POV: Ava Bennett
There are bad days, and then there's crying-on-the-bus-while-holding-a-medical-bill bad. Apparently, hospital bills have a sense of humor. Two hundred thousand dollars for my mom's heart surgery. My savings? Twenty-three dollars, a half-eaten granola bar, and misplaced optimism.
I sniffled, wiping my eyes before the old lady beside me could hand me unsolicited life advice about "positive thinking."
I didn't need positivity. I needed a paycheck.
"Okay, Ava," I muttered under my breath, "you just need a job. Any job. Receptionist, dog-walker, emotional-support barista—heck, personal assistant to a grumpy billionaire. Whatever pays first."
When the bus stopped in front of a shimmering skyscraper, I took it as a cosmic hint. The building gleamed with glass, steel, and the kind of confidence only money could buy.
Aurelion Group.
The letters were carved into black marble, bold and intimidating. I'd heard the name before—one of the biggest investment and acquisition firms in the country. The kind of company that bought struggling businesses, flipped them, and made millions. The kind of company where a single elevator ride probably cost more than my rent.
So naturally, I walked in.
The lobby smelled like success and expensive coffee. Gold accents shimmered under the chandelier light. I tightened my grip on my résumé like it was a lifeline and approached the receptionist.
"I—I'm here to submit my résumé," I said, trying to sound like I belonged here.
She gave me a polite, practiced smile that said you're cute for trying.
"Executive floor," she said, tapping the desk tablet. "Mr. Blake is conducting interviews himself."
Mr. Blake? As in the Adrian Blake? CEO, billionaire, financial prodigy, destroyer of weak stock markets? That one?
Great. No pressure.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. I caught my reflection in the metal wall—tired eyes, hopeful heart, and a résumé that had survived three coffee spills. "You got this, Ava," I whispered.
The doors slid open again… and I almost walked straight into him.
Adrian Blake.
Up close, he was somehow more intimidating than the magazine covers made him look. Sharp suit, sharper eyes. The kind of man who probably charged rent for breathing his air.
"Miss Bennett?" His voice was smooth, low, and expensive.
"Yes?" I squeaked, because apparently my vocal cords had given up.
He looked me over—not in a creepy way, but like he was mentally calculating my credit score.
"You're here for a job," he said. "Convince me why I should hire you."
Right. Convince him. My brain lagged, then rebooted.
"I—uh—need the job urgently. My mom's surgery is next week, and I don't have enough. I'll work harder than anyone else. I can start today. Now. Immediately."
His expression didn't change, not even a twitch. "I see. I can offer you a different kind of position."
"Different?" My voice cracked.
"Temporary. Contractual. One year. High responsibility. High reward."
He opened a sleek black folder and slid a sealed envelope across the desk. "The terms are inside. Clause 9 is essential."
The paper felt heavier than my entire future. I opened it—and nearly choked.
Clause 9: Neither party shall develop romantic feelings for the other.
Any violation of this clause will be considered a breach of contract and may nullify all agreed benefits.
I blinked twice. "So… don't fall in love?"
He nodded once, calm as a glacier.
Easy. I could do that. I'd been single long enough to qualify for monkhood.
Then I read on.
Clause 10: Both parties must maintain a public appearance as a married couple during corporate events and social gatherings.
Clause 11: The employee shall reside within company-approved accommodations for the duration of the contract.
Clause 12: Any actions compromising the reputation of Aurelion Group or its CEO will result in penalties, including but not limited to suspension, fines, or legal action.
I looked up. "Wait—you want me to pretend to be your wife?"
"Correct."
"Is this… legal?"
"It's under a non-disclosure agreement," he said smoothly. "Perfectly legal."
Because of course billionaires have backup NDAs for fake marriages.
Live there, pretend to be married, never mess up, and definitely don't fall in love. Got it.
Mom's surgery. Rent. My sanity. All hanging on one decision.
So I did what any rational, broke, mildly panicking person would do.
I grabbed the pen and signed.
"This is fine," I muttered. "Totally fine. Absolutely fine."
The pen scratched across the paper, sealing my fate. Twelve months. Aurelion Group. Adrian Blake. And Clause 9.
"Okay," I whispered, heart pounding, "money, surgery, survival. Easy."
From the corner of my eye, I caught the faintest flicker of amusement in his expression. Rich people, I decided, had weird hobbies—like making poor girls sign questionable contracts.
Still, as I stepped out of his office, sunlight spilling through the tall windows, a strange hope fluttered in my chest.
This was it. My chance to save Mom.
Even if I'd just signed the weirdest job offer in corporate history.
POV: Adrian Blake
Ava Bennett walked into my office like she'd already survived a storm—drenched in determination and raw honesty.
Most applicants wilt under Aurelion Group's atmosphere. She didn't.
She looked terrified, yes, but not defeated. There's a difference.
When she mentioned her mother's surgery, her voice wavered—but not out of weakness. Out of urgency. That kind of desperation has value: people with something to fight for never quit halfway.
"Do you understand what you're agreeing to?" I asked.
"Yes," she said immediately. "I need the money. I'll do it."
Most people hesitated. She didn't.
That honesty was… refreshing.
Clause 9 existed for a reason. No emotions. No distractions. Love complicates order, and order is what I live by.
But watching her sign the contract, I felt something I hadn't in a long time—curiosity.
Her hands trembled slightly, but her eyes were steady. Fierce. Reckless.
As her pen touched the paper, I thought, Welcome to Aurelion Group, Ava Bennett.
Let the experiment begin.