The glass walls of Alexander Veyron's office made me feel like a goldfish trapped in a bowl of steel and sky. Fifty floors above the city, everything below blurred into glittering lights, while everything inside pressed down on me—the smell of leather, the hum of silence, and him.
I sat at the long mahogany table, the glossy surface reflecting the neat stack of papers in front of me. Twenty pages of terms and conditions. Fifty pages that would turn me into Mrs. Alexander Veyron—on paper, at least.
He sat at the head of the table, not like a man but like a verdict. Dark suit. Silver watch. Expression carved from control.
The contract lay between us, thick as a brick of gold, its black ink daring me to touch the pen.
"Read it again," Alexander said. His voice was calm, smooth, and terrifying. Like velvet wrapped around a blade.
I forced my eyes to the clauses I already knew too well. Appearances must be maintained. Public loyalty is expected. Personal discretion is non-negotiable.
My chest tightened. Nothing about love. Nothing about me.
"What happens if I don't sign?" My voice cracked on the last word...
HOW IT ALL STARTED (Elena's POV)
Two weeks earlier, my life had been as ordinary—and as messy—as ever.
The clatter of trays, the hiss of the espresso machine, and the endless string of "Can I get extra foam with that?" were the soundtrack of my mornings. Being a barista wasn't glamorous, but it kept the lights on. Barely.
On that particular morning, I'd skipped breakfast to stretch out the little food we had left at home. Mom's medication was due for refill, and Noah's tuition bill was blinking red in my inbox like a bomb I couldn't defuse.
I told myself it was fine. I could handle it. I always had.
But then Dad showed up.
Marcus Marcellus—my father, the man who left us years ago—walked into the café with a desperate look and hands that wouldn't stop shaking. He didn't even order coffee. He just slipped into a corner booth, waved me over, and whispered words that sent my stomach dropping straight to the floor.
"Elena… I need your help. I owe money."
Of course he did. That was the only language he ever seemed to know.
"How much?" I asked, though I already dreaded the answer.
He hesitated, rubbing his temples. "Enough that they'll come after me. Enough that they'll come after you if I don't fix it."
My blood ran cold. My father's debts weren't just numbers—they were threats. Breathing, angry men with scars and no patience.
That night, after he left me with more fear than answers, I found myself sitting by Mom's bedside. The pale glow of her nightlamp fell across her face, too fragile for someone who used to be my shield. Her breathing was shallow, her coughs worse. She didn't know about the debt. She couldn't.
I made a silent promise to her in that moment: I would fix this. Somehow.
The next morning, fate—or maybe cruelty—stepped in.
A man in a tailored suit came into the café. He didn't look like someone who ordered lattes, and he didn't. He just asked for me. By name.
"Elena Marcellus?" His tone was polite but firm, like the words weren't really a question.
My stomach tightened. "Yes?"
He handed me a sleek black envelope. No explanation. No smile. Just a warning look that told me not to refuse.
When I opened it later, my hands trembled. Inside was a letter written with precision and finality.
Mr. Alexander Veyron requests your presence.
It gave a time, a place, and nothing else. No reason why the billionaire CEO of Veyron Enterprises would even know I existed.
But something in my gut told me this was tied to my father's debt.
I should've thrown it away. I should've run.
Instead, two days later, I found myself walking into the tallest building in the city, standing in front of an office where the air itself smelled too expensive for me to breathe.
And that's when I saw him.
Alexander Veyron.
Sharp suit. Sharper eyes. The kind of man who didn't just walk into a room—he owned it.
He didn't introduce himself. He didn't need to. He just looked at me and said, "You've been offered an opportunity. Don't waste it."
Alexander's POV
The Marcellus girl was not supposed to be in my orbit.
She was the daughter of a man who had made a career out of bad decisions. Marcus Marcellus gambled with money he didn't have, shook hands with people he couldn't afford to betray, and pretended debts disappeared if he drank hard enough.
Men like him always come crawling. And when they do, they don't just bring themselves—they bring their families.
That was how her name first crossed my desk. Not in some fairy-tale twist of fate, not in some rom-com coincidence. No, it was a number on a debt sheet. Elena Marcellus. A liability by bloodline.
But then I saw her.
It was supposed to be a routine check. My security detail had trailed Marcus to a dingy café. Instead of confronting him, I watched from the car, curious how far the man had fallen. That's when she appeared—dark hair pulled back, apron dusted with coffee grounds, exhaustion in her eyes that didn't dim the sharpness behind them.
She was beautiful, yes—but not in the polished, rehearsed way of the women I was used to. She was unguarded. Raw. Real. And when her father leaned across the table, begging her for money, I saw it.
The shift in her posture. The way her shoulders locked, her chin tilted up, her hands clenched on the tray. She hated him for putting her in that position. But she still listened. Still worried. Still carried weight that wasn't hers to carry.
That's when I knew.
She wasn't just another name. She was leverage.
So I sent for her. A letter, not a threat. I wanted to see what she would do when invited into my world. Most people grovel. Most people try to negotiate. Elena did neither. She showed up on time, in a borrowed blazer a size too big, and held her head high even though she was drowning.
I remember the way her eyes widened when she walked into my office. Not at the view, not at the wealth—but at me.
Not fear. Not awe. Just… defiance.
It amused me.
So I laid the terms bare. I needed a wife—not a partner, not a lover, not a fairytale. A wife who could look good on my arm, silence my family's constant pressure, and stabilize my reputation in the press.
And in return, I would make her problems disappear.
She hesitated, of course. But hesitation doesn't last long when the alternative is ruin.
Watching her lift that pen, fighting every instinct screaming at her to run, was almost thrilling. The weight of her entire family was on her shoulder...
BACK TO THE PRESENT
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, gaze cutting into me like steel polished to perfection. "Then you walk back to your life. Your debts stay. Your family's problems stay. And so do your dreams—untouched, unfulfilled. You'll be free, but freedom doesn't come cheap."
The weight of his words pressed harder than the pages ever could. I thought of rent overdue. Of my mother's hospital bills. Of the scholarships I'd lost when life got cruel.
"You're not giving me a choice," I whispered.
His expression didn't flicker. "Of course I am. You can sign, or you can walk out that door. Just remember, doors have a habit of closing for good."
The silence stretched. My heart thudded so loud, I wondered if he could hear it.
And then—I signed.
The pen glided, the ink bled, and just like that, I stopped being a woman with a name and became a wife with a contract.
Alexander reached over, slid the papers back toward him, and tapped the page where my signature sat. His eyes finally softened, though not kindly—more like a predator satisfied his prey had stepped into the trap willingly.
"Congratulations," he said, standing and offering his hand as if we'd just sealed a business merger. "You're Mrs. Veyron now."
His touch was warm, firm, unyielding. I swallowed...