Anastasia didn't sleep that night.
She tried. She really did.
But every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face—expressionless, calculating. Every time her brain slowed down, she remembered the words.
"You're already trending."
"You were never supposed to be you."
"This isn't personal."
She wanted to scream.
Instead, she sat curled up on the edge of a hotel bed she hadn't paid for, with a silk robe wrapped around her like a shield, and waited for morning to come.
At exactly 9:00 AM, a black car picked her up.
No questions. No driver chatter.
It dropped her in front of a glass skyscraper in Midtown Manhattan—Blake Tower.
She was greeted, escorted, and guided by silent people in elegant suits until she stood once again outside a conference room.
Inside: him.
Christian Blake, sitting at the head of the long glass table like he owned the city. Which, honestly, he kind of did.
He didn't stand. Didn't offer a greeting.
Just slid a document across the table.
"Let's make it official," he said.
Ana sat down slowly, hands curled tightly in her lap. "It already is, legally."
"This makes it livable," Christian replied, his voice cool and calm as ever. "You'll have a private penthouse, a monthly deposit wired to your account, complete freedom to continue your education or work, as long as it doesn't interfere with public appearances."
"Appearances?" she asked, eyes narrowing.
"We'll be seen together once a week. Events. Fundraisers. Occasional interviews."
Ana swallowed. "So I'm basically your accessory."
Christian didn't deny it. "You're my wife. Technically. You'll act like it in public. That's all I need from you."
Her pulse spiked. "And what do I get?"
"Security. Privacy. A future where no one remembers this after a year."
Ana stared at the paper in front of her. A hundred clauses. A hundred boundaries.
Clause 34: No physical intimacy expected or required.
Clause 47: Both parties agree to dissolve the marriage publicly and amicably at the end of the contract.
Clause 52: No emotional obligations.
Her eyes locked on the last one.
No emotional obligations.
It felt like a punch to the chest.
"And if I don't sign?" she asked, not blinking.
Christian leaned back in his chair, calm as ever. "You walk out, and your name stays tied to mine—with no protection. The tabloids will eat you alive. You'll be the girl who tricked a billionaire into marriage. That story writes itself."
Ana's jaw clenched. She wanted to throw the file in his face.
But instead, she picked up the pen.
Her fingers trembled—but her voice didn't.
"One year," she said. "Then I'm gone."
Christian nodded once. "One year."
She signed.
And just like that…
Mrs. Christian Blake became official.
Not in the headlines.
Not in the law.
But in her bones.
💔 Ana's Breakdown – "This Isn't Me"
She didn't wait for the car to drop her at the penthouse.
She asked the driver to stop four blocks early.
And she ran.
Down the sidewalk. Past storefronts and honking cabs. Past people with normal lives. Past a world that didn't know she'd been turned into a headline without her consent.
By the time she reached the hotel room—still untouched from last night—her legs gave out.
She collapsed by the door.
Silence.
That's when it hit her.
She was married.
To a man she didn't love. Didn't know. Didn't even like.
Not because she chose to, but because some glitch in some office and some stranger's billion-dollar need had turned her life into a legal fiction.
Ana pressed her hand to her mouth to stop the sound.
She didn't want to cry. But her body betrayed her. Her throat locked up. Her chest burned.
And the tears came anyway.
She sobbed like the girl who had dreamed of building her own future.
Who had sworn never to depend on anyone else.
Who had promised herself she'd never let a man take her choices away.
This isn't me.
This isn't me.
This isn't me…
She whispered it like a mantra until her voice gave out.
And when the sobs finally slowed, she sat in the middle of the floor, head resting on her knees, a crumpled contract still clutched in one hand.
The only vow she believed in now was the one she whispered to herself.
One year. No more. No less.
And then she'd burn the name Blake off her skin.
🧊 Christian's Next Move – "No Attachments"
Blake Tower, 49th Floor. Executive wing.
Christian stood in front of the mirror in his office, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. The press conference was in an hour.
"Married man look suits you," Lucas said from the couch, sipping his espresso. "Even if you look like you're headed to a funeral."
Christian didn't smile. "It's not personal."
Lucas raised a brow. "Sure. But you did just hijack a woman's life."
"She signed."
"Because she thought it was a design contract, not a marriage license."
Christian's expression darkened. "She wasn't supposed to be the one."
"But she is. Now what?"
Christian turned away from the mirror, his voice flat. "Now she plays her role. And I play mine."
Lucas watched him carefully. "Still set on your plan?"
"Nothing's changed."
"And if she changes things?"
Christian didn't answer.
Because the truth was... she already had.
In that room. In that moment. With those fire-lit eyes and trembling hands—Ana Rae had already changed the game.
But Christian didn't believe in changing rules halfway through.
He walked toward the elevator without looking back.
"No attachments," he muttered.
But even he didn't believe it.
Not anymore.
To be continued...