I woke up, and the first thing I noticed was the silence. It was the kind of quiet that only happens forty stories up, in a massive glass tower. It felt thick and heavy, almost suffocating, because absolutely none of the regular street noise no horns, no sirens, no shouting could get through. My head was throbbing, a dull pain that reminded me of cheap champagne and a huge pile of instant regret. I tried to open my eyes, and the world came into focus as a hazy blur of soft, muted gray silk sheets and strange, angular abstract art hanging on the walls.
My brain started catching up. This was definitely not my place. My tiny studio apartment had rough cotton sheets and a painting of a cheerful sunflower. This room was enormous. It wasn't even the nice hotel suite I sometimes treated myself to after I managed a really successful haul at the market. No, this was a penthouse, a very, very expensive penthouse.
Panic slammed into me. I sat up abruptly, clutching the thick silk duvet right up against my chest. My eyes were wide and darting as I frantically scanned the space. Everything about the room screamed wealth and a sort of severe, aggressive masculinity. The windows were floor-to-ceiling glass, and they showed a blinding, dizzying view of the city I usually only saw from below. There was a dark mahogany desk holding a trio of huge, glowing computer monitors. The whole place smelled faintly of ozone, like storm clouds, and a very expensive men's cologne I couldn't quite place.
Then, my eyes landed on him. He was standing by the window, looking out over the world.
It was Kaelen Sterling.
Even looking at his back, I could feel the tension coming off him. His spine was rigid, a perfectly straight line of barely contained fury. He was dressed impeccably, of course. He always was. He wore a custom charcoal suit that looked like it had been specifically tailored to survive a corporate war. I knew him instantly. Everyone in this city knew Kaelen Sterling. He was the ruthless, thirty-two-year-old CEO of Sterling Global, a man who built his entire, enormous empire on cold, hard precision and a mathematical way of thinking. He was a machine, not a person.
I remembered meeting him. It was months ago, at a boring industry mixer I had been forced to attend. It had been a disaster. I had managed to corner him and call his investment firm "soulless vampires" before I melted into the crowd and escaped. I was sure he hadn't even remembered my name. Last night, though, last night was a terrifying, complete blank void after one too many toasts with a colleague who had insisted we celebrate my small success. I remembered the first glass, maybe the second. After that, nothing.
"You're awake," Kaelen stated, finally turning around, slowly. His voice was deep, and it cut right through the silence like a sheet of ice cracking. His jaw was tight, clenched so hard it looked painful. His dark eyes were the coldest I had ever seen them. There was zero concern in his gaze, he just looked at me with pure contempt.
I swallowed hard, feeling how dry my throat was. My heart was beating a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Mr. Sterling, I… I honestly don't know how I got here, I need to leave right now. Please, please don't call security." I pleaded, imagining the headline if I was dragged out by his guards.
I started scrambling in the silk sheets, searching desperately for my clothes, for anything familiar but my hand snagged on something heavy, cold, and incredibly hard. I looked down at my left hand, and I froze.
There it was: a massive, radiant-cut diamond ring on my fourth finger. It was blinding, almost obscenely expensive, the kind of jewelry that screams 'old money' and 'no taste' and it absolutely did not belong to me. The sight of it sent a fresh wave of sick panic through me. My heart started hammering against my ribs even harder, trying to punch its way out of my chest.
Kaelen walked over to the bed, never bothering to sit down or get closer than a few feet. He didn't have to, his presence filled the room. He threw a tablet onto the bed beside me, and the screen was already open to a major news website. The headline was screaming at me in a bold, aggressive font: MARRIED BY MISTAKE? STERLING GLOBAL CEO CAUGHT IN SHOCK FLASH WEDDING TO UNKNOWN DESIGNER.
My eyes tracked down the page. Beneath the massive headline was a photo, clearly taken in a dimly lit, high-end bar. It showed me, giggling idiotically in a sequined dress I must have borrowed, signing a paper with a stupid pen. Kaelen was standing over me, looking far too sober to be truly out of control. Beside that image was a close-up shot of a state-issued marriage certificate. It was real and it had a seal.
I snatched the tablet, pulling it closer, and stared at the names. Kaelen Sterling and Amara Vance. My own name was there, right next to his. It felt like a sick, elaborate, impossible prank. This couldn't be real.
"You have twenty seconds to explain this to me," Kaelen said, crossing his arms over his custom suit. His voice was dangerously low. "I'm going to assume you engineered this entire performance. The accidental meeting, the extra drinks, the public ceremony, this is a textbook gold-digger scheme. Congratulations, you just bought yourself twenty-four hours before my lawyers destroy you and your reputation completely."
The accusation hit me like a physical blow. The hurt and the outrage momentarily took over the panic of the ring and the headline. "I didn't! How dare you assume I would—" I cut myself off. Arguing about the "how" was pointless, but I was tired of being underestimated, even by a corporate titan like him. I pushed the hurt aside and let the fury rise. "If this is a scheme, Mr. Sterling, then why would I pick a bar that only seats twenty people? I own a failing design house. I'm deep in debt. If I were going to 'gold-dig,' I would have staged a paparazzi event in front of City Hall, not a drunken signature swap at midnight in a back alley bar."
