Julian's office was exactly what I'd feared it would be: a temple of polished steel, frosted glass, and silent, intimidating wealth. The air itself smelled of money of expensive coffee and lemony cleaner and an underlying chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. The reception desk was a sweeping curve of white marble, behind which a woman with a razor-sharp bob and an even sharper smile assessed me as I approached.
"Elara Sterling for Julian Reed," I said, my voice sounding too small in the vast, echoing space.
Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Of course. He's expecting you. Forty-seventh floor." She gestured to a bank of elevators with doors of brushed bronze. "You'll need to use this one."
The elevator was a silent, soaring capsule that made my stomach lurch. Through the glass walls, the city fell away, transforming into a miniature map of problems I could no longer see. My reflection in the bronze doors was a mess of nerves. I'd worn my best outfit a simple, well-cut navy dress but it felt cheap and hopelessly out of place here. I looked like a lost sparrow that had flown into a hawk's aerie.
The doors slid open directly into a smaller, even more opulent reception area. Julian was waiting, leaning against a sleek desk, his phone in his hand. He looked older, the boyish charm of university hardened into the polished veneer of success. His suit probably cost more than my car.
"Elara," he said, slipping his phone into his pocket and offering a genuine, if slightly strained, smile. He didn't offer a handshake, instead gesturing for me to follow him. "Come on, we have to be quick."
He led me into a corner office with a breathtaking, terrifying view of the bay. There was no time for small talk, no offer of coffee. He sat on the edge of his desk, arms crossed, all business. "Okay. Talk. What's the fire?"
The directness knocked the carefully rehearsed speech out of my head. The words tumbled out in a messy, humiliating rush. My father's failed business venture, the cascade of debt, the loan sharks, the final notice. I told him about selling my jewelry, about the extra jobs, about the pitiful sums I'd managed to scrape together that were nothing against the tidal wave of interest.
"It's forty-seven thousand, five hundred dollars," I finished, my face burning. "And they're coming in seventy-two hours. I know it's a lot to ask, but if there's any way… a loan, with any interest rate, I'll sign anything, I'll work it off, I'll"
"Elara," he cut me off gently, his expression unreadable. "I can't loan you that kind of money."
The last flicker of hope in my chest sputtered and died. I looked down at my hands, twisted together in my lap. Of course. I'd been a fool to come here.
"But," he continued, and my head snapped up. He was studying me with an unnerving intensity, as if he were appraising an asset. "There might be another solution. A… unique situation has arisen."
My heart thudded once, hard. "What kind of situation?"
"It involves my client. Alexander Vance."
The air left the room. The Ice King. I'd walked in asking for a life raft; he was talking about throwing me a line attached to a glacier.
"I don't understand," I whispered.
Julian stood and walked to the window, looking out at his client's domain. "Alexander's grandmother, Eleanor, is the majority shareholder of Vance Holdings. She's… traditional. She's instigated a clause in the trust. To fully assume control and secure his legacy, Alexander must be married."
A disbelieving laugh bubbled in my throat. "Married? So tell him to get married. What does that have to do with me?"
Julian turned, his gaze pinning me to the chair. "He has no intention of getting married. Not for love, anyway. He believes marriage is an inefficient, emotionally volatile institution. But he needs to satisfy the clause to finalize a merger that he's been working on for two years. A merger worth billions."
The pieces, horrifying and absurd, began to click into place. "A… marriage of convenience."
"A one-year, binding contract," Julian corrected, his voice crisp and legal. "At the conclusion of twelve months, the marriage is annulled. No messy divorce. He gets his company, free and clear."
"And the woman?" I asked, my voice hollow. "What does she get?"
"Five million dollars," he said, as if stating the price of a cup of coffee.
The number hung in the air between us, vast and impossible. It was more money than I could ever conceive of. It was a number that could erase every problem, secure my family's future, buy back our dignity ten times over. It was also a number that sounded like a prison sentence.
"You're joking," I breathed.
"I have never been more serious." He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "He needs a wife. You need a significant sum of money. It's a simple transaction."
"A transaction," I repeated, the word tasting like metal. "So, he just needs a… a placeholder. Someone presentable. Someone who can sign a paper."
"Essentially, yes. There will be public appearances, of course. A few family functions. You'll need to live together at his penthouse to maintain the appearance. But it's a business arrangement, Elara. Pure and simple."
Live together. The words echoed in the sterile room. The idea of sharing a space with the infamous Alexander Vance, a man known for his ruthless lack of warmth, was terrifying.
"Why me?" I asked, the most critical question finally surfacing. "You could find a hundred women for this. Models, socialites, actresses."
"He doesn't want a socialite. They come with baggage, with expectations, with a media circus. He needs someone discrete. Someone intelligent enough to play the part but with no connection to his world. Someone who understands this is a temporary, financial agreement." He gave me a look that was almost apologetic. "And someone desperate enough to say yes without romantic delusions."
The bluntness of it was like a physical blow. He was right. I was the perfect candidate because I was desperate. My desperation was my primary qualification.
Five million dollars.
It wasn't just money. It was my father, safe and free from the crushing weight of his failure. It was Chloe's tuition, paid in full. It was this house, our home, secured forever. It was a future, not just for me, but for my entire family.
It was also my freedom. My chance at a real love, a real marriage, sold for a price tag.
"I…" My voice failed me. The room seemed to tilt.
"You don't have to decide now," Julian said, though his tone suggested I absolutely did. "But the offer is time-sensitive. The clause must be satisfied by the end of the month. That's in ten days."
Ten days. To sell my name, my freedom, my future.
"I need to meet him," I heard myself say, the words coming from somewhere outside my body. "I won't agree to this without meeting him."
Julian's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then back at me, a strange, unreadable expression on his face. "That's the other thing. He's here. And he's ready to see you now."
The floor dropped out from under me. Now. It was happening too fast. The panic was a live wire under my skin.
"Elara," Julian said, his voice dropping to a more personal, urgent tone. "Listen to me. He can be… intense. But the money is real. The solution to all your problems is in the next room. All you have to do is walk in there and hear him out."
He stood and gestured toward a seamless, almost invisible door set into the wood-paneled wall behind his desk.
My legs felt like water. I thought of the crumpled letter. Of my father's face. Of the men who would be at our door in three days.
I stood, smoothing my cheap dress with trembling hands.
"Okay," I whispered, more to myself than to him.
Julian gave a short, sharp nod and pressed a button on his desk. The hidden door clicked open silently.
"Good luck," he murmured.
Taking a shuddering breath that did nothing to fill my lungs, I walked toward the doorway, into the lion's den, into the gaze of the man who held my family's fate in his hands.