knot of fear tightened in her stomach. The wedding night loomed, a verdict she could not appeal.
After the soulless speeches and the perfunctory kiss, Sabrina went up to the master bedroom. The enormous room was cold and opulent, a bottle of wine chilling in an ice bucket, a tray of untouched fruit on the table. She sat on the edge of the bed in a thin white robe, her fingers numb, and waited.
An hour passed, then two. Then, the soft click of the door.
He entered quietly, dressed in casual home clothes, the scent of expensive cologne replaced by the simple smell of soap.
“I came just to talk,” he said, his voice softer than she had ever heard it. “Don’t be afraid. I’m not a beast.”
She lifted her head, her voice trembling. “You won’t…?”
He shook his head. “No. You’re not ready. It’s obvious. I’ll wait, Sabrina. I know how to wait.” He sat in a chair opposite her. “In fact, I want you to come to me yourself. When you’re ready. Not because you must, but because you want to.”
“What if I’m never ready?” she asked, her voice a whisper.
He smirked, a hint of warmth in his eyes. “Oh, you will be. You’re many things, Sabrina—stubborn, strong, desperate. But you are not a fool. And I know one thing for certain: you will never betray me.”
“Why are you so sure?”
He stood and walked to the window, his back to her. “Because people like you remember kindness. And people like you always play fair. You think I just picked you off the street? I found out everything about you, Sabrina. How you worked, how you supported your sister, how you denied yourself even food so she could have medicine.” He turned to face her. “I respect you. And if our marriage is a calculated decision, then let it be a strong one. I want you to be part of my team, my family.”
He was older, predatory, harsh. But in that moment, he was just a man, his own loneliness echoing in the vast, empty room.
“What do you dream of?” she asked, surprising herself with her boldness.
He sat beside her, his voice dropping to an almost intimate, quiet tone. “I dream of a child, Sabrina. I’ve built an empire, but it’s all worthless if there’s no one to leave it to. If you ever decide to give me a child, I’ll make you the happiest woman in the world.” He stood. “Good night. Rest well, wife.”
He left, closing the door softly behind him. Sabrina was alone, and for the first time in months, she cried. Not tears of terror or fear, but of relief, and a fragile, burgeoning hope.
Two months after the wedding, Sabrina found herself unable to sleep, haunted by the memory of a final, brutal conversation with her mother.
“Why don’t you love me?” Sabrina had asked, the night before her wedding.
“Because of you, I got married,” her mother had spat, the words like venom. “I was twenty, beautiful, and foolish. I didn’t want a child; I wanted a career, men, freedom. You were a mistake. Maggie was different. I wanted her. I gave birth to her with love. You were pain, and she was joy.”
Now, in the dead of night, the memory a fresh wound, Sabrina padded barefoot down the marble staircase to the kitchen. It was a perfect, sterile space, a page from a designer magazine. But tonight, she would make it her own. She found flour, butter, eggs, and began to make an old family recipe—a casserole with caramelized apples, cinnamon, and cottage cheese, the scent of her grandmother’s love filling the cold, empty room.
As the crust began to brown, Albert entered, his hair tousled, his expression soft. “Mind if I keep you company?” he asked, drawn by the warm, intoxicating aroma.
She nodded, and for the first time, not fully understanding why, she told him everything. About the conversation with her mother, about the pain she had carried for years, about the feeling of being a mistake.
He listened quietly, his gaze steady. When she was finished, he said, “Don’t carry someone else’s guilt, Sabrina. It will only break you. Your mother was wrong. I’m not a monster. I’m not asking you to love me. But maybe, someday, we can be friends, and your life will feel a little warmer.”
She pulled the casserole from the oven, and they ate it together, sitting on the spotless kitchen floor, no fine china, no pretension. And as they talked about books, about their childhoods, about the surprising comfort of a late-night snack, the ice between them began to melt.
A few days later, a courier delivered a package. It was a rare, first-edition copy of a book she had mentioned during their late-night conversation. He hadn’t just listened; he had heard her. That small, thoughtful gesture was a turning point. She realized that she could be herself with this man, that they could, perhaps, become friends.
