The document arrived at midnight.
Amber stared at her tablet, the glow casting sharp shadows across her apartment as she scrolled through the pages Alex's legal team had sent over. The language was clean, precise, and cold—exactly what she expected. Every clause was designed to protect Wilson Group, to stabilize markets, to create an illusion strong enough to withstand scrutiny.
It was efficient.
It was insulting.
She skimmed past the first few pages, lips pressing into a thin line as she read phrases like mutual public appearances, shared residence for credibility, non-disclosure of private arrangements. The words were careful, clinical, as if marriage were a merger and intimacy a deliverable.
Amber laughed under her breath.
"Of course," she muttered. "You'd reduce it to bullet points."
She scrolled again, faster now, irritation simmering beneath her calm. There were rules about how often they would appear together, what kind of affection was expected—hand-holding, smiles, "appropriate proximity." There were clauses about image consultants, schedules, and crisis response teams.
And then she reached the end.
No expiration date.
Her amusement vanished.
She reread the section slowly, her finger tracing the lines as if the meaning might change if she looked hard enough.
Temporary arrangement, subject to mutual review.
That was it.
No timeline. No exit. Just a vague promise of discussion when the time felt right.
Amber set the tablet down and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
He really thought she'd sign this.
Her phone buzzed almost immediately, as if Alex had been watching the seconds tick by.
Alex: Have you reviewed it?
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she picked the tablet back up and tapped into the editing mode.
If he wanted a contract, she would give him one.
—
Alex was still awake when her response came through—an updated file attached without explanation.
He opened it, brow furrowing as the redlined changes filled his screen.
The first clause stopped him cold.
Duration: Twelve months. Renewable only by mutual written consent.
Alex leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he continued.
Private autonomy clause: Outside of public obligations, neither party owes emotional, physical, or social exclusivity unless explicitly agreed upon in writing.
That one made his jaw tighten.
He scrolled.
No shared bedroom requirement.
No use of personal history, trauma, or past relationships for public narrative without consent.
Immediate termination clause in the event of emotional manipulation, coercion, or breach of personal boundaries.
Alex exhaled slowly.
She hadn't just negotiated.
She'd fortified.
By the time he reached the final page, a reluctant respect had settled in his chest. This wasn't a woman being cornered. This was a woman setting terms inside a cage she hadn't chosen.
He typed back.
Alex: You don't trust me.
The reply came seconds later.
Amber: I trust paper. Paper doesn't lie when people get uncomfortable.
A pause.
Alex: You added a morality clause.
Amber: I added protection. There's a difference.
Alex closed his eyes briefly, then stood, pacing the length of his office. Outside, the city was quieter now, the frenzy of the day muted by darkness. He stopped by the window, staring down at the lights.
Alex: Come over. We should go through this in person.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Amber: I don't do late-night negotiations at penthouses anymore.
He almost smiled.
Alex: Then name the place.
—
They met at a private law office just after dawn, the kind designed for discretion—neutral walls, muted lighting, soundproofed glass. Two lawyers sat across from them, flipping through printed copies, but Amber barely noticed.
Her attention was on Alex.
He looked different in the early light. Less armored. His suit was immaculate, as always, but the tension sat closer to the surface, his movements more deliberate.
"This clause," one of the lawyers said, tapping the page. "It limits public affection significantly."
"That's the point," Amber replied coolly. "I won't be used for spectacle."
Alex glanced at her. "Public affection is the spectacle."
She met his gaze. "Then we fake it sparingly."
The lawyer cleared his throat. "There's also the matter of residence."
Amber leaned back in her chair. "I agreed to cohabitation for optics. I did not agree to erase myself."
Alex interjected before the lawyer could respond. "Separate rooms," he said. "That stays."
Amber looked at him, surprised despite herself.
He didn't elaborate.
The meeting stretched on, clause by clause, tension threading the air. Each compromise felt like a chess move, each agreement binding them closer to something neither was fully ready to name.
When it was over, the lawyers excused themselves, leaving Amber and Alex alone in the room.
The silence was different now—charged, intimate in a way contracts weren't meant to be.
"So," Amber said, breaking it. "Still think rules will save you?"
Alex studied her, eyes unreadable. "I think they'll slow the damage."
She stood, gathering her bag. "Damage is inevitable when people start pretending."
"Is that what you think this is?" he asked.
She paused, then turned back. "I think it's a lie that's already starting to ask for truth."
Their eyes locked, something unspoken passing between them—curiosity, challenge, a flicker of something more dangerous.
Alex reached for the folder on the table. "If we sign this, it becomes public by the end of the week."
Amber nodded. "Then we'd better get our stories straight."
He hesitated. "One year," he said quietly. "After that, you walk if you want."
"And you?" she asked.
"I'll survive," he replied, though his tone suggested he wasn't entirely sure.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Alex, if this stops being business for you—even for a second—you tell me."
He held her gaze. "If it stops being business for you, will you do the same?"
Amber didn't answer immediately. Then she reached out, took the pen from the table, and signed her name with a steady hand.
"There," she said. "Terms rewritten."
Alex picked up the pen next, his signature precise, controlled.
The contract was sealed.
Neither of them spoke as they stood, the weight of it settling in.
Outside, the world waited to consume their lie.
Inside, something far more complicated had already begun.
