The fluorescent lights above Isabella Devereaux's desk buzzed with a steady hum, their flicker casting pale shadows across the gray carpet. The whole office had the same tired look: coffee stains on the breakroom counter, paper stacks leaning precariously on battered desks, and a faint odor of toner lingering in the air.
She had been temping here for three months, enough to know the rhythm of the place. The click of keyboards, the whine of overworked printers, the shuffle of restless feet. Every morning she told herself the same thing: this was only temporary. A stepping stone. A paycheck to keep the lights on while she figured out what came next.
But today, something was different. The air pressed heavier against her shoulders, as if the room itself knew something she didn't. She typed faster, fingers flying over the keyboard as she finished formatting a contract she wasn't allowed to read in full. Her boss barked about deadlines from across the rows of cubicles, his voice grating and impatient. She forced herself not to react.
A shadow fell across her desk.
She expected a coworker asking for a stapler. Instead, she froze.
The man standing before her didn't belong in this place. His suit was tailored so sharply it could have drawn blood, dark fabric gleaming faintly under the fluorescent glow. His shoes shone against the threadbare carpet, polished to a ruthless gloss. He carried himself with the kind of precision no one here could afford.
"Isabella Devereaux?" His voice was low and smooth but completely devoid of warmth.
Her stomach tightened. She pressed her palms flat on the desk to steady herself. "Yes."
Without hesitation, the man pulled a cream-colored envelope from his jacket and slid it toward her with two fingers. "You're requested at Kane International. Three o'clock."
The name struck her like a blow. Kane.
Her pulse stuttered, though she kept her expression still. She would not give this stranger the satisfaction of seeing her react. "There must be a mistake," she said coolly, nudging the envelope back. "I don't have business with Kane International."
His eyes, dark and flat, met hers. "Nicholas Kane insists. Don't be late."
Without another word, he turned and walked away. Conversations died around the room as heads lifted over cubicle walls. A hush settled, broken only by the faint scratch of her boss's pen.
Isabella stared at the envelope. It looked too heavy for something so small, the crest stamped into the paper a gleaming warning. She slid it into her lap and eased it open.
Inside was a single sheet of thick stationery, embossed with Kane International's insignia.
Miss Devereaux,
Your presence is required.
3:00 PM. Kane Tower, 59th floor.
No request. No explanation. Just an order, signed with a name that had haunted her family for years: Nicholas Kane.
Her throat tightened. She could almost see her father again, slumped after the bankruptcy hearings, eyes hollow as the family home was stripped bare. Her mother, silent at the dinner table, grief packed neatly into every pause. The Kanes had risen higher while the Devereauxs crumbled into whispers.
And now, Nicholas Kane wanted her summoned into his fortress of glass.
She should ignore it. Tear the letter in half, and toss it in the trash.
But another thought slid through her mind like a shadow.
If Nicholas Kane wanted her presence, she would give it to him. Not as his guest. As his enemy.
By three o'clock, Isabella stood at the base of Kane Tower.
The skyscraper rose above her, glass and steel slicing into the clouds. The mirrored surface caught the sunlight and hurled it back, a blade of brilliance against the skyline. Executives streamed through the revolving doors, their tailored suits crisp, their polished shoes ticking across the marble floor just inside.
For a moment, Isabella hesitated. Her chest tightened, doubt pricking like needles. What was she doing, walking into the lion's den on his command?
She swallowed hard, straightened her spine, and stepped inside.
The lobby spread before her like a cathedral of wealth. Polished marble gleamed beneath crystal chandeliers that fractured light into glittering shards. A hush of power lingered in the air. Receptionists in black uniforms worked briskly, their eyes sharp and efficient. Isabella caught the flicker of their gazes over her blouse, her skirt, and her scuffed clear sandals. She might as well have worn a neon sign: outsider.
"Name?" a receptionist asked briskly.
"Isabella Devereaux," she replied, her voice steady.
