The elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss.
He stepped out first, tall and steady. His charcoal suit fit him perfectly, and the faint scent of his cologne followed him like a quiet shadow. He turned toward me and offered a small, almost imperceptible smile, then held out his hand.
"This way."
I hesitated, my heart pounding. My fingers hovered for a second before slowly placing my hand in his. His grip was firm but careful. Somehow, it steadied me, even though my chest felt tight and my thoughts were scattered.
We walked down the hallway together. The floor gleamed softly under our steps, reflecting the warm light from recessed fixtures. Abstract paintings hung on the walls, but I barely noticed them. My mind was still reeling from his words in the elevator, looping over and over.
Finally, he stopped in front of a large office. He opened the door and gestured toward a chair.
"Please, sit."
I lowered myself slowly. The gesture was small, but it made me feel slightly more at ease, as if he wanted me to feel some control in the moment.
Before I could speak, he waved his hand, and a servant entered with a silver tray. Two cups of steaming tea rested on it. He placed one in front of me and one in front of himself. The gentle aroma of the tea filled the room, floral and light, cutting through the tension that had settled in my chest.
Then he nodded at the servant, who bowed slightly and left.
I wrapped my hands around the cup, letting the warmth settle into my palms. It grounded me slightly, made the room feel more manageable, though my stomach still felt like it had knots.
He sat across from me, hands folded neatly on the desk. His eyes met mine, calm and deliberate.
"Ivy," he began, voice soft but clear, "what I'm about to say is serious. I need you to think carefully about it."
I nodded, my stomach twisting. My heart raced.
"I want you to be my wife. For six months. Under a contract."
I froze.
Six months. Contract. Married. To him.
The words echoed in my mind. I felt my fingers grip the cup a little tighter. I tried to steady my breathing.
"Why… why me?" I asked softly. "Why would you choose me out of everyone? You saw how miserable I was last night… why me?"
He leaned back slightly, hands still resting lightly on the desk. "Because I've seen you," he said. "I've watched you work. I've seen how you handle pressure, how you adapt. You fit exactly what I need. You're intelligent, composed, and capable."
I swallowed hard, my fingers trembling slightly. "But… does it really matter? I'm just… me."
"You underestimate yourself," he said. "This isn't about appearances. It's about suitability. You meet the requirements. You are exactly what I need."
My cheeks warmed. Fear and curiosity twisted together in my chest. The idea of agreeing to this arrangement was terrifying, but part of me… couldn't help but be intrigued.
He leaned forward slightly. "Now, Ivy… the compensation."
My heart jumped. I hadn't expected this to come next.
"For six months," he said, measured and calm, "you will be paid fifty thousand dollars. That's the entire duration of the contract. Not for being a real wife. Not for love. Just for fulfilling this role."
I blinked. Fifty thousand dollars. My salary couldn't even reach that in six months. My chest tightened.
"This is a generous sum," he continued. "It ensures your comfort. It reflects the importance of your role. You are not being forced. This is your choice, freely made. Consider it carefully."
I sipped my tea, letting the warmth settle in my hands. Somehow, it grounded me. I noticed the way he sat, the way his posture stayed composed, the faint rhythm of his breathing, the small crease of his cuff showing beneath his jacket sleeve. Everything about him was deliberate, precise, controlled.
"You will have support," he said. "You can bring someone you trust to events, to gatherings, to any occasion. If you feel uncomfortable, you do not have to attend. But if you are confident, you will have someone by your side."
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, elegant card. Thick, smooth, formal. He placed it gently in front of me.
"This is for a gala tonight," he said. "It's an important event you will need to attend if you accept. Bring someone you trust. If you're unsure, don't come. If you are confident, bring someone who makes you comfortable."
I touched the card, my fingers brushing the smooth surface. Fifty thousand dollars. Six months. A gala. My chest tightened again. Every beat reminded me of the decision I had to make.
"You have until the end of today to decide," he said. "Think carefully. This isn't something to rush. If you accept, everything you need to succeed will be provided."
I nodded, holding the cup once more. The warmth settled in my hands, and somehow made the choice feel a little less impossible.
Finally, I whispered, "I… I need some time."
"You have it," he said, quietly. "Decide carefully. Your choice affects both of us. I trust you will consider it wisely."
He rose from his chair. The soft click of his shoes echoed as he walked toward the door. I stayed seated, my heart pounding, eyes fixed on the card. The number. The invitation.
The office felt still, peaceful even, but I knew nothing would feel the same again.
I held the cup longer, letting the warmth sink in. Sunlight spilled across the desk, and the invitation card gleamed under it. I felt a mixture of fear and anticipation deep in my chest.
I realized then that this wasn't just a simple decision.
It wasn't just about money or events.
It was about stepping into something that could change everything about my life.
I set the cup down slowly, my fingers brushing the edge. I leaned back in the chair slightly, trying to think clearly.
What did it mean to be married to him? Even for six months?
Would it change how I felt around him? Would it change me?
And what would everyone else think?
My chest tightened again. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat.
But even with all the fear twisting in my stomach, part of me… didn't want to refuse.
I stared at the card again, at the smooth surface and the bold invitation letters. Fifty thousand dollars. Six months. A gala.
I didn't know how to feel. Nervous. Excited. Terrified. Curious.
All of it at once.
I knew, deep down, that the moment I made a choice—whatever that choice was—nothing in my life would ever be the same again.