The morning sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Alexander King's office, reflecting off the polished surfaces and casting long, cold shadows across the room. Elena stood near the doorway, clutching her small bag as if it were a lifeline. She had never stepped into a world like this before—luxury so sharp it felt almost like a weapon. The scent of leather and expensive cologne made her stomach twist, but she reminded herself why she was here. Daniel's life depended on her.
Alexander didn't rise to greet her. He remained seated behind his massive mahogany desk, fingers steepled, eyes piercing through the glass walls of his office. His presence filled the room with an almost tangible weight. Elena had never felt so small—and yet so exposed.
"You're punctual," he said, his voice calm but cold, the words slicing through the air like a knife.
Elena swallowed, forcing herself to speak. "I… I'm here."
He raised an eyebrow but said nothing more, simply gesturing to a leather chair across from him. With trembling hands, she sat, careful not to touch anything on the immaculate desk. Her eyes wandered to the papers neatly stacked in front of him. One of them was the contract.
Alexander tapped his fingers lightly against the table. "Do you understand the terms?"
Elena nodded, though her voice wavered. "I… I think so. One year. A marriage to save my brother's life."
He studied her, his expression unreadable. "Correct. There are no exceptions, no loopholes, and no emotional entanglements. This is a business arrangement."
Her heart pounded. Business arrangement. It sounded clinical, merciless, and impossible to live with. Yet she had no choice. "I… I understand."
Alexander slid the contract toward her. "Sign here."
Elena hesitated. Her hand hovered over the pen. She glanced up at him, meeting his sharp, dark eyes. Something about his gaze made her feel like he could see every fear, every hesitation inside her. For a moment, she wanted to run, to refuse, to scream.
But Daniel's face flashed in her mind—pale, weak, hooked to machines, clinging to life. She pressed her lips together, gripped the pen, and signed.
Alexander nodded once, slowly, almost approvingly. "Good. You honor your word."
Elena's fingers trembled as she pushed the contract back toward him. Her mind felt numb, like she had signed away not just her freedom but a piece of herself.
"Do not mistake this for affection," Alexander said sharply, his tone leaving no room for misunderstanding. "This is not love. You will obey the terms, and I will keep my part of the bargain. That is all."
Elena swallowed hard, her throat dry. "I understand."
For a moment, the silence was suffocating. Then, as if he had decided to break it, Alexander's voice softened slightly. "You may leave."
Elena rose, her legs unsteady. She felt dizzy, as though the room itself had shifted. Outside, the city hummed with life she felt disconnected from. She could feel his eyes on her back as she walked down the long corridor. This is just the beginning, she thought. Just the beginning.
---
The wedding was set for the following week. Elena spent every moment preparing herself—not with joy, but with a sense of grim determination. She bought a simple white dress, careful not to attract attention, careful not to look like she belonged in Alexander's world. Friends asked her why she seemed distant, quiet, almost haunted. She could only offer a small smile, concealing the truth. No one could know what she had agreed to.
On the day of the wedding, the air was crisp, the sky a clear blue that seemed almost mocking. Alexander's mansion loomed large in the distance, a fortress of glass and steel. Elena's heart pounded as a sleek black car pulled up in front of her small apartment. A chauffeur stepped out, opening the door for her with a polite nod that felt like a reminder of the world she was stepping into.
The drive was silent. Elena stared out the window, her mind racing. One year. One year, and then it's over. But a small, irrational part of her couldn't help but wonder what kind of man Alexander King really was. Was he truly as cold as he seemed? Or was there something beneath that polished, imperious exterior?
When they arrived, she was escorted into a massive hall. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the air smelled faintly of roses and polished wood. Guests were minimal, all impeccably dressed, their gazes polite but calculating. Alexander stood at the altar—or whatever passed for one in a civil, contract ceremony—waiting.
Elena's breath caught. Even in a simple black suit, he looked untouchable, commanding, like someone who had stepped out of another world. When their eyes met, she felt a jolt, a strange spark that made her knees weak.
The officiant began the ceremony, but Elena barely heard a word. Her focus was on Alexander—the way his jaw was set, the way his dark eyes seemed to see everything about her, yet gave nothing away. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and strangely electrified all at once.
When it came time to exchange vows, it was almost absurd. One sentence, curt and cold, yet heavy with unspoken promises:
"I, Elena Morgan, take you, Alexander King, to fulfill the terms of this contract for one year."
Alexander's voice was deep, unyielding: "I, Alexander King, accept."
The moment their hands were clasped, a shiver ran through Elena. It wasn't warmth—it was tension, an unspoken power dynamic that left her breathless. This was not love, she reminded herself. Not love.
Yet, as the ceremony ended and they stood side by side, Elena caught herself stealing a glance at him. Alexander King, the man she had agreed to marry to save her brother, seemed even more untouchable, magnetic, and… impossible to read.
The car ride home was quiet. Alexander didn't speak, and neither did she. But every now and then, she could feel his eyes on her, and it was both terrifying and thrilling. She didn't understand it, and she didn't want to, not yet.
That night, in the solitude of the room he had provided for her, Elena sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. The reality of the contract weighed heavily on her shoulders. One year. One year of pretending, one year of walking a fine line between compliance and rebellion. One year of Alexander King.
And somehow, she knew that surviving him—and maybe even understanding him—would be far more complicated than she had ever imagined.