The calendar on Anya Sharma's desk confirmed what her internal anxiety was already screaming: January 12th. Dead center in the heart of Valentine's season. It meant seventeen-hour days fueled by cold brew and the singular, focused goal of creating perfect, extravagant romantic moments for strangers.
She smoothed the sharp pleat of her charcoal-gray skirt suit—a subtle uniform designed to convey competence, not warmth. Four years ago, the only thing she cared about planning was her own wedding; now, Anya's Affairs was her entire life. It was safe, predictable, and entirely insulated from the kind of heartbreak a man named Leo Maxwell could deliver.
The call had come barely an hour ago: a highly confidential, urgent request for a meeting at the offices of Maxwell Architectural Design. The legal team had been deliberately vague, mentioning only a private, high-society event requiring "unparalleled discretion and style." The budget they hinted at was staggering.
If she landed this contract, she could finally afford to move her operation out of this cramped office and, more importantly, put a substantial down payment on her mother's retirement home. This wasn't just a job; it was an exit strategy from perpetual worry.
Anya straightened her spine and took a steadying breath before stepping into the mirrored elevator of the Maxwell skyscraper.
The penthouse office was a monument to success and ego. A full wall of seamless glass overlooked the entire city skyline, a view so commanding it felt almost arrogant. Before she could appreciate the modernist furniture or the abstract art, she saw him.
He was standing, framed by the blinding winter sunlight, his posture loose yet impossibly powerful. He wore a crisp dark suit that didn't hide the breadth of his shoulders, and the silver at his temples only added a devastating gravitas to the man who'd once slept on her futon during college finals.
Leo Maxwell.
Anya felt the familiar, hot pressure behind her ribs—a mix of remembered love and bitter, cold resentment. She gripped her leather portfolio so tightly her knuckles went white.
Leo walked around the massive, dark wood desk, his movements fluid and unhurried, like a predator who knew his prey wasn't going anywhere.
"Anya," he said, the sound of her name on his lips—a sound she hadn't heard in four years—was like a violent, unwelcome chord played too loud.
She kept her gaze fixed slightly above his eyes, maintaining the professional distance she desperately needed. "Mr. Maxwell," she replied, her voice a precise, calibrated instrument. "I was under the impression I was meeting with your legal counsel regarding a high-end Valentine's event."
Leo stopped a foot in front of her. His blue-green eyes, the eyes she once thought held the universe, searched her face, lingering for a fraction of a second on her mouth.
"You are," he said, a slow, smooth rumble. "The event is mine. And I need the best. You always were the best, Anya."
"The best planner," she corrected sharply. "Not the best choice for you, clearly."
He didn't flinch. "Four years ago, I made a mistake I pay for every day. But this isn't about us. Not yet." He gestured toward two plush leather chairs near the window. "Sit down. This is purely business, I promise."
Anya took a seat, her spine ramrod straight. She watched him move back to his chair—he was effortlessly elegant, a walking masterpiece of tailored design.
"Let's skip the small talk," Leo began, leaning forward, his hands linked loosely on the desk. "I'm pitching the waterfront revitalization project next month. It's the biggest contract of my career, the kind of legacy project that makes a firm untouchable."
"Congratulations," she offered flatly. "I assume you want a celebration planned after you win?"
"No. I need this contract before Valentine's Day. But the committee—the old guard, the generational wealth—they don't trust me. They see the tabloids. They see the playboy. They see a risk." He paused, his gaze burning into hers. "They need to see stability. Commitment."
A terrible premonition tightened her chest.
"I need to appear reformed," Leo continued, his voice dropping to an intimate, dangerous register. "And the fastest, most effective way to do that is to have a perfect, respectable, and devoted fiancée on my arm for the entirety of the next month. Culminating in a spectacular, televised Valentine's Gala."
Anya stood up so fast her chair scraped the polished floor. "Absolutely not. I plan events, Mr. Maxwell. I don't stage your personal life."
"Listen to the offer first," he commanded, his voice hardening slightly. He opened a laptop and spun it around. The number on the screen made the air leave her lungs. It was an astronomical fee, the kind of money that only happened in films.
"Triple your rate," he said. "Paid upfront. Enough capital to buy out your competitors. Enough to make you debt-free. Enough for your mother."
Anya swallowed hard, her resolve shaking. It was dirty money, but it was freedom.
"Thirty days," Leo pressed, knowing he had hooked her. "I need my fiancée to be someone they already know. Someone respectable. Someone I have a history with. Someone who, frankly, they know I loved enough to almost marry."
He reached into his desk drawer and slid a small, velvet box across the polished wood. It didn't stop until it nudged her fingertips. It was dark green velvet, not the dusty blue of their past.
"This is a contract," Leo said, his eyes now devoid of charm, filled only with ambition and ruthless focus. "For thirty days, you are mine. Publicly. You give me the reputation I need, and I give you the wealth you deserve. You get to look me in the eye every single day knowing you're taking everything I have to offer."
Anya looked down at the box, then back up at the man who had abandoned her heart. He was offering her control—the control to hurt him back with her compliance, while simultaneously securing her future.
Her fingers closed around the box, the velvet warm against her skin. "What are the rules, Leo?" she whispered, dropping her professional title entirely.
He stood up, circling the desk again, moving into her space. He took her free hand, not to place the ring on it, but to hold her palm in a possessive grip that sent a shockwave up her arm.
He leaned down, his breath warm against her ear, the sound both a promise and a threat.
"The first rule," he commanded, his voice a low, burning gravel, "is that when we are in public, when the cameras are watching, and when we are alone behind closed doors, you act like you want me, Anya. All the time."