The scent of turpentine and stale coffee clung to the cramped studio apartment as Talia Rivers stood before her canvas, brush suspended mid-air. A patch of soft morning light slanted through the torn curtain, illuminating her newest painting—an abstract swirl of color that reflected the chaos inside her. It was unfinished, like everything else in her life.
At twenty, Talia was a struggling artist barely keeping herself afloat in the noisy heart of Brooklyn. But her poverty wasn't just a matter of money—it was emotional, too. Love, kindness, safety—those were luxuries she hadn't known since her mother died. Her stepmother Claudia made sure of that.
"You'll never be good enough," Claudia had once hissed. "You're just a shadow in this house."
A shadow.
Talia had grown up in the Rivers estate, yet she'd never felt like she belonged. Claudia made sure to dim every light around her, so her own daughter, Bianca, could shine. Bianca was everything Talia wasn't—elegant, poised, and loved. At twenty-three, she was the face of Rivers Couture. Meanwhile, Talia faded into the background, painting emotion on canvas and surviving on scraps of hope.
Talia wiped a streak of blue from her cheek and glanced at the calendar taped to the fridge. A red circle glared back at her: Friday. 3:00 PM. Contract meeting. Her stomach twisted. This wasn't an art commission. It was a marriage contract.
An arranged marriage. With a man she had never met.
She sank into the couch, hugging a pillow to her chest. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the letter again—the one from Liam Westwood's legal team. Westwood Enterprises was a giant in finance, and Liam, the reclusive billionaire CEO, was a man known for his cold precision and ruthless deals. Why he—or rather, his grandmother—wanted to marry her was a question she still couldn't answer.
All she knew was that refusing wasn't an option.
Agnes, her best friend and the only person who truly understood her, had been furious.
"You're not some pawn, Talia. You can't marry a man for a contract!"
"I don't have a choice," Talia had whispered, tears in her voice. "It's either this or... losing everything."
Because Claudia had made it clear: if Talia didn't do this, she would be cut off completely. No more access to the little inheritance her mother had left behind. No more studio space, no more support—even the little she got.
And more than that... there was Jade.
Talia's older brother, the only blood family she had, had been in a coma for five years. The car crash that took his voice and mobility happened just weeks after he'd tried to talk to her about their past. About a secret. But he never got the chance to finish. Now, he lay in a private care facility, alive but silent.
She visited him weekly, hoping each time that his eyes would flicker open and the truth would finally spill.
She sighed and got to her feet. If she was going to sign her life away today, she might as well look presentable.
—
Three hours later, Talia stepped into the towering glass headquarters of Westwood Enterprises. Her thrifted dress clung nervously to her frame, and her sketchbook was tucked under her arm like a talisman. The marble lobby gleamed, cold and intimidating, filled with people who looked like they belonged to another planet.
The elevator ride to the top floor felt like a slow climb to execution.
The doors opened with a soft ding. And there he was.
Liam Westwood.
Tall. Sharp. Immaculately dressed in a charcoal gray suit that screamed money and power. His dark hair was slicked back, his eyes cool and unreadable. He stood by the window, gazing out at the city below like he owned it—which, in many ways, he did.
He turned, and their eyes met.
For a moment, the world paused.
Talia's breath caught. Not because he was handsome—he was—but because she saw something flicker in his expression. Surprise. Regret. Maybe even guilt.
"You're younger than I expected," he said, his voice smooth but distant.
"You're colder than I imagined," she replied before she could stop herself.
His jaw twitched. "Let's get this over with."
The lawyer coughed softly and motioned to the sleek conference table where the contract lay. Liam didn't sit beside her. He stayed on the opposite end of the table, as though the air between them was dangerous.
She scanned the contract again. One year of marriage. Private. No public announcements. A generous monthly allowance. And silence—complete confidentiality.
She looked up. "Why me?"
He hesitated. "Because my grandmother believes you need someone to anchor you... and because she never takes no for an answer."
"You don't want this, do you?"
"No," Liam said plainly. "But I owe her everything. And if she wants this marriage to happen, then it will."
Talia gripped the pen. Her heart thudded painfully. This wasn't a fairy tale. It was a transaction.
Still, she signed.
So did he.
And just like that, they were bound by paper and silence.
As she rose to leave, Liam spoke again—quietly, almost reluctantly.
"You'll be safe. Whatever else this is, I promise... I'll protect you."
She blinked, stunned.
She didn't reply. She simply walked out, the weight of a hundred secrets pressing on her spine.
She was Mrs. Liam Westwood now.
And her story was just beginning.
Liam's POV
Liam Westwood stood in his office, staring out the massive glass window that offered a view of Manhattan's skyline. The city looked small from up here—tiny cars, tiny lives, tiny problems.
He poured himself a drink and sat down, ignoring the buzzing phone on his desk. His mind was elsewhere. On her.
Talia Rivers. Twenty. Orphaned. Artist.
A girl whose file read like a series of closed doors. A forgotten name from a once-powerful family. And soon—his wife.
He still couldn't believe it.
"You're marrying her," his grandmother had said firmly a week ago, her voice shaking with age and certainty. "Not because you want to. Because she needs you. Because she was Ella's daughter."
Ella Rivers. The name echoed like a ghost.
"She's a stranger," Liam had argued.
"She won't be," Grandmother replied. "And she has no idea who she truly is. She'll need someone strong by her side when the truth breaks her. You'll be her anchor."
Liam had resisted at first. He wasn't built for marriage, especially not to someone he'd never met. But his grandmother's health was fragile, and her will stronger than steel. And beneath his indifference, guilt lingered—guilt for not protecting his mother years ago.
"Fine," he'd finally said, signing the papers. "But it stays a contract. Nothing more."
Now, alone in his office, he wondered how long he could hold onto that line.