The next morning, she returned the favor. When Albert came down for breakfast, the table held a large dish of golden, crispy fried dough, a treat he had spoken of with a wistful nostalgia, a taste of a childhood he thought was lost forever.
He froze when he saw it, then a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. “That’s it,” he said, taking a piece and crunching into it. “You’ve won me over completely. Incredible. Just like my mom’s.”
They laughed together, a light, natural sound, two people finding comfort in each other’s company.
A week later, his voice, bright with a barely contained joy, came through the phone. “Sabrina, get ready. I have a surprise for you tonight.”
“Are we going somewhere?”
“We’re flying,” he said. “Don’t take anything warm.”
Only when they were airborne did he reveal their destination. “They’ve disconnected Maggie from the machine,” he said, his eyes warm. “She’s breathing on her own. I thought you’d probably want to see her.”
Sabrina threw her arms around his neck, tears of gratitude streaming down her face. “Thank you, thank you,” she whispered.
The hospital room was bright and cozy. Maggie sat in a chair by the window, a gentle blush on her cheeks. No tubes, no machines. Alive. Real.
“I know what a sacrifice you had to make for me,” Maggie whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Sabrina said, taking her sister’s hand. “If you were dying, I would do everything to save you. You are my family.”
The evening after they left the hospital, Albert took her to a museum of illusions, a place where nothing was as it seemed. They laughed, got lost in mirrored corridors, and posed for photos in inverted rooms. At one point, she stumbled, and he caught her, his hands firm on her waist. Their eyes met, and in that moment, surrounded by a world of playful deception, they found something real. She stood on her toes and kissed him, first shyly, then with a confidence that surprised them both.
The night was magical. And in the morning, as he gently kissed her, he whispered, “Thank you, darling, for saving yourself for me.”
Their return home was shattered by a phone call from her mother, her voice a toxic blend of sweetness and greed.
“Now that you’ve become so important, maybe you should buy me a new apartment. You think just because you married a rich man, you’ve grown a crown?”
When Sabrina refused, her mother’s threats escalated.
“You think he’ll stay with you when the whole country laughs at him for buying himself a wife like a cow?”
Days later, her mother stormed into the house, uninvited, her rage a violent storm in their peaceful home. She screamed, she accused, she threatened to tell Albert “the whole truth.”
“I’ll tell him how you didn’t sleep at home for weeks, wandering around with God knows who!”
“I was working,” Sabrina tried to explain, her voice trembling. “Taking on extra shifts to pay for medicine.”
“Tell that to someone else!”
When Albert returned that evening, he found Sabrina sitting in the dark, the weight of her mother’s threats pressing down on her. She told him everything, her voice trembling but steady.
He listened, then stood and made a single, quiet phone call. “Darling,” he said, taking her hands in his. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll handle everything. No one will bother you again. I promise.”
A week later, on their anniversary, her mother appeared at the door, small and bewildered, her usual confidence gone. She apologized, her eyes downcast. “Forgive me, daughter. I was wrong.”
Later, Sabrina looked at her husband, stunned. “What was that?”
Albert smiled. “I met with your mother. I bought her a small apartment, arranged a modest allowance, and explained that if she ever appears in our lives again, I will destroy her. I made it very clear that no one dares to come into my house and upset my wife.”
She looked at him, her heart full. “Thank you,” she said.
He laughed. “I thought my surprise would be better.”
“No,” she said, a slow, radiant smile spreading across her face. “Mine is better.” She handed him a small, striped plastic box.
He peered inside, confused. “What is this?”
“How many stripes?” she asked, her voice trembling with a joy that was entirely her own.
He stared at the box. “Two.”
“That’s my surprise,” she whispered. “Twelve weeks.”
It took a moment for the truth to register. Then, he cried. Real, quiet tears of a joy so profound it was almost painful. He leaped up, lifted her into his arms, and spun her around, covering her face in kisses. “My darling, my beloved girl,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You won.”
“No,” she said, her heart soaring. “We won.”