The polished mahogany table was too large, the office too high, and the silence pressing down on Elara Thorne was too heavy.
Three years ago, this 50th-floor space—the CEO's private lounge at Thorne Media—had been her father's sanctuary. Now, the sprawling glass walls reflected the sterile, chilling profile of the man who had stolen it all: Julian Vance.
Elara, known only as 'Ella' now, clutched the strap of her worn satchel, her fingers digging into the thin material. She had practiced this role a thousand times in the cramped privacy of her studio apartment: the meek, desperate event planner, just scraping by, utterly harmless.
Julian Vance didn't look up from the financial report he was scanning. Even seated, he radiated a kind of lethal, cold power. He was conventionally devastating—sharp jawline, dark hair cut with unforgiving precision, and the kind of tailored suit that cost more than Elara earned in a year. The only thing that marred his flawless exterior was the cold, indifferent calculation in his deep-set eyes.
He cleared his throat, a sound that cut through the silence like breaking glass. "You took three minutes longer than scheduled to reach this office, Miss... Ella."
Elara's jaw tightened beneath her carefully constructed mask of submission. "My apologies, Mr. Vance. The security protocols are quite... extensive."
"They are necessary," he dismissed, finally dropping the report onto the table with a soft, final thud. He steepled his fingers, leaning back slightly, giving her the full, intimidating weight of his scrutiny. "Let's be efficient. You responded to a private solicitation seeking an individual for a 'personal and confidential assignment.' I'm going to assume you are aware that this position is far outside the scope of your typical event planning."
"I am aware, sir." Her voice was soft, deliberately flat. The truth, the secret she carried like a stone in her gut, was that she had responded to the ad because of him. Because his name had been hidden in the legal footer, confirming he was the one pulling the strings.
"Good. Then we can proceed to the terms." He reached into a leather portfolio and slid a dense, cream-colored document across the table. It stopped just short of her trembling hand. "I require a temporary spouse."
Elara forced herself to blink slowly, portraying shock that was only half-feigned. A spouse? She had expected anything—a complex errand, a non-disclosure agreement on a sensitive project—but not this.
"A... wife, Mr. Vance?"
"A contractual partner, Miss Ella. Nothing more. This company—Thorne Media, as you know it—is on the brink of completing a critical merger with Sterling International. The CEO, Mr. Sterling, is archaic. He insists on dealing only with men he deems 'stable'—meaning married, settled, and respectable." His lip curled slightly, indicating his contempt for the requirement. "This contract will last one year. You will perform all public functions required of a CEO's wife—attending galas, state dinners, and the occasional press conference. You will be seen, not heard."
Elara forced herself to read the first line of the contract, her vision blurring over the dense legalese. She needed to focus. She needed the money.
"And the compensation?" she managed to ask, her throat dry.
Julian finally offered what might have passed for a smile on anyone else—a purely professional, utterly cold curve of his lips. "For one year of your time, complete discretion, and no contact after the term expires, I will pay you one million dollars."
The number hit her with the force of a physical blow. One million dollars. It was more than enough to buy back the last remaining asset of her father's legacy, the small research facility he'd poured his heart into, before Julian's liquidation team seized it next month.
Her carefully constructed meekness almost cracked. He would offer a million dollars to a stranger—a pittance to him—while his avarice destroyed everything her father built.
But she had to play her part. She kept her eyes down. "That is... generous."
"It is transactional," Julian corrected, his tone sharp. "I require compliance, discretion, and a convincing performance. Any lapse in adherence to this document," he tapped the contract, "will result in immediate termination, forfeiture of payment, and extensive legal action. Do you understand the gravity of that, Miss Ella?"
Elara finally lifted her gaze, meeting his eyes for the first time. Hers were wide, brown, and seemingly innocent—a perfect mirror for the "harmless" event planner. But beneath the surface, a lifetime of suppressed vengeance boiled. She knew every loophole in Thorne Media's bylaws. She knew the location of the encrypted drive her father kept. She knew this man was a viper.
And now, she had an all-access pass to his private life.
She inhaled slowly, letting the scent of his expensive cologne and the heady aroma of victory that clung to him fill her lungs. This was not a contract. This was a war.
"I understand, Mr. Vance," Elara said, her voice steady now, hiding the steel that had returned to her spine. "Where do I sign?"
Julian Vance leaned forward, his victory assured. He believed he was purchasing a puppet. He had no idea he had just hired his most dangerous enemy.
