Natalie's POV
I don't sleep.
How can I sleep when I just agreed to marry my enemy in three days?
I lie in my tiny studio apartment—the one I moved into after we lost the house—and stare at the ceiling. The neighbor upstairs is fighting with someone. Again. The people next door are blasting music. The radiator clanks like it's dying.
This has been my life for the past year. Three jobs. No money. No hope.
In three days, I move into a penthouse.
The thought should make me feel relieved. Instead, I feel like I'm being swallowed whole.
At 5 AM, I give up on sleep and drive to the hospital.
Dad looks the same as yesterday. Still unconscious. Still surrounded by machines. Still dying by inches.
But when I check the computer system at the nurses' station—they know me well enough now that they let me—something has changed.
His bills. Marked "UNDER REVIEW."
The payment deadline? Extended indefinitely.
My hands start shaking.
Dominic is already keeping his promises. And I haven't even married him yet.
"Miss Hartley?" A nurse approaches. "Are you all right?"
"Fine," I lie. "Just checking on my father."
"Dr. Patel wanted to speak with you. Something about new legal representation contacting the hospital?"
My stomach drops. It's starting. Dominic's lawyers are already working.
"I'll talk to him later," I say. "I have somewhere I need to be."
Saks Fifth Avenue. 9 AM. To buy clothes appropriate for my new role as Mrs. Ashford.
The thought makes me want to throw up.
I arrive at the store at 8:55 AM, still wearing my clearance rack blouse and thrift store pants. The security guard at the entrance looks at me like I'm lost.
"I'm meeting someone," I say. "Victoria Chen?"
His expression shifts to professional courtesy. "Of course. Fifth floor. You're expected."
Expected. Like I'm someone important now.
I'm not. I'm just someone who signed a contract.
The fifth floor is personal shopping suites—private rooms where rich people buy entire wardrobes without having to deal with regular customers. I've been here before, years ago, when Mom was alive and money wasn't a problem.
Now I feel like an imposter.
"Miss Hartley!" Victoria emerges from one of the suites, perfectly dressed as always. "Right on time. Excellent."
She ushers me into a massive room filled with racks of clothes. Dresses, suits, shoes, accessories. More clothing than I've owned in my entire life.
"We have a lot of work to do," Victoria says briskly. "Mr. Ashford requires his wife to look appropriate for her new position. That means a complete wardrobe overhaul."
"I can dress myself," I say.
"Not for the events you'll be attending." She starts pulling dresses off racks. "You'll need cocktail dresses for charity events, business suits for corporate functions, evening gowns for galas, casual wear for daytime appearances. Everything must be designer. Everything must be perfect."
"This is ridiculous."
"This is your life now." She holds up a navy dress. "Try this."
Three hours later, I've been measured, fitted, photographed, and dressed in more expensive clothing than I've ever touched. Victoria selects everything with clinical efficiency—choosing colors that complement my auburn hair, cuts that flatter my figure, styles that scream "billionaire's wife."
I hate all of it.
Because none of it is me. It's a costume. A disguise for the role I'm about to play.
"The wedding dress will be ready tomorrow," Victoria says as we finish. "Simple. Elegant. Appropriate for City Hall but expensive enough to photograph well when the press catches you."
"I thought this was supposed to be private?"
"The ceremony is private. But someone will leak it. They always do." She makes a note on her tablet. "Mr. Ashford's PR team is already preparing the announcement. 'Whirlwind romance. Private ceremony. Couple requests privacy during this special time.' The usual."
"Whirlwind romance." The words taste like lies. "No one will believe that."
"Everyone will believe it. Because Dominic Ashford doesn't do anything that makes him look weak or desperate. If he's getting married, it must be because he's in love." She looks up at me. "And you'd better be a convincing actress, Miss Hartley. Because the moment people suspect this marriage is fake, the contract becomes worthless."
The pressure of it all crashes down on me.
"I don't know if I can do this," I whisper.
"You don't have a choice." Victoria's voice isn't cruel, just factual. "You signed the contract. The wedding is in three days. You show up, you smile, and you play your part. Or your father dies and you end up with nothing."
She's right. I hate that she's right.
My phone rings. Unknown number.
I answer. "Hello?"
"Miss Hartley." Dominic's voice is cold enough to freeze. "We need to discuss the terms of our public relationship."
