The trip to his house felt like an eternity.
Or maybe that was just my nerves stretching out time.
I still gazed at buildings speeding past the window, replaying the last two days in my mind. Between "you got the job" and "Monday at 9 a.m.," I stopped breathing.
The car finally stopped, and I thought we must be at a hotel.
No — no hotel.
A mansion.
The doors were black iron, elevated high enough to make you feel small. The driveway curled as if the house was built to be admired for all stone and glass and still.
Inside, the house was filled with the scent of polish and money. Marble floors, gold hardware, and air conditioning so cold it burned. I smoothed my tattered dress because I didn't want to seem like an intruder.
A woman was there before I could find my balance. Late forties, sleek bun, clicking heels in perfect rhythm like a metronome.
"Miss Amara Rivera?"
Her voice was both a question and an order.
"Yes," I whispered.
"I'm Mrs. Grant. Mr. Cole's personal assistant. He's waiting for you."
She turned before I could respond. I followed her, clutching my small bag like a safeguard.
The office was large and quiet, the kind of space where decisions worth millions are made. Adrian sat behind a glass desk, reading something with rolled-up sleeves and that unreadable expression. He didn't look up when we entered.
"Sit," he growled.
My legs moved before my mind caught up.
Mrs. Grant handed me a neat stack of papers. "This is your contract. Take a look at it before you sign. The conditions, the pay, and restrictions are there."
"Restrictions?" I blurted.
Adrian finally looked up.
He didn't smile. "There are rules in all contracts. Ours is no exception."
He got up, moving around the desk with the calm of someone who never rushes.
"You'll stay here under the arrangement," he said. "You'll attend parties with me when needed. You won't speak to the media or about anything in my personal life or yours."
I blinked. "So basically… pretend to be your wife."
"Legally, you will," he replied quietly. "But yes, that's the idea."
My mouth was dry. "And what happens at the end of the year?"
He tilted his head. "You'll get what we agreed on. Your mother's medical bills are covered. A fresh start."
A new start.
It sounded like hope in designer shoes.
Mrs. Grant's voice snapped me out of my daze. "If everything's fine, sign at the bottom."
I looked at the papers—the lines, the conditions, the promises that seemed too good to be true. Deep inside, a voice whispered, This is nuts, Amara.
But then another voice, one that listened for my mother's coughing, drowned everything else out.
So I sat down with the pen, and I signed.
Mrs. Grant folded the papers neatly, businesslike and emotionless. Adrian slid his copy into a folder.
"Congratulations on your new life, Mrs. Rivera," he said. His tone was polite, but the look he gave me made it feel heavier.
"Mrs. Grant will show you to your room," he added.
I stood up, my legs trembling.
We ascended the grand staircase, and Mrs. Grant's voice echoed off the walls. "Dinner at seven. You're invited. You're supposed to join us. Don't go down the east wing. It's private."
"Private?" I echoed, staring.
She didn't even glance back. "Don't make me say it twice."
The hall seemed to go on forever, with paintings, chandeliers, and a soft, sound-absorbing carpet. She pushed open a door and led me inside.
The room was stunning. Too stunning. Soft cream linens, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a small chandelier still worth a fortune. A velvet box sat on the dresser.
Inside was a ring—simple, elegant, expensive.
When she closed the door, silence filled the room, as thick as air I couldn't breathe.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the ring until my phone vibrated.
A message.
Unknown Number:
Be ready by 6.
That was it. No name. No emojis. Just a command.
I laughed softly, though it sounded more like a sob.
Others beyond this house were living their lives—working, laughing, breathing—while I inhaled what remained of theirs.
I looked around again—the gold, the silence, the shadows creeping toward the forbidden east wing—and I knew this wasn't just a job.
Whatever Adrian Cole was hiding in this house, I was now part of it.
Whether I liked it or not.