What would you do if a billionaire offered to erase your debt in exchange for three months of marriage? Yolanda Carter never imagined her life would change the night she damaged a priceless painting. Now she’s trapped in a contract with Damen Blake, a cold, mysterious man hiding secrets that could break her heart.
As the days slip away, fake vows become real feelings, and she discovers the devastating truth he’s been hiding. Will 3 months be enough to find forever? or will time run out before love gets its chance? Hit subscribe and let’s find out together.” The pen felt impossibly heavy in Yolander’s trembling hand. She stared at the contract spread across Damen Blake’s mahogany desk, the words blurring together as her heart hammered against her ribs. “Marriage, 3 months, debt forgiven.
” The terms were absurd, almost cruel in their simplicity. Yet here she sat in his pristine office at 2:00 in the morning, her maid’s uniform still damp with the tears she’d shed an hour ago when he discovered what she’d done to his father’s painting. “Sign it or don’t,” Damian said from across the desk, his voice as cold as the marble floors throughout his mansion. “But decide now.
I don’t have time to waste.” Yolanda looked up at him, really looked at him for the first time since she’d started working here 6 months ago. He was handsome in that sharp, almost severe way that made him seem carved from ice rather than born from flesh.
Dark hair, darker eyes, and a jawline that could cut glass. Everything about him screamed control, from his perfectly pressed suit at this ungodly hour to the way he held himself with rigid composure. He was only in his 30s, yet he carried himself like a man who’d already lived a thousand exhausting years. “Why,” she whispered.
“Why marriage? Why me? Does it matter? He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. You owe me $375,000 for destroying an irreplaceable piece of my family’s history. You’re a maid who makes barely enough to cover your sister’s medical bills. You’ll be paying me back for the rest of your life.” He paused, something flickering in his eyes. And not quite cruelty, but close.
Unless you give me 3 months. But marriage is a legal arrangement, nothing more. He slid another document across the desk. My father’s will stipulates I must be married before my 35th birthday to access my full inheritance. That birthday is in 4 days. I need a wife. You need your debt erased. It’s a transaction, Miss Carter. Business.

What about love? The question escaped before she could stop it, and she immediately felt foolish. Damian’s laugh was hollow. Love is a fairy tale people tell themselves to make contracts like marriage feel less like the business arrangements they actually are. I don’t believe in fairy tales, and I suspect after everything you’ve been through, neither do you. He wasn’t wrong.
Yolanda had stopped believing in fairy tales when her parents died in that car accident 5 years ago, leaving her to raise 15-year-old Meer alone. She’d stopped believing in dreams when she’d had to abandon her art scholarship to work three jobs.
And she’d definitely stopped believing in Knights in shining armor when every man she’d ever dated had walked away the moment things got difficult. But marriage, even a fake one? What happens after 3 months? she asked quietly. We divorce quietly. You get a settlement that ensures you and your sister are taken care of. I get what I need from my father’s will to fund my charitable foundation. We both walk away better than we started. Your aunt.
Norah will be informed that this is a love match. His expression hardened. She can never know the truth. To everyone, we’re a couple who fell in love quickly. understand. Yolanda thought of Maya, of the surgery her sister needed, of the stack of medical bills growing taller every week.
She thought of the desperation that had driven her to take this made job in the first place, working in a world so far removed from her own, it might as well have been another planet. She thought of that moment tonight when she’d been dusting his private study, when her sleeve had caught the corner of that painting. when she’d watched in horror as it tumbled to the floor and the antique frame splintered on impact. She thought of having no other choice.
“Where do I sign?” she said. Damen’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture relaxed infinite decimally. He pointed to the bottom of the page. “Here and here,” initial every page. It took 10 minutes to sign away 3 months of her life. When it was done, Damian gathered the papers with mechanical efficiency and locked them in his desk drawer. We’ll marry in 3 days.

Small ceremony, just witnesses for legal purposes. I’ll have my assistant send you details on what you’ll need to know or my preferences, my schedule, how to conduct yourself. Conduct myself? Anger flared in Yolander’s chest, hot and sudden. I’m not your employee anymore. According to this contract, I’m going to be your wife.
