She Broke The Rules By Touching His Violin. He Broke Her World By Offering Her A Ring.
Now she has one week to become his wife or disappear forever.
His eyes weren't the first thing I noticed.
They were the last.
The men at this hotel never looked at me when I spoke.
They looked through me.
Or worse at my chest, my legs, the curve of my waist beneath the too-tight uniform.
I was invisible until they wanted something pretty to undress with their gaze.
Tonight was no different.
Except I didn't expect the devil to be behind the next door I opened.
And I sure as hell didn't expect him to offer me a deal that could ruin the last piece of myself I had left.
The shift had stretched too long.
Eleven hours. Two skipped meals. One manager with wandering hands.
"Smile more, Aria," he'd said earlier, cornering me in the supply room. "You've got the kind of mouth that sells fantasies."
I'd smiled.
Then slammed the mop bucket into his foot and walked away.
But every step after that felt heavy.
The hotel gleamed around me—gold chandeliers dripping light over velvet carpets, glass walls that reflected luxury and rot in equal measure. The kind of place that only pretended to be clean.
I was heading to clock out when I heard it.
A violin.
Low. Mournful. Pulling at something deep inside me I thought I'd buried.
I stopped breathing.
Room 1901. The door was cracked open just slightly.
That sound…
I hadn't heard a violin played like that since
No.
Don't.
Don't remember.
But my hands were already moving.
I stepped inside.
The suite smelled like dark liquor, leather, and something expensive I couldn't name.
Soft firelight glowed in the corner. The violin case was open on the velvet couch, and the bow rested on the arm like it had been waiting for me.
I moved slowly, hypnotized.
One step. Then another.
I didn't belong here. I knew that.
But when your past knocks, sometimes your body answers before your brain can say no.
My fingers curled around the violin's neck. The wood was warm. Familiar.
Like it remembered me.
I lifted it to my shoulder. Held my breath.
Then played.
The first note broke me open.
It wasn't pretty or practiced. But it was mine. Raw and real and bleeding from my fingertips.
The song I played wasn't famous. It wasn't even finished.
It was the melody I used to hum when I cried myself to sleep in that cold dorm room three years ago.
Back when I was a scholarship girl in a sea of silk and diamonds.
Back when I still believed music would save me.
Now?
Now I was playing in a stolen moment, in a stolen room, like some desperate addict sneaking one last hit.
Then I felt him.
Before I heard his voice, I felt the heat behind me. The presence. Like a predator stepping into the light.
"Not many people touch my things without asking."
The music stopped.
My breath hitched.
Slowly, I turned.
And came face to face with the man who owned this room.
And maybe this whole building.
He didn't look at my face.
His eyes dragged over my body, slow and deliberate—pausing on my chest, my hips, the way my fingers still trembled on the violin.
It wasn't hunger.
It was power.
Like he was measuring how much it would take to break me.
And I—
I hated how my skin responded.
"I—I didn't mean to—" I stammered. "I just… heard the music earlier. I wasn't stealing anything, I swear..."
"Keep talking," he said softly. "I like the sound of guilt."
I swallowed hard. My throat was dry.
"I'll go," I said. "This was stupid. I'm sorry."
He stepped closer.
I didn't move.
His voice lowered.
"You played like someone who's lost everything."
I blinked.
He wasn't wrong.
I looked away. "What do you want?"
His hand moved not to touch me, not yet but to pick up a glass from the bar.
"I want to know what a girl with broken hands and hotel shoes is doing playing a Montagnana like she once owned the world."
The tension in the room shifted.
He was still watching me. Every breath. Every flinch.
I straightened.
"I studied at the New York School of Classical Arts," I said quietly. "Full scholarship. Until I was kicked out."
He raised an eyebrow. "Drugs? Theft? Scandal?"
"No," I said. "I told a rich man no."
He smirked, like he'd heard that story before.
"Was it worth it?"
I didn't answer.
Because I wasn't sure anymore.
He poured two fingers of whiskey and held out the glass.
I hesitated.
Then took it.
My fingers brushed his.
They were warm.
Calloused.
Too intimate for a stranger.
He watched my reaction like he was cataloguing it.
"Your name?" he asked.
"Aria."
"Fitting," he murmured. "You're music. And tragedy."
I should have left.
I should have put the violin down and walked away without looking back.
But then he said something that froze me to the floor.
