Ariana Blake sat in the sprawling office once again, this time with her shoulders squared, her chin lifted, and a carefully folded sheet of paper clutched in her hand.
A week ago, she wouldn't have dared look a man like Leonardo Maddox Cross in the eye. But things had changed. She'd signed the contract. She was no longer just a struggling freelance designer. She was about to become Mrs. Cross—on paper, at least.
And she had terms.
Leo was seated at the massive black marble desk again, scrolling through something on his phone, his expression unreadable. The late morning sun sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting shadows across the sharp angles of his face. He was dressed in another tailored suit—deep charcoal today—with a crisp white shirt and a thin navy tie. He looked like power incarnate, sitting in a fortress he built himself.
Ariana, in contrast, wore the same navy slacks and white blouse from the day before. Her clothes were clean, but plain. Her dark brown hair was tied in a low bun, loose strands curling by her jawline. Her green eyes—sharp, cautious, and tired—met his the moment he looked up.
"You came back," Leo said.
"I came to negotiate."
His lips curved, barely. "You're learning."
Ariana stepped forward and placed the paper on the desk. "These are my non-negotiables."
Leo's brow arched. He picked up the page and read it silently.
1. Separate bedrooms and bathrooms.
2. No physical contact without verbal consent.
3. One-year contract, no renewal.
4. I maintain ownership of my own work—designs, concepts, anything I create.
5. I retain a personal attorney to review any updates to the contract.
6. No access to my personal phone, laptop, or accounts.
7. I choose my own clothes, my own image.
8. You don't ask about my past, and I don't ask about yours.
9. I get a private workspace.
10. If you breach the contract terms, I walk—immediately—with full payout.
Leo read every word without interruption. Then he looked up.
"Reasonable."
"That's it?"
"I'm not here to trap you, Ariana," he said. "I want this to work—for both of us."
Ariana narrowed her eyes. "You're not what I expected."
"What were you expecting?"
"Someone more arrogant. Less… careful."
"I am arrogant," he said flatly. "But I'm not careless. I've built everything I have by being precise."
He slid the page aside and reached into a drawer, pulling out a fresh copy of the contract—this time updated. "I had legal revise it last night, based on your earlier concerns. Everything you've listed is already covered, or I've just added it now."
Ariana hesitated. "Just like that?"
He looked at her. "If you're not comfortable, this won't work. The public sees through fake smiles. I need you to act like this is real."
"And if I can't?"
"Then we both lose."
She took a slow breath. "Where would I live?"
"My penthouse. Top floor. Four bedrooms, five bathrooms, a studio, gym, private terrace. You can choose your own room."
Ariana blinked. "You live in a five-bedroom penthouse… alone?"
He looked at her as if that should've been obvious. "I prefer space."
"Clearly."
"You'll move in by tomorrow. We'll do a staged engagement photo. Then we announce the wedding date—ninety days from now. That gives us enough time to prepare the narrative."
"Ninety days?"
"We need the engagement to look believable. After that, a small legal ceremony. Public enough to satisfy the media, private enough to stay in control."
She shook her head. "You really thought this through."
Leo leaned forward slightly. "I don't leave room for chaos, Ariana. That's how empires crumble."
Ariana stared at him. There was something so rigid about him, something mechanical. It wasn't that he didn't feel—it was that he didn't allow himself to.
"What happened to you?" she asked quietly.
He looked up sharply. "That's not part of the deal."
She swallowed. "Right. Sorry."
Leo's expression softened just a fraction. "You'll have a driver. A private account. A wardrobe budget. A PR coach, if you want one."
"And my job?"
"You'll have full autonomy. I've already arranged a meeting with an elite interior firm. They've seen your portfolio. They're impressed."
Her eyes widened. "You sent them my work?"
"I didn't hire a ghost. I want people to believe we met through business."
Ariana's heart raced. Part of her wanted to scream that this wasn't fair—that no one should get to rewrite their life this easily. The other part wanted to cry from relief.
She'd fought so hard. For rent. For food. For pride.
Now she had a seat at the table.
"Okay," she said finally. "I'll move in tomorrow."
Leo nodded once. "I'll have a staff member escort you for wardrobe fittings later today. And we'll take the first photo tomorrow evening, outside the penthouse."
She stepped back. "One last thing."
He looked up.
"I want the freedom to walk away if it gets to be too much. Not just legally. Personally."
Leo's voice was low. "It won't be easy. The media attention. The eyes. But if you ever feel unsafe, or overwhelmed—you walk. No questions."
Ariana nodded. "Okay."
He stood, then extended his hand.
This was it.
The beginning.
She hesitated only for a second before placing her hand in his.
It was warm. Firm. Controlled.
Their eyes met.
"Welcome to the arrangement," Leo said.
She smiled faintly. "Hope you're ready for the chaos."
---
Later that day, Ariana stood in a sleek downtown boutique, surrounded by mirrors and racks of clothing that cost more than her monthly rent.
"I still don't understand how I went from ramen noodles to Chanel in forty-eight hours," she muttered.
A young woman named Emilia, hired as her personal stylist, gave her a sympathetic smile. "Mr. Cross doesn't do halfway."
"That's becoming very clear."
Ariana tried on three different outfits for the photo shoot—classic dresses, elegant blouses, high-waisted trousers. She settled on a soft dove-gray wrap dress that hugged her curves modestly. Her hair was styled in loose waves, makeup soft but flawless.
For the first time in months, she looked in the mirror and didn't see desperation.
She saw potential.
Later, back in her small apartment, she stared at the boxes she'd started packing. It was surreal—leaving behind a life that had been nothing but survival mode for so long. The water-stained ceiling. The broken heater. The small table where she'd sketched until her fingers cramped.
All of it would be gone by tomorrow.
She lay down on her lumpy bed that night, staring at the ceiling, the silence pressing on her chest.
A fake marriage.
To a man she didn't trust.
For money.
And maybe, for something more she didn't dare name yet.
---
Meanwhile, Leo stood alone in his penthouse study, a glass of bourbon in one hand, a file in the other.
Ariana Blake.
Twenty-nine. No siblings. Parents divorced. Grew up in Philadelphia. Moved to New York after college. Designed four commercial spaces in the last three years—clean, thoughtful work. Underpaid. Overlooked.
And now she was his wife-to-be.
He stared at her photo for a long time.
She wasn't like the women he usually worked with. She asked questions. Challenged him. She had eyes that saw things too sharply and a mouth that didn't soften its opinions.
He admired that.
But admiration was dangerous.
This deal needed precision. Distance.
Emotion had no place here.
He drained the last of his bourbon and placed her file back in the drawer.
Tomorrow, she'd move in.
And the clock would start ticking.
---