The fountain pen felt heavier than a weapon in Elara's hand. She signed the name "Ella Thorne" and slid the contract—now binding—back across the massive desk. It was done. She was officially the contractual property of Julian Vance for the next 365 days.
Julian Vance didn't look at the signature. He simply watched her, his expression unreadable.
"Effective immediately," he stated, rising. The movement was fluid, instantly commanding. "I need you operational within 48 hours. You will need new clothing, new identification, and a new address. My assistant, Marcus, will handle the logistics."
He circled the desk and stopped directly in front of her. Elara had to tilt her head back to look at him, and the proximity was jarring. He smelled of expensive leather and cold ambition.
"There is one immediate requirement, Miss Ella," he said, his voice dropping to a low, businesslike rumble. "Tonight. There is an emergency board meeting. We need a visual confirmation of our 'engagement' before the market opens tomorrow."
Elara's carefully constructed calm wavered. "Tonight? But I… I haven't changed residences. I don't have the appropriate attire."
Julian's eyes flickered down her simple, budget-conscious dress, a silent assessment that was instantly insulting. "Precisely. Marcus will handle the clothing. Now," he extended his hand, his touch an unexpected electric jolt against her skin, "you will take my arm. We are going to walk out and be seen. Remember the role: charmed, compliant, and slightly overwhelmed."
Elara took his arm. His grip was firm, possessive, and shockingly warm. Every nerve ending screamed a warning, but she forced a smile—a practiced, socialite smile from a lifetime ago. The smile of Ella, the adoring new fiancée.
Julian Vance, you will pay for that touch.
They descended to the ground floor, Julian's presence a gravitational pull that drew every eye. He didn't speak, merely maintained the tight, protective grip on her arm, positioning her slightly behind his shoulder.
When they reached the lobby—a cathedral of marble and gold—Marcus, a thin man in a perpetually worried suit, was waiting with a driver. And a handbag.
The bag was a bespoke crocodile skin piece, clearly costing tens of thousands. Marcus presented it to Elara like a fragile explosive. "This is your temporary access, ma'am. It contains your new identification, emergency contact, and a credit chip preloaded with immediate funds for your personal transition."
"Thank you, Marcus," Elara murmured, sliding her fingers over the smooth, unforgiving leather. It was a cage of wealth.
As the driver opened the door to a black, armored sedan, Julian paused, turning to her with a sudden seriousness that wasn't professional—it was purely male.
"We have no time for pretense now," he said, leaning in so only she could hear. "The board meeting will be hostile. You will sit quietly. You will smile when I look at you. You will not, under any circumstances, speak unless I direct a question to you. Do you understand the instructions, Ella?"
His breath ghosted over her ear. It was a threat cloaked in instruction.
"Perfectly, Julian," she replied, using his first name for the first time. The sound of it on her tongue was satisfyingly intimate, a false note in their public performance.
The next two hours were a blur. Driven to a secluded boutique, Elara was dressed, styled, and transformed in less than thirty minutes. Her simple dress was replaced by an elegant, deep emerald cocktail gown that Marcus insisted "brought out her innocence." Her hair was swept up, exposing the elegant line of her neck.
She stared at the woman in the mirror—a stranger, a ghost of the heiress she once was. No, not a stranger. A weapon.
She was marched into the boardroom—a blinding white space where power brokers sat like vultures. As Julian introduced her, his arm a steel band around her waist, she saw the cold, judging eyes of men who had helped him tear down her father's empire. She smiled flawlessly. She nodded demurely. She was the picture of a supportive, vacant wife.
The meeting was brutal—a relentless argument over numbers and acquisitions. Elara understood every single complex financial move being discussed. She knew exactly which acquisition was a trap, and which legal loophole could unravel Julian Vance's careful plan. It was the legacy of her father's demanding tutelage.
But she said nothing. She played her role, sipping water and maintaining her smile.
Finally, Julian stood, signaling the end. He addressed the room, but his gaze settled on her.
"Gentlemen," Julian announced, his voice carrying the authority of finality. "As I stated, my future and the future of this company are stable. My engagement ensures that. Now, if you'll excuse us, my fiancée and I have a celebration to attend."
He tugged her toward the door. As they passed the exit, Elara deliberately shifted the expensive crocodile handbag from her left arm to her right. The movement was subtle, unseen by everyone but her.
Inside the handbag, cleverly concealed beneath a small silk lining she had ripped open with a sharp fingernail in the car, was a tiny, high-grade listening device.
Julian Vance had given her the keys to his world. Now, she would start collecting the evidence to burn it down.