You’ll be playing the role of my wife,” he corrected, standing. “There’s a difference. I’ll have the staff move your things to the east wing tomorrow. Stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours. 3 months will pass quickly if we both professional about this.” He walked toward the door, clearly considering the conversation finished. But Yoland understood too, her exhaustion giving way to something fiercer.
Why are you really doing this? There are plenty of women who would marry you for real. Women in your world who understand all this? She gestured around the opulent office. Why trap yourself with someone like me? Damian paused at the door, his hand on the ornate handle. For just a moment, his carefully constructed mast slipped and Yolander saw something raw and wounded beneath.
Because women in my world want forever, Miss Carter, and forever is something I can’t give anyone. Then he was gone, leaving her alone in his office with nothing but the ghost of his words and the strange ache in her chest that told her she’d just made either the best or worst decision of her life.
The wedding happened exactly as he’d promised, small, sterile, and utterly devoid of romance. They stood before a judge in the Blake family lawyer’s office while Norah Blake watched with suspicious eyes and Damen’s assistant served as witness. Yolanda wore a simple cream dress she’d bought the day before for $40, while Damen stood beside her in another one of his perfect suits, his face an emotionless mask. “I do,” he said when prompted, the words flat and mechanical.
I do, Yolander echoed, and tried not to think about how she’d once imagined this moment differently, surrounded by friends and family, marrying someone who looked at her like she was his whole world. The judge pronounced them husband and wife. Damian didn’t kiss her. He shook her hand.

Living in the Blake mansion as Damen’s wife was stranger than living there as his maid. At least as a maid, Yolanda had known her place, understood the rules. Now she occupied a liinal space. Not quite staff, not quite family, not quite anything at all. She had a beautiful suite in the east wing, a closet full of expensive clothes Damian’s assistant had ordered without consulting her, and absolutely no idea what she was supposed to do with herself all day. Damian had meant what he said about staying out of each other’s way.
He left for work before sunrise and returned after dark. They took separate meals in separate parts of the house. When they did encounter each other in the hallways or the kitchen, he would nod politely and continue walking as if she were still just the help. It should have been fine. It should have been easy.
But something about his distance gnored at Yolander made her restless in ways she couldn’t explain. “This is weird,” Maya said during one of her afternoon visits. Yolanda’s sister sprawled across the guest suite sofa, her dark eyes taking in every detail of the room’s luxury. I mean, seriously weird. You’re married to a billionaire living in this insane house, and you look miserable. I’m not miserable, Yolanda protested.
But even she could hear the lie in her voice. You’re lonely, Maya said bluntly. 15 years old and way too perceptive. He doesn’t even talk to you, does he? It’s complicated. It’s sad. Maya sat up, her expression serious beyond her years. Yo, I know you did this for me, for the surgery and all that, but you don’t have to stay somewhere that makes you unhappy. We’d figure it out. No.
Yolanda’s voice was sharp. We had no options, Maya. This was the only way, and it’s only 3 months. I can handle 3 months of anything. But as the first week bled into the second, Yolanda began to wonder if that was true. The breaking point came on a Thursday evening when she found Damian in the library, slumped over his desk with his head in his hands.

She’d been exploring the mansion’s vast collection of rooms, trying to fill the empty hours, and had never expected to find him home at 7 p.m., let alone looking so utterly destroyed. Are you okay? The question left her lips before she could think better of it.
Damian’s head snapped up and for a moment she saw pure anguish in his eyes before he shuddered it away. I’m fine, just tired. But he wasn’t fine. His skin was pale, almost gray, and there was a tremor in his hands he couldn’t quite hide. Without thinking, Yoland across the room and pressed her palm to his forehead. You’re burning up. When’s the last time you ate? Don’t.
He pulled away from her touch as if it burned. “Don’t act like you care. This is a business arrangement, remember.” The word stung more than they should have. Yolanda stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself. “Right, business.” Silly me for thinking basic human decency was included in the contract. She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her. Wait.
When she looked back, Damian was standing, swaying slightly on his feet. I’m sorry. That was unfair. He ran a hand through his hair, messing up its usual perfect styling. I haven’t eaten. I don’t I forget sometimes. You forget to eat. I forget a lot of things when I’m working. Something in his expression shifted, becoming almost vulnerable.