The woman tapped a few keys, then nodded. "He's expecting you. Elevator to your right. Fifty-ninth floor."
The elevator doors closed around her with a whisper. As it climbed, the mirrored walls reflected back a version of herself she barely recognized—hair pinned too tightly, lipstick faded, eyes harder than they had been that morning. Her pulse quickened with every ding of rising floors.
When the doors slid open, the atmosphere changed. The air smelled faintly of leather and oak, cooler and cleaner, as though the tower itself filtered out imperfection.
At the end of the marble hallway stood a pair of frosted glass doors. A receptionist with perfectly manicured nails glanced up from her desk.
"Miss Devereaux," she said smoothly. "He's waiting."
Isabella's heels struck the marble too loudly as she walked, but she refused to falter. The doors opened without sound.
Nicholas Kane sat behind a desk that looked carved from stone, the city sprawling behind him through floor-to-ceiling windows. His presence filled the room effortlessly. He didn't stand, didn't smile. He watched her approach with cool certainty, as though she had already stepped onto a chessboard he controlled.
"Miss Devereaux." His voice was low, clipped, and controlled.
Her chin lifted. "Mr. Kane."
The corner of his mouth twitched, almost amused. "You came."
"You didn't exactly make it sound like a choice," she replied.
"Does it matter?" He leaned back in his chair. "You're here."
His eyes stayed on her, sharp and relentless, a weight against her skin. She held his gaze, refusing to look away.
"Why?" she demanded. "Why drag me out of my job and up here? What do you want?"
Nicholas steepled his fingers, his expression unreadable. "Because, Miss Devereaux, I have an offer."
Her laugh was harsh. "An offer? What could you possibly offer me?"
He rose slowly, each movement deliberate and coiled. Standing, he was taller than she expected, his shoulders cutting a silhouette against the skyline.
"I need a wife," he said simply.
The words slammed into her. For a beat, she wondered if he was mocking her. "That's your grand proposal? A billionaire demand at three in the afternoon?"
"Not a proposal." His gaze didn't waver. "A contract."
Her laugh caught. "You can't be serious."
"One year," he said, circling the desk until he stood just feet away. His presence pressed against her, steady and suffocating. "You'll become Mrs. Kane. In name, in public. Nothing more."
Her throat went dry. "You're insane."
"Perhaps." His tone didn't shift. "But insanity pays well."
Her fists tightened. "Why me?"
"Because you're perfect." The answer came without hesitation. "You're not a socialite clawing for money. You're not a celebrity craving headlines. You're ordinary. Believable. The press will swallow it whole."
Heat flooded her face, fury mixing with humiliation. "So I'm just plain enough to be convenient?"
His lips curved faintly. "Exactly."
She wanted to slap him, to break that composure. But she stayed still, her anger twisting into something sharper. Because behind it, a thought glimmered: if she said yes, she would be inside his world. Inside his life. Close enough to ruin him.
Nicholas moved back to his desk and opened a drawer. He set a folder before her, its crest embossed in gold.
"This is our agreement."
She didn't touch it. "And if I refuse?"
His smirk darkened. "You won't."
Her pulse pounded in her ears. Slowly, she dragged the folder toward her. Pages of clauses and signatures stared back at her, stripped of anything human. Just rules. Just chains.
Nicholas slid a pen across the desk. "Sign, and it begins."
The metal felt cold in her hand. She looked at him one last time. Calm. Certain. A man who believed victory was inevitable.
Her lips curved faintly. "One year."
"One year," he echoed.
The pen scratched across the page. Isabella Devereaux.
When she set it down, Nicholas took the contract as though claiming a prize. His eyes lingered on her face, unreadable. Then, at last, that faint smirk returned.
"This is going to be interesting," he murmured.
Isabella stood, her chair scraping against the marble. Her expression gave nothing away. But inside, her vow burned fiercely.
Interesting?
He had no idea.
By the time this year was over, Nicholas Kane would regret ever putting a pen in her hand.