"I need a woman. Temporary. Beautiful enough to fool my enemies. Quiet enough not to challenge me. And desperate enough to say yes."
I stared at him.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
He leaned in, voice low, almost amused.
"My fiancée just left me. My inheritance depends on having a bride by next week."
I blinked. "And you want me to pretend to be your wife?"
He nodded once. As if it were obvious.
My mouth dropped open. "You're insane."
"I'm rich," he replied, "which is close enough."
Silence.
Then he stepped back.
Pulled a black card from his wallet.
No name. Just an address and a time.
"9 a.m.," he said. "You show up, or you disappear. Your choice."
He turned away.
Stopped at the bedroom door.
"And Aria?"
I stiffened.
"Next time you play for me," he said, "don't wear that uniform."
His eyes finally met mine.
And in that moment, I understood
This man didn't offer chances.
He offered danger.
And I was already burning.
My hands shook long after I left the Violin Room.
I took the staff elevator down to the basement level and pressed my forehead to the cold wall, trying to catch my breath.
The glass of whiskey still burned in my stomach, Damien Locke's words ringing in my ears:
"You show up or you disappear."
I didn't want either of those choices.
But want had stopped mattering a long time ago.
The next morning, I stood outside the mirrored doors of Locke Industries, dressed in my best knockoff blazer, heels worn at the edges, and a knot in my stomach so tight it was hard to breathe.
The receptionist didn't look surprised to see me. As if he'd been warned.
"Aria Monroe?"
I nodded.
"Top floor. He's waiting."
The office was cold. Expensive. A view so high I felt like one wrong step would send me falling through glass.
Damien didn't look up right away. He sat at the massive desk like he'd been carved from steel.
When he finally met my gaze, it wasn't a greeting. It was an evaluation.
"You came," he said simply.
I crossed my arms. "You didn't leave me much choice."
"No," he said. "I didn't."
He gestured to the chair across from him. I hesitated, then sat.
A folder slid toward me.
CONTRACTUAL AGREEMENT: TEMPORARY ENGAGEMENT FOR IMAGE PROTECTION
My name was already typed in. So was his.
"Three months," he said. "You wear the ring. Play the part. In public, you are mine. In private, you keep to yourself."
"Why me?" I asked. "You could hire a model. An actress."
"I don't trust actresses," he said. "They think they're smarter than they are. You're… inconveniently honest."
I frowned. "That's not a compliment."
"It's not an insult, either."
He stood, walking toward the window.
"You didn't ask what you'd get out of it."
"I assumed I'd get paid."
"You'll receive a private apartment," he said, "a monthly stipend of fifty thousand dollars, a nondisclosure clause, and a clean exit after ninety days."
I stared.
Fifty. Thousand. Dollars.
Every month.
That was enough to pay off my sister's chemo. Enough to finally get out of the trap my life had become.
Enough to disappear, if I wanted.
But my voice still cracked when I asked, "What's the catch?"
Damien turned to face me fully.
"You belong to me. Publicly. Entirely. There will be eyes on you. Questions. Expectations. I need someone who doesn't break under pressure."
"And if I say no?"
He shrugged. "Then someone else plays my bride. And you go back to mops, minimum wage, and middle-aged men cornering you in supply rooms."
My jaw tightened.
I thought of my sister.
I thought of the past I couldn't outrun.
And I thought of the man in front of me cold, calculating, but at least honest in his cruelty.
I picked up the pen.
Signed.
The moment I did, something in the room changed.
Damien took the contract, eyes unreadable.
"You'll be moved to the apartment tonight," he said. "A stylist will meet you at 6 a.m. Tomorrow we attend a charity gala. You'll need to look like a woman worth billions."
I swallowed. "That's not me."
His lips curved just slightly.
"It is now."
As I turned to leave, he spoke again.
"You didn't ask about my past," he said.
I paused.
"That's the only fair part of the deal," he added. "You stay out of mine. I stay out of yours."
I didn't turn around. "Fine by me."
This wasn't survival. It was surrender. And I didn't even know what I was surrendering to.
But the moment I stepped into the elevator and the doors closed, my knees gave out.
I slid to the floor, chest tight.
Because I hadn't just signed a contract.
I'd signed away the last piece of control I had left.
And somewhere, behind me, Damien Locke lit a cigarette and whispered to no one:
"Welcome to hell, Mrs. Locke."