The chapel smelled like roses and too much hairspray. Sunlight streamed in through the stained-glass windows, throwing little rainbow spots across the floor as Amara tugged at her peach bridesmaid dress for the hundredth time.
"This is what I get for being 'the responsible one,'" she muttered, juggling a stack of papers she didn't even want to be holding.
Her best friend's wedding had already been a circus. The florist got lost. The groom's uncle fainted halfway through the vows. And now somehow she was the one double-checking the official paperwork — because apparently no one else in this family trusted themselves with important documents.
She was bent over the registrar's table, flipping through neat stacks of forms, when a low voice cleared its throat behind her.
"Excuse me."
The sound startled her so badly she almost dropped the pen. She turned — and froze.
The man standing there looked like he'd just stepped off the cover of Forbes. Tall. Expensive suit. Sharp jawline that could cut glass. And those eyes — storm-gray and steady — like he was sizing her up in the span of three seconds and already finding her… inconvenient.
"That's mine," he said smoothly, gesturing at the forms.
Amara blinked. "Uh, no. Pretty sure these are the bride and groom's marriage papers. Unless you're here to object?"
The corner of his mouth twitched, not in amusement. More like annoyance.
Before she could grill him further, another man came rushing in — younger, red-faced, carrying a briefcase. "Mr. Cross! There you are. The Whitmore contract's ready to sign—oh, you've already…" He trailed off, looking from the papers to the man in the suit, then back at Amara.
Contract?
The suited stranger — Mr. Cross apparently — picked up a pen like he owned the place, bent over the table, and signed his name in bold, confident strokes.
Amara's stomach dropped. Because the paper in his hands wasn't any business deal. It was the marriage license.
"Wait—!" she blurted, reaching out. But too late. His name — Damian Alexander Cross — sprawled across the page like permanent ink on her life.
The assistant's face turned ghost-white. "Sir, I think you… oh God… that was the wrong—"
Damian turned the document, eyes narrowing as he finally read the header. His jaw ticked. "…Marriage license?"
Amara threw her hands up. "Yes! That's what I was trying to say. You just signed yourself into holy matrimony with—" She paused, pointing at herself. "Me."
For the first time, the man's composure cracked. Only for a second, but she caught it.
"This is a mistake," he said flatly.
"You don't say," Amara shot back, cheeks heating.
And then, as if the universe wanted to kick her while she was down, the officiant strolled in, cheerful as ever. "Wonderful! Both signatures are here. Miss Blake, just add yours beside Mr. Cross's, and we can finalize everything."
Amara's jaw hit the floor. "Excuse me—what?!"
"Yes, yes, Amara Blake, listed as witness. Everything's in order."
Damian's gaze cut to her, sharp as a blade. The look said a hundred things at once: annoyance, calculation… and something else she couldn't place.
He exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We need to talk. Now."
Before she could protest, he guided her — no, practically herded her — into a side room and shut the door behind them.
For a moment, silence. Just the two of them standing there, and her heartbeat pounding way too loud in her ears.
"Well," she said finally, crossing her arms. "That was fun. Care to explain how you hijacked my best friend's wedding papers?"
His eyes met hers, cool and unflinching. "I don't make mistakes. My assistant clearly does."
"Mm, good to know you throw people under the bus so quickly."
His lips twitched, the faintest shadow of a smirk. "You're feisty."
"Better than being insufferable."
The air between them crackled, hot and sharp, like static before a storm. She hated the way her pulse sped up when he stepped closer, hated that even his cologne — rich, expensive, unfairly good — made her knees feel weak.
Damian leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice. "Listen carefully. We don't have time to unravel this right now. An annulment is possible, but it'll take weeks. Weeks I don't have. The board expects stability, not headlines about a CEO botching his own marriage."
Amara blinked. "Are you seriously suggesting—"
"We keep this. Temporarily."
Her jaw fell open. "Keep it? As in—pretend to be your wife?"
His gaze flicked briefly to her lips before snapping back to her eyes. "Exactly."
Heat shot through her chest — part fury, part something she refused to name. "You are unbelievable."
He smiled then, slow and devastating, the kind of smile that felt like a dare. "And yet… Mrs. Cross, here we are."