Isabella Hart quickly learned that being Alexander Cole's "partner" was far more exhausting than she had imagined.
The city woke early, and so did she. Her mornings were no longer her own. Messages from Alexander's assistant arrived before sunrise, detailing schedules, appearances, and wardrobe expectations. Breakfast meetings. Luncheons with investors. Evening galas where smiles mattered more than truth.
She played her role well.
At least, that was what everyone said.
Standing beside Alexander at a charity luncheon three days after signing the contract, Isabella felt dozens of eyes assessing her. They studied the way she stood close to him, the ease of her smile, the subtle confidence in her posture. To them, she was elegant, composed, and perfectly suited to the man beside her.
Only Isabella knew how tightly her fingers curled around her clutch.
Alexander leaned toward her, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Relax," he murmured. "They already believe you belong here."
She glanced at him. "That doesn't make it easier."
A faint smile tugged at his lips. "It will."
Their eyes met for a brief moment—too long to be entirely professional. Isabella looked away first, her heart beating faster than necessary.
This was supposed to be simple. Pretend. Smile. Leave emotions out of it.
Yet Alexander Cole made "simple" feel impossible.
He was different in public. Polished, charming, attentive. His hand rested lightly at the small of her back when cameras flashed, warm and steady. When she spoke, he listened. When she laughed, his gaze lingered just a second longer than it should have.
And when they were alone?
He became distant again.
In the car ride back to her apartment that evening, silence stretched between them. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows, reflecting faintly in the glass like scattered stars.
"You handled yourself well today," Alexander said finally.
"Thank you," Isabella replied. "Your investors seemed… satisfied."
"They were." He paused, then added, "You adapt quickly."
She hesitated, then spoke before she could overthink it. "Is that all I am to you? Someone who adapts?"
Alexander turned to look at her, surprised. For a moment, his carefully controlled expression cracked.
"No," he said slowly. "But that's all this arrangement requires."
The words stung more than she expected.
Isabella nodded, forcing a smile. "Of course. The contract."
The word felt heavier every time it was spoken.
That night, alone in her apartment, Isabella slipped off her heels and sank onto the couch. The quiet wrapped around her, amplifying thoughts she didn't want to face. She replayed the day in her mind—the way Alexander's hand had lingered, the way his voice softened when he spoke to her, the way he pulled back the moment things felt too real.
She pressed a hand to her chest, frustrated with herself.
Don't get attached, she reminded herself. This isn't real.
And yet, when she closed her eyes, it wasn't the contract she thought about.
It was him.
Across the city, Alexander stood by the windows of his penthouse, staring at the same skyline. He loosened his tie, something he rarely did, and exhaled slowly. Isabella Hart was not part of the plan. Her questions, her quiet strength, the way she challenged him without realizing it—they unsettled him.
He had built his life on control.
And she threatened it.
For the first time in years, Alexander wondered if the boundaries he had drawn so carefully were already beginning to blur.
They were close—closer than either had intended.
Yet emotionally, they remained miles apart.
And that distance, Isabella sensed, would be far more dangerous than closeness ever could be.