The air in the room was surgical, sterile, and aggressively cold—the kind of cold that reminded you money had bought the best HVAC system in the city, but couldn't purchase a single degree of warmth. It smelled faintly of polished marble and a cigar that had been snuffed out exactly six minutes ago. My palms, resting on the mahogany table that was probably worth my entire life savings, were slick with sweat.
"Sign here, Ms. Vance."
The voice was Julian Blackwood's Chief Legal Counsel, Mr. Davies—a man whose face was so perfectly neutral it looked less like a human expression and more like a carefully sanded piece of bureaucratic wood. He slid the contract—thicker than a phonebook and bound in heavy, midnight-blue leather—across the table.
I didn't reach for the pen. I kept my focus on the man sitting directly opposite me, the man who was about to become my contractual husband.
Julian Blackwood.
He wasn't handsome in the way magazine covers defined it. He was handsome in the way a predator is handsome: sharp, lethal, and utterly efficient. His tailored charcoal suit looked like it had been poured onto his frame. His dark eyes—the exact color of iced scotch—were fixed on the panoramic view of Manhattan laid out behind my head, as if signing away five hundred days of his life was less interesting than checking the traffic on Fifth Avenue.
He hadn't spoken a word since I'd entered the penthouse. He didn't need to. His presence was the argument.
"Before I sign," I said, my voice cutting through the silence. It was a conscious effort to keep the tremor out, to sound like the confident, professional version of Aurora Vance I reserved for high-stakes antique negotiations. "I believe we need to clarify Section 4, Subsection B. The remuneration."
Mr. Davies coughed, a soft, dry sound. "The payment, Ms. Vance, is thirty million dollars, deposited quarterly. It's an unprecedented sum for an arrangement of this nature."
I allowed a tight, humorless smile to touch my lips. "I'm sure it is. But I told Mr. Blackwood when he solicited my 'services' that I don't need his money." I pushed a slender finger onto the page. "The terms state the marriage is to secure his inheritance and provide him with an heir option, should the term be extended. My involvement is solely dependent on this clause: Full and unrestricted access to the Blackwood Private Collection, including the rarely viewed European Medieval Acquisitions."
Julian finally shifted, turning those arctic eyes on me. The change felt like a sudden drop in temperature.
"My private collection is irrelevant to the contract, Ms. Vance," his voice was deep, smooth, and laced with an impatience that made my jaw clench. "If you need more zeroes, just say so."
It was a dismissal. He thought I was being coy. A typical gold-digger performance, waiting for the applause and a higher bid. It was the moment I hated most—the moment my true expertise became invisible behind the tattered veil of my family's reduced circumstance.
"It is not about the zeroes, Mr. Blackwood," I countered, leaning forward. "It's about the provenance. Your family's collection contains an item that belongs elsewhere. I will not sign a contract that makes me your wife—even a temporary one—without the assurance that I can rectify a long-standing historical error."
Davies looked appalled. Julian, however, gave a slow, deliberate nod, a motion so minimal it barely registered. But I saw the spark of something beneath the ice—a flicker of curiosity, perhaps even respect for my refusal to play the usual game.
"You're referring to the 'Tears of Saint Cecilia,' aren't you?" he stated. It wasn't a question.
I drew a sharp breath. The Tears—a 13th-century, jewel-encrusted processional cross rumored to be missing since 1944. My grandfather, before the final, crushing shame of his bankruptcy, had been obsessed with tracing its fate. It was the key to my entire mission.
"I am," I admitted, my voice dropping to a near-whisper. "I need access. Specifically, to the archives detailing its acquisition by your family in 1952. That is the only payment I require."
Julian Blackwood steepled his fingers beneath his chin, studying me with the intensity of an auctioneer assessing a masterpiece.
"Fine," he said, the single word an executed command. "Add the clause, Davies. Full, unfettered access to the collection and its related archives, effective immediately upon signing."
Davies looked sick, but scribbled the amendment in the margin.
"Now that we've settled your rather peculiar 'price,'" Julian continued, his gaze pinning me in place, "let's move to the real clauses. Section 3: Cohabitation and Public Conduct. You will move into the penthouse tomorrow. You will assume the role of my wife immediately and without reservation. This means public displays of affection—touching, kissing, the appearance of domestic harmony—are mandatory when required for business or family purposes. You are my possession in public, Rory. Understood?"
Rory. He hadn't bothered to use my nickname before. Hearing it from him felt like an icy branding.
"I understand the terms of the performance," I retorted, refusing to be intimidated. "I am an art restorer, Mr. Blackwood. I know how to handle priceless, delicate, and often fraudulent objects. I can certainly handle a billionaire CEO."
He gave the faintest hint of a smirk. "The marriage, Aurora, is a five-hundred-day contract. We have separate rooms, separate lives, and separate schedules. We are business partners, nothing more. You will not interfere with my life, and I will not interfere with yours. If you violate that sanctity—by showing genuine interest, or god forbid, feelings—the contract is void, and you forfeit all claims, including your access to the archives. Is that clear?"
His words were brutal, designed to strip away any remaining illusion of romance or humanity. He needed to make sure I understood the boundaries—that this ice fortress had walls built from his own pathological fear of emotional entanglement.
"Crystal clear," I agreed, grabbing the heavy, silver pen and uncapping it with a decisive click. "The only feelings I possess for you are based on my profound curiosity regarding the Blackwood collection's tax filings, Mr. Blackwood. You needn't worry about my heart."
I scrawled my signature—Aurora Vance—a bold, deliberate hand that belied the nervous flutter in my chest. Five hundred days. That was the window.
I capped the pen and pushed the document back across the table, meeting Julian Blackwood's stare. His expression was unreadable, perhaps surprised by the speed and finality of my action. He took the pen from my hand—his fingers brushing mine, a fleeting, electric static shock that I immediately dismissed as the cheap lining of my sleeves.
He signed his own name, Julian Blackwood, with a powerful, confident flourish that dominated the page. The signature of a man who owned the city, and now, temporarily, owned me.
He leaned back in his chair, the contract now binding, sealed. A slow, chilling victory spread across his face.
"Welcome aboard, Mrs. Blackwood," he said, the title tasting like ash on his tongue.
I stood up, adjusting the simple, gray skirt I wore—the one chosen specifically to make me look like an efficient functionary and not a potential lover. My mission had begun.
"Thank you, Mr. Blackwood," I replied, grabbing my briefcase—the one containing my notes on the Tears of Saint Cecilia's provenance. I paused at the door, turning back one last time to deliver the closing shot.
I let my eyes scan the absurdly expensive office, the cold man sitting behind the desk, and the contract laying between them.
"You didn't just buy a wife, Julian," I said, using his first name for the first time, giving the word a sharp edge. "You just bought yourself five hundred days of the most complicated auditing your life has ever endured. And, perhaps, a thief. Good luck."
Then, before he could reply, I pulled the door open and stepped out of the surgical cold and into the loud, buzzing reality of my new, contractual life. The search for the Tears—and the truth behind Julian Blackwood—had officially begun.