Zoey woke to the sound of her phone exploding.
Not literally though honestly, after last night, she was not expecting less.
She squinted against the sunlight spilling through her thin curtains, groaned, and fumbled for the device on her nightstand.
Her eyes widened.
Ten missed calls, Fourteen unread messages. All from him.
Zayn Maddox.
AKA, London's most aggravating man, the one she had somehow agreed to fake date.
She flopped back onto her pillows, staring at the ceiling. "Maybe it was a dream," she muttered.
"A terrible, absurd dream where I sold my soul to pretend to be in love with a man who probably bathes in arrogance."
Her phone buzzed again. A single new message lit the screen.
Zayn: Car will be outside in 30 minutes. Don't be late.
Zoey snorted. "Oh, he's bossy before breakfast too." Still, she dragged herself out of bed, because if she ignored him, he would probably show up at her door like some kind of judgmental demon in a bespoke suit.
Thirty minutes later.
Zoey stepped outside her modest flat. A sleek black Bentley parked by the side of the road.
The driver, a stone faced man in a clean suit, gave her a polite nod and opened the back door.
And there he was.
Zayn Maddox, seated like the back seat was his personal throne. His charcoal suit was sharp enough to wound, his tie immaculate, his expression mildly bored. He didn't even glance up from his phone before dragging out words "Almost late, cupcake."
Zoey slid in and crossed her arms. "If you start calling me baked goods, I'm out."
One corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Duly noted."
The Bentley glided into traffic, the world outside a blur of buses, cabs, and double red lines.
"Where are we going?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
"Maddox Tower," he replied without looking up. "We'll sign the agreement there. My assistant's already prepared the documents."
Her brows shot up. "Oh, good. Because I was really hoping to start my morning with a binding legal contract."
"You'll have full input on the performance aspect," he said smoothly. "But the legal framework must be airtight. I can't risk loopholes."
"Wow," she deadpanned. "You are just overflowing with romance."
"I find romance to be overrated."
Of course he did.
At Maddox Tower
Maddox Tower loomed over central London, a glass and steel skyscraper that looked like it had been designed to intimidate poor beings.
The sunlight reflected off its surface and blinded her for a moment.
Inside, the air was so clean it felt filtered twice over.
Zoey trailed after Zayn, trying not to gape like a tourist.
She should've known his place would feel like a cross between a bank lock room and a luxurious penthouse.
A woman intercepted them in the lobby. She was tall, thin, with a sleek black bob and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.
"This is Claire," Zayn said.
Claire's smile was professional, not warm. "Pleasure. Follow me."
They swept through glossy corridors until they reached a glass walled conference room with a table the size of Zoey's entire kitchen.
On the table sat a stack of papers, a silver fountain pen, and two steaming cups of coffee.
Zoey eyed the stack like it might bite. "That look terrifying."
"It's just a standard agreement," Claire replied briskly, sliding a cup toward her. "It outlines expectations, confidentiality clauses and compensation".
"and ownership of my soul?" Zoey cut in.
Claire didn't blink. "Page twelve."
Zayn chuckled, low and warm, and Zoey hated that her stomach fluttered at the sound.
"Just sign, cupcake," he murmured. "Unless you're having second thoughts."
Her eyes narrowed. He was daring her to back out. The memory of his offer replayed in her head: her dream event, fully funded, anywhere in London. Something she couldn't afford in ten lifetimes otherwise.
Her fingers didn't tremble as she picked up the pen. "Let's do this."
The scratch of ink against paper felt heavier than it should. When the final signature dried, she set the pen down with a flourish.
"Congratulations," Claire said, stacking the contracts. "You're officially engaged."
Zoey rolled her eyes.
It was only then that Zayn leaned back in his chair and dropped the bomb. "We're making our first appearance this afternoon."
Zoey almost inhaled her coffee. "Our what?"
"There's a charity luncheon at The Langham. Media will be present. You'll wear something elegant. I'll hold your hand. The world will believe we're hopelessly in love."
She gaped at him. "You planned this without asking me?"
"Every detail," he said smoothly, already standing. His gaze flicked over her outfit jeans and an oversized jumper. "Obviously, you'll need help. I'll send my stylist."
"Oh, how thoughtful of you, Your Majesty," she muttered.
By three o'clock, Zoey stood in front of her mirror in a silky emerald green dress that hugged her curves a little too well.
The fabric shimmered in the light, her hair had been coaxed into waves, and she looked nothing like herself.
When the Bentley arrived again, she climbed in without a word.
Zayn's eyes flicked over her slowly, from her heels to her hair, lingering a beat too long.
For a second, his expression slipped something sharp, hungry, unreadable flickered there.
Then it was gone.
"You clean up well," he said finally.
"You sound surprised."
The Langham's ballroom glittered like a jewelry box, chandeliers dripping with crystal. Waiters glided through the crowd with trays of champagne. The hum of wealthy conversation filled the space, peppered with the occasional paparazzi flash.
As soon as they entered, Zayn's hand slid naturally her back.
She stiffened at the contact."Easy there, Maddox," she muttered.
"Smile," he whispered without looking at her.
So she did just in time for the cameras.
For the next half hour, Zoey lived a life that didn't feel like hers.
She sipped champagne, laughed politely, and endured being introduced as Zayn's fiancée.
Each time the word rolled off his tongue, her pulse jumped. Not that she would admit it.
At one point, a photographer called for a couple's shot. Zayn's arm circled her waist, pulling her close. He bent slightly, his cheek brushing hers, and she caught his scent clean, woodsy, edged with something darker.
It curled around her senses, unsettling and strangely intoxicating.
For one dizzy second, she swore his eyes flashed gold.
She blinked. When she looked again, they were the same stormy gray as before.
The Ride Back to her apartment was a quiet one.
The car purred softly as they cut through London traffic, the city glowing in the late afternoon light.
Zoey stared out the window, still trying to process the cameras, the whispered stares, the weight of his hand at her waist.
"So," she said finally, "what's with that look you get when you say 'family'? Is this some kind of mafia situation I should know about?"
Zayn's jaw tightened. "Not mafia."
She leaned in, stage whispering dramatically. "Cult?"
He didn't answer. His eyes stayed locked on the passing skyline, but his fingers tapped once against his thigh a tiny slip, barely there.
Something in her gut told her the truth was stranger, darker.
Back in her bed, Zoey lay staring at the ceiling, her mind refusing to quiet down.
Her event, the reason she'd agreed to this charade, felt suddenly smaller compared to the storm she was stepping into.
Zayn Maddox was hiding something something bigger than business empires.
And now, thanks to her signature, she was tied to him.
She closed her eyes, muttering into the darkness.
"This is beyond me".