The double doors loomed like the mouth of a beast.
All glass and steel, polished so bright Aria could see her reflection: wide eyes, clenched jaw, the cheap navy dress she'd ironed twice so it wouldn't betray its age. Behind those doors waited the man she swore she'd never beg from.
A man the city called The Lion.
Her phone buzzed in her palm — a text from Celeste.
> Are you sure about this?
Aria's fingers tightened around the device. She didn't answer. She couldn't. If she stopped to think, she'd run. And she couldn't run. Not when the bank was calling every hour. Not when her sister's tuition notice was sitting unopened on the kitchen table.
The receptionist in a sharp black suit barely looked up when Aria approached. "Name?"
"Aria Lane."
A pause. The woman's manicured nails clicked against her keyboard. "He's expecting you. Top floor. Take the private lift."
The words sent a pulse through her chest. Expecting you. She hated the sound of that — as if she were walking into a trap she'd agreed to.
The elevator ride was silent but for the hum of machinery. Each floor ticked past like a countdown. Forty-two. Forty-three. Forty-four. Then: PENTHOUSE.
The doors slid open to a room that could have been a magazine spread — floor-to-ceiling windows spilling gold light over a view of the skyline, marble floors, a wall of bookshelves arranged with military precision.
And at the center, behind a black glass desk, was Darius King.
He didn't stand when she entered. Didn't smile. Just looked at her with eyes like burnished amber, the kind that could strip a person bare without a word.
"Miss Lane," he said, voice deep enough to vibrate in her ribs. "You're late."
She bristled. "I wasn't aware I was on your clock."
"Everything is on my clock," he replied, leaning back in his chair. "Sit."
The chair opposite his desk was sleek and cold, like the man himself. Aria sat, spine straight. "You said you could help me. Let's hear it."
A ghost of a smile curved his lips. "Straight to business. I admire that. But help has a price."
Her stomach knotted. "How much?"
He tapped his pen against the desk. "Not money. Marriage."
The word hit harder than any number could.
She stared at him. "You're joking."
"Do I look like I joke?" His tone didn't shift, but something in his gaze sharpened — hunting, testing. "I'll clear your family's debts. Keep your sister in school. In exchange, you'll be Mrs. Darius King for one year."
Aria's laugh came out brittle. "You think you can just buy a wife?"
"Not a wife," he said softly. "You."
The room felt smaller. She searched his face for a trace of irony, a reason, anything that made this make sense.
"Why me?" she demanded.
"Because you owe me," he said, and slid a thin folder across the desk. Inside was a single photograph — her father shaking hands with Darius, both smiling like wolves.
She froze.
"Read the file," he said. "Then you'll understand exactly why you're here."
Outside the glass walls, the city roared on. Inside, Aria realized she'd just stepped into the lion's den — and the door had closed behind her.