The document arrived at midnight.
Amber stared at her tablet, the glow casting sharp shadows across her apartment as she scrolled through the pages Alex's legal team had sent over. The language was clean, precise, and cold—exactly what she expected. Every clause was designed to protect Wilson Group, to stabilize markets, to create an illusion strong enough to withstand scrutiny.
It was efficient.
It was insulting.
She skimmed past the first few pages, lips pressing into a thin line as she read phrases like mutual public appearances, shared residence for credibility, non-disclosure of private arrangements. The words were careful, clinical, as if marriage were a merger and intimacy a deliverable.
Amber laughed under her breath.
"Of course," she muttered. "You'd reduce it to bullet points."
She scrolled again, faster now, irritation simmering beneath her calm. There were rules about how often they would appear together, what kind of affection was expected—hand-holding, smiles, "appropriate proximity." There were clauses about image consultants, schedules, and crisis response teams.
And then she reached the end.
No expiration date.
Her amusement vanished.
She reread the section slowly, her finger tracing the lines as if the meaning might change if she looked hard enough.
Temporary arrangement, subject to mutual review.
That was it.
No timeline. No exit. Just a vague promise of discussion when the time felt right.
Amber set the tablet down and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
He really thought she'd sign this.
Her phone buzzed almost immediately, as if Alex had been watching the seconds tick by.
Alex: Have you reviewed it?
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she picked the tablet back up and tapped into the editing mode.
If he wanted a contract, she would give him one.
—
Alex was still awake when her response came through—an updated file attached without explanation.
He opened it, brow furrowing as the redlined changes filled his screen.
The first clause stopped him cold.
Duration: Twelve months. Renewable only by mutual written consent.
Alex leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he continued.
Private autonomy clause: Outside of public obligations, neither party owes emotional, physical, or social exclusivity unless explicitly agreed upon in writing.
That one made his jaw tighten.
He scrolled.
No shared bedroom requirement.
No use of personal history, trauma, or past relationships for public narrative without consent.
Immediate termination clause in the event of emotional manipulation, coercion, or breach of personal boundaries.
Alex exhaled slowly.
She hadn't just negotiated.
She'd fortified.
By the time he reached the final page, a reluctant respect had settled in his chest. This wasn't a woman being cornered. This was a woman setting terms inside a cage she hadn't chosen.
He typed back.
Alex: You don't trust me.
The reply came seconds later.
Amber: I trust paper. Paper doesn't lie when people get uncomfortable.
A pause.
Alex: You added a morality clause.
Amber: I added protection. There's a difference.
Alex closed his eyes briefly, then stood, pacing the length of his office. Outside, the city was quieter now, the frenzy of the day muted by darkness. He stopped by the window, staring down at the lights.
Alex: Come over. We should go through this in person.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Amber: I don't do late-night negotiations at penthouses anymore.
He almost smiled.
Alex: Then name the place.
—
They met at a private law office just after dawn, the kind designed for discretion—neutral walls, muted lighting, soundproofed glass. Two lawyers sat across from them, flipping through printed copies, but Amber barely noticed.
Her attention was on Alex.
He looked different in the early light. Less armored. His suit was immaculate, as always, but the tension sat closer to the surface, his movements more deliberate.
"This clause," one of the lawyers said, tapping the page. "It limits public affection significantly."
"That's the point," Amber replied coolly. "I won't be used for spectacle."
Alex glanced at her. "Public affection is the spectacle."
She met his gaze. "Then we fake it sparingly."
The lawyer cleared his throat. "There's also the matter of residence."
Amber leaned back in her chair. "I agreed to cohabitation for optics. I did not agree to erase myself."
Alex interjected before the lawyer could respond. "Separate rooms," he said. "That stays."
Amber looked at him, surprised despite herself.
He didn't elaborate.
The meeting stretched on, clause by clause, tension threading the air. Each compromise felt like a chess move, each agreement binding them closer to something neither was fully ready to name.
When it was over, the lawyers excused themselves, leaving Amber and Alex alone in the room.
The silence was different now—charged, intimate in a way contracts weren't meant to be.
"So," Amber said, breaking it. "Still think rules will save you?"
Alex studied her, eyes unreadable. "I think they'll slow the damage."
She stood, gathering her bag. "Damage is inevitable when people start pretending."
"Is that what you think this is?" he asked.
She paused, then turned back. "I think it's a lie that's already starting to ask for truth."
Their eyes locked, something unspoken passing between them—curiosity, challenge, a flicker of something more dangerous.
Alex reached for the folder on the table. "If we sign this, it becomes public by the end of the week."
Amber nodded. "Then we'd better get our stories straight."
He hesitated. "One year," he said quietly. "After that, you walk if you want."
"And you?" she asked.
"I'll survive," he replied, though his tone suggested he wasn't entirely sure.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Alex, if this stops being business for you—even for a second—you tell me."
He held her gaze. "If it stops being business for you, will you do the same?"
Amber didn't answer immediately. Then she reached out, took the pen from the table, and signed her name with a steady hand.
"There," she said. "Terms rewritten."
Alex picked up the pen next, his signature precise, controlled.
The contract was sealed.
Neither of them spoke as they stood, the weight of it settling in.
Outside, the world waited to consume their lie.
Inside, something far more complicated had already begun.