The café was a lie.
Isla realized it the moment she pulled into the parking lot and saw the sleek black Mercedes waiting beneath the single streetlight, engine purring like a predator at rest.
The stranger from the parking garage stood beside it, no longer hidden in shadow.
He was younger than she'd expected—maybe thirty-five, with dark hair slicked back and sharp features that looked carved rather than born. His suit probably cost more than she made in three months, and he wore it with the kind of casual confidence that came from never having to check a price tag in his entire life.
He smiled when he saw her car. Checked his watch.
"Nine minutes," he called out as she parked. "I'm impressed. Most people would've run."
Isla killed the engine but didn't get out immediately. Her hands were still shaking on the steering wheel.
This was insane. Meeting a strange man in an empty parking lot at midnight. Everything about this screamed danger in neon letters.
But forty-seven hours and thirty-two minutes wasn't enough time to be smart.
She opened the door and stepped out.
"The café's closed," the stranger said apologetically, though nothing about his expression suggested actual apology. "Kitchen fire last week. My mistake. But I know another place we can talk. Somewhere private."
"I'm not getting in a car with you."
"Fair enough." He pulled out his phone, tapped something, then held it up so she could see the screen.
It was a bank statement.
His bank statement.
The account balance had so many zeros Isla's brain momentarily short-circuited trying to count them.
"I'm showing you this so you understand I'm serious," he said calmly. "I'm not some random creep looking to take advantage of a desperate woman. I'm here on business. Professional business. And I'm authorized to make you an offer that will solve every problem you currently have."
"Why would you do that? You don't even know me."
"I know enough." He pocketed his phone. "I know your father owes money to the Kozlov family. I know you have forty-eight hours to come up with three-quarters of a million dollars. I know you're a pediatric nurse with a sixteen-year-old sister to protect. I know—" He tilted his head slightly. "—that you're running out of options very quickly."
The fact that this stranger knew so much about her should've been terrifying.
It was terrifying.
But it was also, in a twisted way, reassuring. Because it meant he'd done his homework. Meant this wasn't random. Meant there was a reason he was here.
Even if she didn't know what that reason was yet.
"Fine," she said quietly. "Where are we going?"
His smile widened. "Somewhere we can talk properly."
Twenty minutes later, Isla found herself in an elevator climbing toward the sky.
The stranger—he'd introduced himself as Luca during the car ride, though he'd offered no last name—stood beside her in silence, checking his phone periodically. The elevator was the kind you saw in movies: all polished brass and mirrors, so clean she could see her own reflection staring back with terrified eyes.
She looked awful. Twelve hours in a hospital followed by a panic attack in a parking garage wasn't a good look for anyone. Her dark hair was falling out of its ponytail, her scrubs were wrinkled, and there were mascara smudges under her eyes from crying.
Meanwhile, Luca looked like he'd just stepped out of a magazine spread.
The elevator chimed softly.
Penthouse Level.
The doors opened onto a private hallway with exactly one door at the end. Luca gestured for her to exit first.
"After you."
Isla's legs felt like they might give out, but she forced herself to move forward. The hallway was dimly lit, all dark wood paneling and expensive artwork she didn't recognize. Her footsteps were silent on the plush carpet.
Luca walked past her and opened the door with a key card.
"Welcome," he said, "to The Apex."
Isla stepped inside and forgot how to breathe.
It wasn't a room. It was a statement.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around three walls, offering a panoramic view of the city spread out below like a carpet of lights. The space was massive—what she could see of it, anyway. Sleek modern furniture in blacks and grays. A bar along one wall, backlit with blue light. Art that probably belonged in museums.
But it was the view that captured her.
She'd lived in this city her entire life and had never seen it look like this. From up here, everything seemed small. Manageable. Like the problems crushing her down below couldn't possibly reach this high.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Luca moved to the bar. "Can I get you something to drink? We have an excellent scotch, or if you prefer something lighter—"
"I don't drink." Her voice came out steadier than she expected. "And I don't have time for small talk. You said you had an offer."
"Direct. I appreciate that." Luca poured himself two fingers of amber liquid. "Please, sit."
He gestured to a seating area near the windows—two leather chairs positioned to take advantage of the view. Isla sat carefully, perching on the edge like she might need to run at any moment.
Luca settled into the chair across from her, completely relaxed. He took a sip of his drink, studying her over the rim of the glass.
"Here's the situation," he said finally. "My employer needs a wife."
Isla blinked. "Excuse me?"
"A wife. For eighteen months. It's a business arrangement, nothing more. You would marry him, maintain the appearance of a legitimate marriage, and ask absolutely no questions about his personal or professional life."
"This is insane."
"Probably," Luca agreed pleasantly. "But insanity is relative when you're staring down forty-seven hours and the Kozlov family, don't you think?"
He had a point.
She hated that he had a point.
"Why?" Isla asked. "Why does your employer need a fake wife?"
"That falls under the category of 'no questions.' But I can tell you this much—it's legal. You wouldn't be doing anything illegal by marrying him. It's simply... convenient for his circumstances to appear settled. Stable. Committed."
"For eighteen months."
"Exactly eighteen months. After which the marriage will be quietly dissolved, you'll receive a very generous settlement, and everyone moves on with their lives."
Isla's head was spinning. "What exactly would I have to do?"
"Marry him. Live in his home. Attend certain social functions when required. Maintain the fiction that you're a happily married couple." Luca leaned forward slightly. "What you would not have to do is share his bed. That's not part of the arrangement unless you mutually decide otherwise. You'd have your own quarters, your own space. This is a contract marriage, not a romantic one."
"And in exchange?"
