Tracy's hand hovered over the page, the pen trembling between her fingers.
Every instinct screamed at her to walk away. To leave this man, this hotel, and his impossible proposition behind.
But her reality wasn't made of choices anymore. It was made of debts, deadlines, and disappointment. Her landlord's warning still echoed in her mind, as sharp as the emptiness of her bank account.
So she forced her name onto the dotted line.
The ink bled smoothly across the paper—final, irreversible.
Alex Knight leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable, his presence consuming the air between them. A faint curve touched his lips—not quite a smile, more like satisfaction wrapped in restraint.
"Good."
He spoke the word like a verdict.
With one swift motion, he took the contract, closed the folder, and set it aside. To him, this was a transaction.
To Tracy—it felt like signing away her soul.
"What happens now?" she asked quietly.
Alex swirled the amber in his glass, the scent of aged scotch drifting through the silence. "Now, Miss Morgan—" his pause was deliberate, almost cruel "—you belong to me."
The words crawled down her spine.
Belong.
She wanted to hate the sound of it. But what scared her most was the flicker of heat that came with it.
He stood and crossed the room with a predator's grace, his steps steady, controlled. When he stopped in front of her, his cologne—dark wood and danger—filled her lungs.
"Pack your things," he said. "You'll move into my penthouse tomorrow. My assistant will send a car at nine."
Her breath stuttered. "Tomorrow?"
He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing like a man who was used to obedience. "Do you think I'm running a charity, Miss Morgan? The contract starts now."
Her jaw clenched, but she nodded. "Fine."
Something in his gaze softened for a fraction of a second—so quick she almost missed it. Then, just as easily, the mask slipped back into place.
As he walked her to the elevator, silence stretched between them. Only when the doors closed did Tracy let out the breath she'd been holding.
What have I done?
The following morning, she found herself standing in front of his building—one of those towers that seemed to scrape the clouds. A chauffeur had opened the door for her like she was someone important.
If only he knew.
The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse.
And for a moment, Tracy forgot how to breathe.
Floor-to-ceiling glass walls framed the city below, sunlight spilling over polished steel, glass, and black marble. It was cold. Perfect. Intimidating—just like Alex Knight himself.
He stood near the window, already in his suit, tie knotted with precision.
"Welcome home," he said.
She didn't answer. Couldn't. The view behind him was breathtaking, but the man in front of it—more so.
He handed her another folder. "These are the rules."
Her brow furrowed. "Rules?"
He gestured for her to open it. She skimmed through the neatly typed list:
— Attend all public events when requested.
— Maintain appearances as a devoted fiancée.
— No personal relationships during the contract.
— Absolute discretion about the arrangement.
And then, at the bottom:
Rule Number Ten: Never question me in public.
Her stomach turned. "You're serious about this?"
He met her gaze. "Deadly serious."
For a moment, silence held them both hostage. Then she closed the folder with deliberate slowness.
"Fine," she said. "But if I'm going to be your perfect little fiancée, you'd better remember something."
His brow arched, almost amused. "And what's that?"
"I may have signed your contract, but I didn't sign away my dignity. I'll play your game, Alex Knight. But don't mistake me for a pawn."
The corner of his mouth twitched into something dark and dangerous. He stepped closer, his voice low and edged with challenge.
"Careful, Miss Morgan. Defiance makes me want to test how far I can push you."
Her pulse hammered, but she didn't flinch. She met his eyes with quiet fire.
For the first time, Alex Knight looked at her not as a contract… but as a challenge.
And Tracy couldn't decide if that terrified her—or thrilled her.