My defiance seemed to momentarily surprise him. His eyes flickered. Kaelen ran a hand through his perfectly styled, dark hair, and his anger shifted into something much colder: pure calculation. "The 'how' is irrelevant now," he stated flatly. "The legal fact is, we are married and that fact, right now, is disastrous for me personally, but also highly convenient for my business."
He turned back toward the window, the vast city below them looking like his own personal kingdom. "My grandfather's final amendment to his trust requires that I be legally married for six consecutive months to finalize the acquisition of the Valerius Group. It's a ridiculous, outdated clause, but it is legal. I was supposed to marry Seraphina Thorne next month, but you have now complicated a multi-billion dollar deal."
I stared at the blinding ring, then back at his controlled, hard profile. My mind was reeling, trying to keep up. "So you're saying... I've accidentally ruined your takeover?"
"You've accelerated my timeline," he corrected, his voice hardening again. "Since you have managed to entangle yourself so thoroughly in my affairs, whether by accident or design, you will now be useful. I am offering you a contract. A business transaction to rectify this absurd mistake."
He gestured to a leather briefcase sitting neatly on the bedside table. "This contains a pre-drafted Contract of Temporary Cohabitation and Fiduciary Partnership. Six months, you will play the role of my supportive, low-profile wife. You appear at required corporate and social events. You do not, under any circumstances, interfere with my business, you do not embarrass me and at the end of six months, we sign the divorce papers, and you disappear."
He paused, letting the enormous weight of his offer sink in. "In return for your six months of silence and cooperation, I will transfer fifty million dollars to the account of your choice."
Fifty million dollars, the number crashed into my desperate reality like a wrecking ball hitting a glass wall. Fifty million dollars was not just enough to save my failing brand; it was enough to elevate my struggling, debt-ridden, independent label into a serious, global competitor. It was enough to pay off every single loan, hire the ethical production teams I dreamed of, and finally stop working three humiliating side jobs just to keep the lights on in my studio. It was enough to give me the financial freedom to pursue my creative genius without any compromise.
But it was a contract with the man who looked at me like I was dirt, who I had accidentally married, and who I secretly detested for everything his greedy, large corporations stood for.
My mind suddenly jumped to the one thing that terrified me more than this marriage. I remembered my online persona, The Thread Dissenter, the fierce, anonymous critic. I had recently savagely reviewed Kaelen's current business practices in a scathing, anonymous online review that had already gone viral among industry insiders. The memory of that review, and my active attempt to criticize his next major acquisition, sent a fresh, cold wave of panic through me. If Kaelen ever connected the dots between his new contract wife and the vicious critic who was actively trying to take down his deal, he wouldn't just destroy my reputation; he would likely destroy me entirely.
This wasn't just a marriage contract, it was a deep contract of deception.
Kaelen mistook my sudden, silent hesitation for simple greed. "The money is non-negotiable, Amara. Take it or leave it but if you leave it, be aware that my legal team will paint you as a lunatic who defrauded me out of a settlement. You will walk away with nothing, and your little design house will be liquidated by the end of the week. Choose."
He stood waiting, his expression completely impervious. I felt the overwhelming weight of my reality, the stack of unpaid invoices waiting for me, the final letter from the bank, the crushing, heavy expectation of failure from the entire industry who saw me as nothing more than a stubborn, low-tier artist. I looked at the ring, then at the tablet showing the catastrophic headline, then at the briefcase holding the salvation of my life's work.
I took a deep, steadying breath, pushing down the shame that threatened to drown me. Survival required a performance. "I want the money transferred to the holding company account immediately upon signing," I stated, my voice surprisingly steady and clear. I looked him right in the eye. "And I want a non-disclosure clause that extends to your personal life after the divorce, everything that happens in this marriage stays here."
A flicker of something maybe respect, or just surprise crossed Kaelen's eyes. He nodded once, a quick, sharp motion. "Acceptable. Read the document now, every single page. Sign where indicated, our six months starts today."
I picked up the thick leather binder. My hand trembled slightly as I flipped to the first signature line. This single piece of paper, first scribbled in a drunken stupor and now solidified in a predatory contract, was either the absolute end of my dignity or the beginning of my empire. I told myself I was not a gold-digger; I was a woman trading six months of her unhappy, public life for the financial freedom to pursue her genius.
I reached for the solid gold pen Kaelen provided and scrawled my name with a final, defiant, though still unsteady hand.
Kaelen took the signed document, and his mouth curved into the faintest, most unsettling smile. It didn't reach his eyes. "Welcome to the family, Mrs. Sterling. Now, you need to change, we have a press conference in an hour."
I looked around the vast cold room. The huge, brilliant diamond ring suddenly felt less like jewelry and more like a handcuff, or maybe a tracking device. I was Kaelen Sterling's wife, a public scandal, and his secret business enemy. My heart was already beating a fast retreat, but my pride was settling in for a long, necessary six-month fight.