Amara stood in front of the grand mahogany doors of Wolfe Enterprises, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure the receptionist could hear it from across the marble lobby. She clenched the folder in her hands—her father's final financial statements—the last remnants of his ruined legacy. It was poetic in a cruel way. The only way to save it now was to surrender herself to the very man who tore it down.
She stepped inside.
The office was colder than she expected. Sleek glass walls, expensive steel decor, and silence so sharp it could slice through bone. She saw him instantly. Ethan Wolfe, sitting behind his desk like a king on a throne. He didn't look up.
"You're late," he said without looking at her.
"Traffic," she replied curtly, walking over with steady heels and clenched fists.
"Let's skip the pleasantries, shall we?" He finally looked up, his gaze piercing straight into her soul. "You agreed to the terms. I'm surprised."
She pulled out the contract from her folder and laid it on his desk. "I haven't signed it yet."
His lips curved into the faintest smirk. "But you're here. That's a start."
Amara glared at him. "I want it in writing. My father's debts cleared. His medical bills paid. And you stay away from the company once it's rebuilt."
"Done," Ethan said with a shrug. "In return, you'll marry me."
The words hit her like cold water. No matter how many times she'd rehearsed it, they still sounded surreal.
"Why me?" she whispered.
Ethan stood and walked to the window, hands in his pockets. "Because I need a wife. And I need her fast. The board is on my neck. They think I'm too volatile to run the medical expansion without a softer image. You, Amara, are perfect. Beautiful, poised, educated—and desperate."
Her face flushed, a mix of rage and shame. "So I'm just a tool to make you look good?"
"Exactly," he said bluntly.
She took a deep breath. "What happens after the one year?"
"We part ways. You get your father's legacy back. I get my company clean. Simple."
"And no one ever finds out it was fake?"
"If you play your part well, they won't."
Her eyes dropped to the pen on the table. This was insane. But walking away meant walking into more debt, more suffering. She had no choice.
She signed.
---
The next day, Amara found herself in Ethan Wolfe's penthouse. Her things had been moved without her even lifting a finger. It felt like a dream—one she wanted to wake up from.
"We have a charity gala in three days," Ethan announced as he reviewed documents from his home office.
"Three days? That's not enough time to prepare!"
"You'll manage. You'll be introduced as my fiancée."
Amara froze. "We're announcing it that soon?"
"Of course. The sooner we play the part, the better."
He handed her a card. "Stylist appointment. Tomorrow morning. Don't be late."
"What about your family? Do they know?"
He looked at her with an unreadable expression. "They'll find out soon enough."
---
Later that night, Amara explored the penthouse. Everything smelled like him—woodsy cologne and crisp leather. She opened a door at the end of the hallway and found a music room. A grand piano stood in the center, untouched.
She couldn't resist. She sat down, her fingers dancing lightly across the keys.
"You play," a voice said behind her.
She jumped. Ethan leaned against the doorframe, arms folded.
"Just a little," she muttered.
"My mother used to play. That piano was hers."
There was something in his voice she hadn't heard before. Softness.
"She must've been good," Amara said quietly.
"She was brilliant."
Silence lingered. For a moment, Ethan didn't seem like the ruthless billionaire. He just seemed... human.
"Do you ever regret any of it?" she asked.
He met her eyes. "Every day."
---
Amara couldn't sleep. Her world had changed in 24 hours. She was engaged to Ethan Wolfe. She lived in a glass tower above the city. And in three days, the world would know her as his bride-to-be.
But no one would know the truth. Not yet.
She walked to the window, staring out into the night.
One year.
Just one year.
And she'd walk away.
Right?