The company is in the middle of a major acquisition. I’ve been at the office for 72 hours straight. Yolander studied him, really studied him, and saw the exhaustion carved into every line of his face. The way his expensive suit hung a little looser than it should, the dark circles under his eyes. This wasn’t just tiredness.
This was someone running himself into the ground. “Come on,” she said, surprising herself. Where kitchen? I’m going to make you dinner and you’re going to eat it. Non-negotiable. For a moment, she thought he would refuse. Then he nodded slowly and followed her through the winding halls to the massive gleaming kitchen that the staff usually controlled, but the staff was gone for the evening, leaving just the two of them in the cavernous space.
Yolanda rolled up her sleeves and started pulling ingredients from the refrigerator. How do you feel about pasta? I feel that I have a private chef who prepares my meals. Your private chef makes fancy French food with names I can’t pronounce. I’m talking about real pasta. The kind that sticks to your ribs and makes you remember what it’s like to be human.
She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw the ghost of a smile flicker across his face. That sounds acceptable. They fell into an unexpected rhythm. Yolanda cooked while Damen sat at the kitchen island watching her with an intensity that should have made her uncomfortable but somehow didn’t.
She told him about Maya, about the meals their mother used to make, about the tiny apartment they’d lived in before their parents died. And slowly, carefully, he began to talk too. My father taught me to cook, he said quietly, before he got too sick. We’d spend Sundays in here making elaborate meals that never turned out quite right. My mother would pretend they were delicious, but we all knew the truth.
“You never talk about them,” Yolander observed, stirring the source. “Talking about them doesn’t bring them back.” His voice was flat, but pain lurked beneath. “They died in a plane crash 3 years ago. Private jet went down in bad weather. One day I had a family, the next day I had nothing but this house, my father’s company, and an aunt who sees me as a means to preserve the Blake legacy. I’m sorry, Yolanda said softly.
I know what it’s like to lose everyone. Their eyes met across the kitchen, and something passed between them. Recognition, maybe? The understanding that comes from shared grief. This pasta better be worth the emotional revelations, Damian said. But his tone had gentled. It will be Yolanda promised. It was.
They ate together at the kitchen island. And for the first time since signing that contract, Yolanda didn’t feel like she was playing a role. They talked about everything and nothing, books, music, the absurdity of modern art.
Damian was funny when he allowed himself to be with a dry wit that snuck up on her and made her laugh until her sides achd. “Why do you hide this?” she asked as they were cleaning up. This version of you, the one who’s actually human, Damian’s expression shuddered again. Because being human makes you vulnerable, and vulnerable people get hurt. Being invulnerable makes you lonely, Yolanda accounted. Trust me, I know.
He studied her for a long moment, something shifting in his dark eyes. Maybe we’re both lonely then. Maybe she agreed. That night marked a change. Subtle at first, but undeniable. Damian started coming home for dinner. They’d sit in the kitchen, never the formal dining room, and share meals while trading stories about their days.
He taught her about the tech world, explained his company’s innovations in ways that made sense. She talked about the art she used to make, the dreams she’d abandoned. “Why did you stop painting?” he asked one evening. Life stopped it for me. Can’t exactly afford canvas and paint when you are working three jobs to keep the lights on. You could paint now, he pointed out. You have time, resources, the whole East Wing if you want it.
The suggestion lodged in her chest. Bittersweet. What’s the point? It’s only 3 months, remember? Then I go back to real life. Something flickered in Damian’s expression. Disappointment maybe or regret. But all he said was, “Three months can be longer than you think.” He was right.
As April melted into May, the days began to blur together in unexpected ways. Damian started leaving his office door open while he worked, and Yolanda found herself drifting in, perching on his leather couch with a book while he typed away at his computer. They didn’t always talk, but the silence between them was comfortable, companionable.
He brought home art supplies one day without explanation. Professional-grade paints, brushes, canvases. The east sitting room has good light was all he said. So Yolander painted. She painted Maya’s smile, her mother’s hands, the tiny apartment she’d grown up in. And slowly, hesitantly, she started painting Damian, too.
