Nayla woke up to the sound of soft classical music echoing through the penthouse.
For a moment, she forgot where she was—until her eyes landed on the unfamiliar ceiling and the spotless guest room that smelled faintly of lavender and cold marble.
She sat up slowly, the silk sheets brushing against her skin like a cruel reminder of the life she had stepped into.
This wasn't her world.
No creaky floors.
No smell of fried rice from her mother's kitchen.
No noise from the neighbor's kids.
Just silence. And elegance. And cold.
Downstairs, she found Kenan already dressed in a charcoal suit, sipping his coffee by the floor-to-ceiling windows like a sculpture—flawless and untouchable.
He didn't even look at her when he spoke. "You'll accompany me to a charity gala tonight."
Nayla hesitated. "Is that part of the contract?"
Kenan finally turned to her, his eyes like frost. "Everything I say is part of the contract."
She bit the inside of her cheek, nodding.
"I'll have a stylist come by this afternoon. Wear whatever they give you. No arguments."
He drained the last of his coffee and placed the cup down with precision. "And remember, in front of people... smile like you belong by my side."
"And what if I don't feel like smiling?" she whispered, almost to herself.
Kenan's gaze snapped to hers.
"Then fake it," he said coldly. "You chose this, remember?"
No. She didn't choose this. She chose survival.
For her family. For her mother's hospital bills. For the debt collectors who threatened to take everything.
And now she was paying the price.
Later that evening, Nayla stood before the mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back.
The stylist had transformed her—hair pinned in soft waves, lips painted crimson, wearing a deep emerald gown that shimmered with every step. She looked like she belonged in Kenan's world.
But inside... she felt like a stranger.
"Ready?" Kenan appeared behind her, adjusting his cufflinks.
Nayla turned slowly. "Do I look convincing enough to be your wife?"
Kenan's eyes scanned her from head to toe. "You look perfect."
But his voice was void of warmth—like he was describing a mannequin, not a woman.
As they entered the gala arm in arm, flashlights flickered, and heads turned. People whispered. Cameras clicked.
And Nayla did what she was told.
She smiled.
But deep down, behind the diamonds and designer dress, she knew the truth:
They might live under the same roof.
But they were from two completely different worlds.