The Silent Bride's Billion Dollar Contract

Dawn Roth woke up to the sound of a siren screaming past her window, but it was the heat that actually pulled her from sleep. It was a thick, wet heat that clung to her skin like plastic wrap. Her T-shirt was stuck to her back. She lay still on the narrow twin mattress, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looked vaguely like a map of Florida.

She reached for her phone on the milk crate she used as a nightstand. The screen was cracked, a spiderweb of glass over the display. She tapped the banking app.

$42.18.

A red notification banner dropped down from the top of the screen. Student Loan Payment Overdue.

Dawn closed her eyes and let the phone drop onto the mattress. Her chest felt heavy, as if someone were sitting on her ribs. She pushed the blanket off her legs and swung her feet onto the linoleum floor. It was sticky.

She opened the bedroom door and the smell hit her instantly-stale frying oil and cigarette smoke. The air in the living room was even hotter than in her bedroom. There was no air conditioning here.

Aunt Lydia sat at the small, chipped dining table. She was applying a coat of bright pink nail polish, her fingers splayed out on a placemat. She didn't look up when Dawn entered.

"You're up late," Lydia said. Her voice was scratchy, like sandpaper on wood.

"It's seven," Dawn whispered. Her throat felt tight. It always felt tight in this apartment.

Lydia blew on her nails. "There's coffee. Don't take the last of the milk."

Dawn walked to the counter. There was a piece of paper sitting next to the coffee pot. It was a printed photograph, grainy and low resolution. It showed a man with a shiny, bald head and a thick neck. He was smiling, but his eyes looked flat.

"Who is this?" Dawn asked.

Lydia finally looked up. Her eyes were sharp, outlined in smudged black liner. "That is Mr. Vane. He owns the dry cleaning chain on Steinway Street."

Dawn looked at the picture again. The man looked at least twenty years older than her. "Okay."

"He's looking for a wife," Lydia said. She capped the nail polish bottle with a sharp twist. "He's very stable. He has a house in Bayside. A nice house. With central air."

Dawn's stomach turned over. She put the paper down. "I have to go to work."

"He's willing to pay off my credit cards," Lydia said, her voice dropping an octave. "And he's willing to take over your loans."

Dawn froze. Her fingers curled into her palms. She looked at Lydia, waiting for the punchline, but Lydia's face was dead serious.

"I set up a date," Lydia said. "Tonight. Six o'clock. Café Lalo in Manhattan."

"Lydia, no," Dawn said. The words felt like stones in her mouth. "I can't."

"You can and you will," Lydia snapped. She stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the