The sharp line of his jaw, the rare softness in his eyes when he thought no one was looking. The way he’d started touching her hand across the dinner table, casual and brief, but tender in ways that made her breath catch. “We’re supposed to be convincing,” he’d said the first time, pulling away quickly. “In case the staff talks.
” But the staff wasn’t there at midnight when they found each other in the kitchen, both unable to sleep. The staff wasn’t there when Damian taught her to dance in the empty ballroom, his hand warm on her waist as they swayed to music only they could hear. The staff wasn’t there when she fell asleep on his office couch and woke to find his jacket draped over her like a blanket.
“This is dangerous,” Maya warned during one of her visits. “She’d been watching Yolanda watch Damian through the window as he walked through the gardens.” “You’re falling for him.” “I’m not,” Yolanda lied. Yes, you are. And yo, he’s not going to choose you. Rich guys like him don’t end up with girls like us. That’s not how the world works.
I know that, Yolanda said. But her voice was hollow because the truth was she’d started hoping. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, this thing between them was becoming real. The night everything changed started like any other. They were in the library, Yolanda reading while Damian worked on his laptop.
Rain drumed against the windows and a fire crackled in the fireplace. It was peaceful, domestic, achingly perfect. Then Damian’s phone rang. She watched his face go pale as he answered, watched his hand start to shake. When? He asked sharply. How long has this been? A pause. I understand. Yes, tomorrow morning. He ended the call and just sat there staring at nothing.
Damian. Yolanda set her book aside. What’s wrong? Nothing. Just work. But it wasn’t work. She could see it in every tense line of his body in the way he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. Don’t lie to me. Please. Whatever this is, you should go to bed,” he said, his voice cold in a way it hadn’t been in weeks. “It’s late.
” The dismissal hurt more than it should have. Yoland understood, gathering her things with hands that trembled slightly. “Right, of course. Back to our separate corners.” She was halfway to the door when she heard him whisper, “I’m dying.” The word stopped her cold. She turned slowly, certain she’d misheard. What? Damian’s laugh was bitter. Broken.
That was my doctor. The cancer has spread faster than they expected. 6 months, maybe less. So, you see, you’re getting out of this arrangement right on schedule. Lucky you. The world tilted sideways. Yolander crossed back to him in three quick steps, grabbing his shoulders.
What are you talking about? What cancer? Does it matter? He finally looked at her and the devastation in his eyes nearly broke her. I’m terminal. Have been since before we signed that contract. That’s why I needed the marriage, my father’s will, the charitable foundation. I wanted to do something good before I’m gone. And I needed the inheritance to fund it. You’ve known this whole time.
Yolanda’s voice was rising, emotion flooding through her. You married me knowing you were dying. That’s why I married you, he said brutally. Because it didn’t matter. Because you knew this was temporary. Because I wouldn’t have to break anyone’s heart when the end came.
The cruelty of it hit her like a physical blow. You bastard. You absolute. Her voice cracked. You made me care about you. You let me? I didn’t mean to. Now his composure was cracking, too. Real pain bleeding through. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to matter. But I do, Yolanda said, tears streaming down her face, don’t I? Tell me I’m not imagining this thing between us.
Damian stood abruptly, putting distance between them. It doesn’t matter what I feel. In a few months, I’ll be gone. The kindest thing I can do is let you go now before it gets worse. The kindest thing? Yolanda laughed through her tears. You think abandoning me is kindness? You think pushing me away protects either of us. Yes. Well, you’re wrong.
She closed the distance he’d created, refusing to let him retreat. You gave me 3 months, Damian. three months where I got to feel alive again. Where I got to create and laugh and be something more than just Maya’s struggling sister. You don’t get to take that away because you’re scared. I’m not scared, he said. But his voice shook. I’m realistic. I’m dying, Yolanda.
This story doesn’t have a happy ending. She grabbed his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her. Then let’s write the middle. Let’s make every day count. Let me love you while I still can. You don’t love me, he whispered. Yes, I do. The admission came easily, naturally, like breathing. I love you, Damian Blake.