"I thought Victoria covered that—"
"She covered the basics. I'm covering expectations." I hear traffic in the background. He's in a car. "Tomorrow night, 7 PM, you'll attend a private dinner with me. We need to establish chemistry before the wedding."
"Chemistry?" I almost laugh. "We hate each other."
"The public doesn't know that. As far as Chicago is concerned, we're madly in love. Which means we need to be able to stand in the same room without you looking like you want to murder me."
"I do want to murder you."
"Understandable. But keep it to yourself." His tone is clipped. "Tomorrow. 7 PM. My driver will pick you up from your apartment."
"I haven't given you my address—"
"I know everything about you, Natalie. Including the fact that you live in a fourth-floor walkup in a building with broken security and neighbors who fight at 2 AM."
The accuracy makes my skin crawl. "Have you been spying on me?"
"I've been doing my research. There's a difference." A pause. "And after tomorrow's dinner, you're moving into the penthouse. I'm not having my fiancée living in a place where anyone can walk in off the street."
"The wedding isn't for three more days—"
"I don't care. You're moving tomorrow night. Pack your things."
"You can't just order me around!"
"Read the contract, Section 7, paragraph 4. You agreed to follow all reasonable security protocols. Living in that building is a security risk. Therefore, you're moving. End of discussion."
I want to argue. But I'm too tired to fight.
"Fine. Tomorrow. 7 PM."
"Don't be late. I hate waiting."
He hangs up.
I stare at my phone, fury and exhaustion warring inside me.
This is my life now. Being ordered around by a man who sees me as property. Playing dress-up in expensive clothes I don't want. Pretending to love someone I hate.
All for my father's life.
"Are you all right?" Victoria asks.
"No." I set down my phone. "But I will be."
I have to be.
That night, I pack my apartment.
It doesn't take long. I don't own much anymore. Clothes that fit in two suitcases. A few books. Photos of my family from before everything fell apart. Mom's jewelry—the pieces I couldn't bear to sell.
That's it. That's my entire life, reduced to boxes I can carry myself.
I take one last look at the studio apartment. It's small and loud and the radiator doesn't work properly. But it was mine. The last piece of independence I had.
Tomorrow, I give that up too.
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.
But not Victoria. Not Dominic.
I know what you're planning. I know about the contract. And I know how to make you regret it.
My blood turns to ice.
Someone knows about the marriage contract.
Someone is threatening me.
I try to call the number back. It goes straight to a disconnected message.
Another text: Watch your back, future Mrs. Ashford. Not everyone wants to see you succeed.
My hands are shaking.
Who sent this? How do they know about the contract?
I should call Dominic. Tell him someone knows.
But what if he thinks I told someone? What if he blames me?
The contract has a clause—Section 12, paragraph 8. If I breach confidentiality, I lose everything.
I delete the texts and try to calm my racing heart.
It's probably nothing. Just someone trying to scare me.
But as I turn off the lights in my apartment for the last time, I can't shake the feeling that someone is watching.
And they're waiting for me to fail.
The next evening, Dominic's driver arrives exactly at 7 PM.
The car is a black Mercedes that costs more than I use
Continue
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to make in a year. The driver—a massive man who introduces himself as James—opens the door without smiling.
"Miss Hartley. Mr. Ashford is waiting."
The restaurant is Le Bernardin—one of those places where you need a reservation months in advance and the menu doesn't list prices because if you have to ask, you can't afford it.
I used to come here with my parents.
Now I'm here with the man who destroyed them.
Dominic is already seated at a private table in the back. He's wearing a suit that probably costs more than my entire new wardrobe, and he doesn't stand when I approach.
"You're two minutes late," he says.
"Traffic was bad."
"Traffic is always bad. Plan accordingly." He gestures to the chair across from him. "Sit."
I sit because fighting him in public would break the contract.
A waiter appears immediately, pouring wine I didn't order.
"We're celebrating," Dominic says. "Our engagement."
Right. We're supposed to be in love.
I force a smile. "Of course. How silly of me to forget."
His eyes narrow at my tone, but he lifts his glass. "To our future together."
I lift mine. "To surviving the next year."
"Careful." His voice drops. "People are watching."
I glance around. He's right. Other diners are pretending not to stare, but I can feel their eyes. Phones are probably already out, taking pictures.
"Chicago's most eligible bachelor, finally off the market," I say quietly. "They must be devastated."
"They'll recover." He sets down his glass. "Now. We need to discuss our story."
