The office atop the skyscraper was as impersonal as the man sitting across from me. Glass walls revealed a gray, cloudy New York, as if the weather knew I was about to sell my freedom. My fingertips were icy, but my palms were sweating. The contract, with its eighteen pages of clauses and subclauses, seemed to weigh more than my dignity.
Alexander Vance watched me silently, his slate-gray eyes scanning every tremor, every blink. He wore a tailored, charcoal-colored suit that accentuated his broad shoulders and posture that screamed authority. I, on the other hand, felt ridiculous in my sister's borrowed suit—too tight at the hips, slightly faded in color.
"So, Isabella," his voice broke the silence, smooth as silk, but with a sharpness that promised to cut. "Have you read all the terms and conditions?"
I agreed, swallowing hard. My throat was tight. "Yes. One year of marriage. Public appearances as needed. Shared residence in your penthouse. Absolute discretion regarding the terms."
"And clause 4.2," he leaned forward, his elbows resting on the ebony desk. The ceiling light highlighted the line of his tense jaw. "I'd like you to repeat that for me."
I took a deep breath. "The parties agree that the arrangement is strictly professional and financial. Any development of emotional involvement, including but not limited to jealousy, possessiveness, or romantic attachment, will constitute a breach of contract, subject to pre-established penalties."
He smiled. Not a warm smile, but a calculated movement of his lips that didn't reach his eyes. "Very good. It seems you have a good memory. That will be useful."
"I'm not here to fail, Mr. Vance."
"Alexander," he corrected, extending a silver pen engraved with his initials. "If we're going to pretend to be husband and wife, we'd better start with the first name."
I reached out. Our fingers touched the moment I picked up the pen. A warm, unexpected shock ran up my wrist, like a poorly insulated electrical wire. He didn't pull his hand away immediately. Instead, his eyes locked onto mine, and for a second—just one—I saw something beyond calculating coldness: a spark of curiosity. Or perhaps just a reflection of my own misfortune.
I signed "Isabella Moretti" in a shaky hand that embarrassed me. He did the same, his signature a whirlwind of firm, arrogant lines. The sound of the pen tearing through the paper echoed in the silent room.
"One copy is yours," he said, sliding a set of pages to my side of the desk. The other he put in a drawer, which closed with a soft, final click. "Your things have already been moved to the penthouse. From now on, you sleep in the room next to mine." We're having dinner with the press tonight. Seven o'clock. Be imposing.
I stood up, my legs a little shaky. He stood up too, circling the table with a feline grace that spoke of absolute control over every muscle in his body.
"One more thing, Isabella," his voice lowered, becoming almost intimate, though his expression remained impenetrable.
I turned to face him, raising my chin in a gesture of defiance that I felt more than believed. "Yes?"
"The world will believe you love me. They'll see photos, watch interviews, read statements." He took a step forward, closing the distance between us. His scent, something woody and fresh, enveloped me. "Your only task is not to believe it yourself. Understood?"
His gaze drifted down to my lips for a fraction of a second before returning to my eyes. My heart leaped disobediently in my chest.
"Perfectly," I whispered, my voice fading.
He nodded, a gesture that he could leave the room. "Until tonight, then."
I left the office, the contract folded inside my bag like an accusation. My legs carried me down the glass-walled hallway, past silent secretaries and screens displaying stock quotes. But in my mind, only one scene replayed: his fingers touching mine, and that moment of dangerous heat.
The elevator descended in a soft whisper. Seeing myself reflected in the polished steel doors, a pale woman with wide eyes, I asked myself what I had gotten myself into.
And worse: why was that part of me, that treacherous and stupid part that should have been silenced long ago, so eager for the night to arrive?
The contract was signed. My freedom, sold. But as the elevator descended, taking me to my new life, a dangerous truth began to emerge: Alexander Vance hadn't just bought my time. He had lit a flame, and I already feared being burned by it.