I love your dry humor and your terrible habit of forgetting to eat. I love the way you dance with me in empty rooms and buy me art supplies without asking. I love that you’ve started smiling again. and I love you enough to stay. Even knowing how this ends for a moment. He just stared at her. Then he kissed her. It wasn’t gentle.
It was desperate, hungry, full of months of denied feeling and the terrible knowledge that time was running out. Yolanda kissed him back with everything she had, pouring all her love and fear and defiance into it. When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Damian rested his forehead against hers. I can’t promise you forever, he said raggedly.
I don’t need forever, Yolanda said. I just need you. However much time we have, it’s not fair to you. Let me decide what’s fair to me. She smiled through her tears. You promise me 3 months, Damian. But we both know that contract was from the start. So, here’s my new offer. I’ll stay until the end. I’ll love you until I can’t anymore.
And you’re going to let me because you’re tired of being alone and so am I. He pulled her close, burying his face in her hair. Okay. He breathed. Okay. They didn’t sleep that night. They stayed in the library wrapped around each other talking until the sun came up. Damian told her everything about the diagnosis two years ago, the treatments that failed, the decision to stop fighting and focus on leaving something meaningful behind.
About how hollow his life had felt until she’d crashed into it with her warmth and her laughter and her stubborn refusal to be cowed by his coldness. “I thought I could keep my distance,” he admitted as dawn light filtered through the windows. I thought I could protect us both, but you made it impossible not to feel. Good, Yolanda said fiercely. Feel everything, Damian.
That’s the whole point. The next months were simultaneously the best and worst of Yolanda’s life. Damian’s health declined gradually at first, then more rapidly. There were good days when he seemed almost normal, when they could pretend nothing was wrong. They traveled quick trips to places he’d always wanted to see. They danced in the rain in the mansion’s gardens.
They made love slowly, desperately, savoring every touch, and Yolander painted. She painted constantly, frantically, as if she could capture every moment before time stole them all away. Canvas after canvas filled with Damian’s face, his hands, the way light fell across his shoulders. She painted their story in colors and shadows, documenting a love that was never supposed to happen.
You’re going to make me immortal, he joked one afternoon, watching her work. That’s the idea, she said, not looking up from her canvas. When you’re gone, the world is going to know you existed, that you were loved, that you mattered. He crossed to her, tilting her chin up for a soft kiss. I love you, Yolanda Carter Blake.
The hyphenated name made her smile. She’d legally taken his name without thinking, without any of the hesitation she’d felt about the original contract. I love you, too. But love, Yolanda learned, wasn’t always enough. As summer faded into fall, Damian grew weaker. The strong, controlled man she’d married became someone who needed help with basic tasks.
He hated it, fought against it, tried to push her away again. Leave,” he said harshly. One particularly bad day. “Go live your life. You don’t have to watch this.” “Shut up,” Yolanda said calmly, helping him back to bed. “I made my choice. You’re stuck with me.” “Why?” His voice broke.
“Why would you choose this?” She climbed into bed beside him, careful of his fragile body. Because 3 months ago, you gave me everything. My sister’s surgery got funded. I got to paint again. I got to feel like I mattered. You did that, Damian. You gave me that gift. So now I’m giving you mine. You don’t have to die alone. He cried then for the first time since she’d known him. Great.
Shaking sobs that seemed to tear him apart. Yolanda held him through it all, her own tears soaking into his hair. “I don’t want to leave you,” he whispered when he could finally speak. “I know, baby. I know.” The end came on a Tuesday in October. Damian had been sleeping more and more, drifting in and out of consciousness.
Yolanda stayed by his side, holding his hand, telling him stories about the life they would have had if time had been kinder. I would have taken you to Paris, she said softly. For our first real anniversary, we would have gotten lost in the Louvre and you would have pretended to understand all the French while I laughed at you.
Then we would have had dinner at some tiny restaurant where they didn’t speak English and we’d have to point at things on the menu randomly. Damian’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused, but present. Sounds perfect, he rasped. It would have been, Yolanda said, smiling through her tears. Everything with you was perfect. Love you. He breathed. I love you too so much.