"Our story?"
"How we met. How we fell in love. How I proposed." His expression is cold. "People will ask. We need consistent answers."
The waiter arrives with menus. Dominic orders for both of us without asking what I want.
When the waiter leaves, I lean forward. "I can order my own food."
"Not tonight. Tonight you're my adoring fiancée who trusts my judgment completely." He meets my eyes. "Remember the role, Natalie."
The use of my first name sends a strange shiver through me.
"Fine. Tell me our story."
"We met three months ago at a charity event. You were there representing your father's foundation—"
"We don't have a foundation anymore."
"You did three months ago. Keep up." He continues smoothly. "I was immediately struck by your intelligence and passion for pharmaceutical research. We started talking. One conversation led to another. Within weeks, I knew you were the one."
The fairy tale version of our reality makes me want to laugh.
"And how did you propose?"
"Private dinner. Just the two of us. I told you that in a world full of transactions and business deals, you were the first real thing I'd found in years." His smile is sharp. "Romantic enough?"
"It's perfect." I take a sip of wine. "Totally believable."
"It needs to be. Because my board of directors is already suspicious. They think this marriage appeared too conveniently right before my deadline."
"Because it did."
"Which is why we need to sell it." He leans back. "Tomorrow, after the ceremony, we're hosting a small reception at the penthouse. Twenty people. Carefully selected. You'll meet them, charm them, and convince them this marriage is real."
"Twenty people? You said this was supposed to be private!"
"The ceremony is private. The celebration afterward is strategic." His eyes are cold. "Welcome to my world, Natalie. Nothing is ever just for us. Everything is calculated."
The food arrives. It's probably delicious. I can barely taste it.
"I received a threatening text last night," I say quietly.
Dominic goes very still. "What kind of threat?"
"Someone saying they know about the contract. Warning me to watch my back."
"Did you tell anyone about the contract?"
"No! Of course not."
"Then someone has been watching us." He pulls out his phone, types something. "I'll have my security team trace the number."
"I deleted the texts."
His jaw clenches. "Why would you do that?"
"Because the contract says if I breach confidentiality—"
"The contract protects you from intentional breaches, not threats." He's angry now. "If someone is threatening you, I need to know immediately. Do you understand?"
"I understand that I'm in over my head."
"Then stay close to me and follow my lead." He puts his phone away. "After tomorrow, you'll have full security. No one will be able to touch you."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"It's supposed to keep you alive." His voice drops. "I have enemies, Natalie. People who would love to hurt me. And now that you're going to be my wife, they'll see you as the perfect weapon."
The reality of what I've agreed to crashes over me again.
"Maybe we should call this off," I whisper.
"We're not calling anything off." Dominic's voice is steel. "We have a deal. I'm keeping my end. You'll keep yours."
"Even if it gets me killed?"
"No one is going to kill you." The certainty in his voice is absolute. "Because I don't lose, Natalie. Not my company. Not my freedom. And not my wife."
The possessiveness in his tone should terrify me.
Instead, it makes me feel something I don't want to examine.
We finish dinner in tense silence. The waiter brings dessert we don't eat.
When Dominic pays, he reaches across the table and takes my hand.
I almost pull away. Then I remember—people are watching.
His hand is warm. Strong. And I hate how safe it makes me feel.
"Tomorrow," he says quietly, "you become Mrs. Ashford. Everything changes."
"Everything already changed when I signed that contract."
"No." His thumb brushes across my knuckles. "Tomorrow, the world finds out. And there's no going back."
He's right.
In less than twenty-four hours, I'll be married to the man who destroyed my family.
And God help me, I have no idea if I'm strong enough to survive it.
But I don't have a choice.
I never did.
That night, in my new bedroom in Dominic's penthouse—a space bigger than my entire apartment—I receive one final text.
Unknown number: Congratulations on your wedding tomorrow. I hope you enjoy it. Because it will be the last happy day of your marriage. They're coming for you, Mrs. Ashford. And when they do, your husband won't be able to save you.
I stare at the message until the words blur.
Someone is watching me.
Someone wants to hurt me.
And tomorrow, I'm walking into a marriage that might be a death sentence.
I should be terrified.
Instead, I'm just numb.
Because the girl who used to be Natalie Hartley—the one who believed in love and happy endings—died a long time ago.
The woman who's marrying Dominic Ashford tomorrow?
She's just trying to survive.