"In exchange, all of your father's debts—both medical and the Kozlov loan—will be paid in full. Immediately. Your sister's education will be funded through college. Your father's ongoing medical care will be covered. You'll receive a monthly allowance for personal expenses. And when the marriage ends, you'll receive $100,000 for your discretion."
The numbers were so absurd Isla almost laughed.
Almost.
"That's—that's millions of dollars."
"My employer can afford it."
"Why me? There are thousands of women in this city who would probably jump at this offer."
"But none of them are you." Luca's expression shifted into something harder to read. "My employer is very particular. He doesn't want someone from his world. Someone with connections, ambitions, agendas. He wants someone clean. Someone who can step into his life, play the role required, and step back out without complications."
"Someone desperate enough not to ask questions," Isla said bitterly.
"That too."
At least he was honest.
Isla stood up and walked to the windows. The city glittered below, a million lives playing out in a million lit windows, and she wondered how many of those people were making impossible choices tonight.
Probably more than she wanted to know.
"This is crazy," she said to her reflection in the glass. "I don't even know your employer's name."
"You will. If you agree to the terms."
"I don't know anything about him."
"Also intentional. If you knew who he was before agreeing, it might influence your decision. We want you to agree based on the arrangement itself, not on preconceived notions about the man you'd be marrying."
Isla turned to face him. "What if he's awful? What if he's cruel or violent or—"
"He won't touch you," Luca said firmly. "That's in the contract. You'll have your own space, your own protection. If you feel unsafe at any point, there are protocols in place."
"You're asking me to marry a complete stranger."
"Yes."
"For eighteen months."
"Yes."
"Without knowing anything about him."
"Correct."
"And in exchange, all my problems disappear."
"Every single one." Luca set down his glass and pulled a folder from inside his jacket. "I have a preliminary contract here. Non-disclosure agreement, mostly. If you sign it, we can discuss specific terms and you can meet my employer. If you choose not to proceed after meeting him, the NDA still applies but you walk away. No harm, no obligation."
He held out the folder.
Isla stared at it like it might bite her.
This was insane. Absolutely insane. People didn't actually do this in real life. Contract marriages were the stuff of romance novels and bad reality TV, not actual viable solutions to crushing debt.
But the folder sat there in Luca's outstretched hand, and her phone sat in her pocket with a countdown timer from the Kozlov family, and her father was dying in a hospital bed surrounded by machines they couldn't afford, and Mara was home doing homework completely unaware that men were photographing her through her window.
"How long do I have to decide?" she asked quietly.
"You have until I finish this drink." Luca picked up his glass. "So I'd suggest you decide quickly."
"That's not enough time to make this kind of decision."
"You're right. It isn't. But time is a luxury you don't currently have, Ms. Cross. So let me simplify this for you—" He stood, moving closer until they were both standing by the windows, the city spread beneath them. "In forty-seven hours, the Kozlov family will come for your sister. You can't stop them. You can't hide from them. You can't negotiate with them. Your only option is to pay them, and you can't do that with a nurse's salary."
He gestured around the luxurious penthouse.
"Or you can sign a piece of paper, marry a man you've never met, and save everyone you love. It's not a perfect solution. It's not even a good solution. But it's a solution. And right now, that's more than you had an hour ago."
Isla's hands were shaking again.
She thought about Mara. Sweet, brilliant Mara who wanted to be a lawyer someday. Who'd already lost her mother and couldn't lose anything else.
She thought about her father, barely clinging to life, drowning in debt he'd created through his own weakness.
She thought about the life she'd planned—working her way up at the hospital, maybe eventually becoming a nurse practitioner, finding someone normal to love, building something simple and safe and hers.
That life was already gone. The moment those men showed her that photo of Mara, that life had vanished like smoke.
So what did she really have to lose?
"Who is he?" Isla whispered, staring at the lights below. "Your employer. Who is he?"
Luca's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Someone you don't refuse."
He finished his drink in one smooth swallow.
"So what's it going to be, Ms. Cross? Do you want to save your family?"
Isla took the folder from his hands.
Her fingers left fingerprints on the expensive leather.
"Where do I sign?"
Luca produced a pen—heavy, expensive, probably cost more than her car—and guided her through the NDA. It was surprisingly short. Basically: don't tell anyone about this arrangement, don't sell your story to the media, don't violate the terms of confidentiality or face legal consequences so severe they made her head spin.
She signed on three different pages.
Her handwriting looked shaky compared to the crisp printed text.
When she finished, Luca took the folder back and tucked it into his jacket. Right next to where Isla could now clearly see the outline of a gun holster.
Her blood went cold.
Luca followed her gaze and smiled apologetically. "Occupational hazard. My employer requires security."
"What kind of businessman needs armed security?"
"The successful kind." Luca checked his watch. "He'll see you now."
"Now? I thought—"
"No time like the present. He's in the next room."
Isla's heart slammed against her ribs. "He's here?"
"He's been here the entire time." Luca moved toward a door she hadn't even noticed, hidden in the dark paneling. "Waiting to see if you'd sign."
"What if I hadn't?"
"Then you would've left, and we would've moved on to our second choice." He knocked twice on the door—some kind of signal. "But you did sign. So now you get to meet the man you're going to marry."
The door opened.
Not from Luca's side.
From the inside.
And Isla realized with sudden, crystalline clarity that she'd just made a deal with the devil.
She just didn't know which devil yet.
"Ms. Cross," Luca said formally, gesturing to the open doorway. "May I introduce you to Killian Archer."
Isla stepped forward.
Into the darkness.
Into her new life.
Into the arms of a man she'd spend the next eighteen months learning to fear.
Or maybe something worse than fear.