His hand squeezed hers weakly, then relaxed. The steady beep of the heart monitor became a flat line, and just like that, Damen Blake was gone. Yolanda sat there for a long time, still holding his hand, memerizing the peaceful expression on his face. The tightness around his eyes had finally eased. He looked young again, unbburdened.
“3 months to forever,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his cooling forehead. “Thank you for every single moment. The funeral was enormous.” Tech world leaders, celebrities, everyone who’d ever known or worked with Damen Blake came to pay their respects. But Yolanda barely registered any of it.
She stood at the front in a black dress, Maya’s hand in hers, and let the words wash over her. It was only later when the crowds had dispersed that Damian’s lawyer pulled her aside. He left you something. Asked me to give it to you privately. That something turned out to be a key and a letter. Yolanda opened the letter with shaking hands. Yolanda, by the time you read this, I’ll be gone.
I’m sorry for that. Sorry I couldn’t give you more time, more years, more ordinary days. But I’m not sorry I married you. Not sorry I fell in love with you. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. And I don’t just mean in those final months. You were the best thing. Period. I’ve left you the house. Maya, too. She deserves a real home.
But more importantly, I’ve left you something else. Do you remember that old warehouse building downtown? The one I said would make a perfect gallery. It’s yours now. every room, every wall, every inch of space. I’ve also established the Blake Art Foundation with you as director. Your only job is to fill that gallery with art that matters, yours and others. Give artists the chances you never got.
Make dreams come true. And Yolander live, please fall in love again if you can. Laugh until you can’t breathe. Paint until your hands cramp. Do all the things I wish I could have done with you for longer. You told me once that three months could be forever if you made them matter. You were right. Thank you for making my forever perfect. Love always.
Damian. Yolanda stood in the empty gallery space 6 months later, surrounded by canvases. Her paintings covered every wall. The story of her and Damian told in colors and light. The centerpiece was a massive portrait she’d finally finished. Damian in the library, book in hand, the ghost of a smile on his face.
It was titled simply three months. “It’s beautiful,” Maya said, standing beside her. At 16 now, her sister was healthy, thriving, no longer plagued by the heart condition that had once controlled their lives. “He’d have loved it.” “He did,” Yolanda said softly. “He saw the sketches. Do you miss him every day? Yolanda turned to her sister, managing a real smile.
But he gave me this, a second chance at the life I thought I’d lost. And I’m not going to waste it. The Blake Art Foundation opened to enormous crowds. Critics called it revolutionary, a space dedicated to emerging artists, to the marginalized voices, to the stories that traditionally got ignored.
And at the center of it all was Yolander’s exhibition, documenting a love story that transcended the contract it started as. She gave tours sometimes when she felt strong enough. She’d walk people through each painting, explaining the moments they captured, the first dinner in the kitchen, dancing in the rain, the library at dawn, and always she’d end at the final painting.
Damian in his last days, peaceful and loved, with Yolander’s hand clasped in his, “He was dying when you married him, someone would inevitably ask. Yes, Yolanda would say, “And I loved him anyway. Maybe because of it. We had three months that turned into six, and in those six months, I got a lifetime of love.” That’s what this gallery is about. Reminding people that time isn’t what matters. What you do with time is what matters.
How you love, how you live, how you refuse to let fear win. Years passed. The gallery thrived. Maya graduated high school, then college. Finding her own path. Yolanda dated occasionally, but never remarried. Once she told friends, “You’ve had forever. Anything else feels incomplete.” But she wasn’t lonely. She was surrounded by art and artists, by the legacy.
she and Damian had built together. And sometimes late at night when the gallery was empty, she’d stand in front of that central portrait and remember, “Thank you,” she’d whisper to the painted face. “For seeing me, for choosing me, for teaching me that three months can be enough.” And in the silence of the gallery, surrounded by the evidence of their love, Yolanda would swear she could feel him smiling back. If this story moved you, hit that subscribe button so you never miss our next emotional journey.
Drop a comment telling us what you thought. Did Yolanda and Damian story touch your heart? And don’t forget to like this video to help others find this story. Love doesn’t follow contracts, but it does follow courage. Until next time, remember, forever isn’t measured in time. It’s measured in moments that matter.