The last thing I remember is the taste of copper and the scream of the world tearing itself apart.
I don't remember the impact. Only the certainty of it. The final, irrevocable knowledge that Elara Vance—her dreams, her Michelin stars, her hard-won peace—was over.
Consciousness returns not with light, but with sound.
A high, thin, relentless buzzing. It drills into my temples. My body feels wrong. Lighter. Frailer. My limbs are tangled not in seatbelt webbing, but in impossibly soft, slippery fabric. Silk.
I force my eyes open.
I'm not in wreckage. I'm in a cloud. A vast, white, minimalist bedroom where everything is sleek, expensive, and sterile. The morning light slants through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating a dust motes in the air over a white wool rug I'm lying on. My head pounds with a deep, chemical throb. Not a concussion. A hangover.
This is not my bed. This is not my body.
The thought is quiet, cold, and absolute. I push myself up, my movements uncoordinated. My hands—not my hands—are smaller, paler, with perfect, shell-pink nails. I stare at them, a wave of nausea rising that has nothing to do with the headache.
The buzzing again. It's a phone, flashing like a frantic heartbeat on a stark white nightstand. Next to it lies a single object that sends a jolt of primal recognition through me.
A plastic pregnancy test. Two pink lines.
A flood of memories, sharp and broken, slices into my mind. They are not mine.
The blinding flash of paparazzi. A heavy gold statue in my hands. The taste of champagne, then something bitter beneath it. A hotel suite. A man's shadow, broad-shouldered, his eyes the color of a winter sea—hard, unforgiving, and locked on me. Then… nothing. A void. And later, much later, the heart-stopping sight of those two lines in a bathroom lit by cruel fluorescent light.
My name is Elara Vance.
But the face I see reflected in the dark television screen across the room is that of Luna Sterling. I know her. Everyone does. The ethereal, girl-next-door actress who just won the Starlight Award. The internet's sweetheart.
The current internet's whore.
The TV is on mute. On the screen, I see that face—my face—splashed beside a photo of Arthur Valentine. His image is all sharp lines and colder eyes, a look of icy disdain perfectly captured. The chyron beneath screams: "PREGNANCY PATERNITY BOMBSHELL: LUNA STERLING TRAPS BILLIONAIRE VALENTINE."
The phone vibrates off the nightstand and lands on the rug with a thud. The caller ID reads: VIPER MEDIA.
A sound escapes me—a raw, foreign gasp. This is panic. This is death by a thousand headlines. I scramble backward, my back hitting the bed frame. I need to think. I am Elara. I ran a empire of fire and knife. I solved problems. This is a problem.
Breathe. Assess.
I am in Luna Sterling's body. I have her memories, a chaotic, emotional database I can barely access without feeling dizzy. She was drugged. She slept with Arthur Valentine. She got pregnant. Someone she told betrayed her. The story is everywhere.
I am pregnant.
The wave of nausea returns, visceral and profound. It's not morning sickness. It's the sheer, catastrophic scale of it.
Before the panic can fully claim me, a new sound cuts through the apartment's silent scream.
A key turning in a lock. A precise, heavy click.
The front door of the penthouse swings open.
He walks in as if he owns the space. Because, I realize a second later as the memory surfaces, he probably does. This building is part of the Valentine portfolio.
Arthur Valentine.
Photos do not do him justice. They capture the cold beauty, the sharp suit (charcoal today, perfectly fitted), the tousled dark hair. They do not capture the aura. It's a physical pressure, a silence that swallows sound. He's younger than I expected—only 26—but he has the presence of a man who has never been told 'no' and has built an empire on that principle. His gaze finds me immediately, huddled on the floor in a silk robe. Those winter-sea eyes sweep from the buzzing phone to the pregnancy test, then back to my face. There is no shock. No anger. Only a chilling, analytical assessment.
He doesn't speak. He closes the door, and the lock re-engages with a final sound. A gilded cage, just sealed.
"Miss Sterling," he says. His voice is a low baritone, smooth and utterly devoid of warmth. It's the voice of a boardroom, not a bedroom.
I stand up. The movement is shaky, but I force my spine straight. I am not 21. I am 32. I have faced food critics, investors, and kitchen fires that could have killed. I look back at him, willing Elara's steadiness into Luna's wide, doe-like eyes.
"Mr. Valentine." My voice is Luna's—softer, higher—but I keep it even.
A flicker in his gaze. Something quick and calculating. He expected tears. Hysteria. He found… composure. It irritates him.
"I assume you've seen the news," he states, walking further into the room. He doesn't sit. He dominates.
"It's a little hard to miss."
"The narrative is false," he says, as if reading from a internal report. "We were both administered a potent benzodiazepine cocktail. The leak of your pregnancy was a coordinated attack, intended to cause maximum reputational damage to both parties."
He says it so clinically. Parties. Like we're opposing sides in a merger gone wrong.
"Who?" I ask.
His jaw tightens, just a fraction. "Unknown. The investigation is my priority. Yours, however, is survival. Your public approval rating has dropped eighty-two percent in six hours. Your brand partnerships are void. Your studio contract is suspended. You are, effectively, bankrupt and unemployable."
Each fact is a hammer blow. Delivered without malice. Just… data.
"And you?" I challenge, a spark of Elara's defiance igniting. "What's your damage report?"
His eyes narrow. "My company's stock has dipped three percent. A minor fluctuation, but a signal of vulnerability. More importantly, it is a personal insult. A breach of my security. I do not tolerate breaches."
The way he says it makes my skin prickle. This is not a man; this is a force of nature wrapped in Italian wool.
"So what's the play?" I ask, crossing my arms. The silk robe feels like a costume. "A press conference? A denial? A lawsuit?"
He almost smiles. It's a cold, sharp thing. "The play, Miss Sterling, is to control the narrative. The only way to neutralize a weaponized scandal is to own it." He reaches into his jacket and withdraws a simple, cream-colored envelope. He holds it out, not coming closer. "We are going to transform a sordid trap into a fairy tale."
I don't take the envelope. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," he says, his voice dropping, every word precise and weighted, "you will marry me."
The air leaves the room. The words hang between us, absurd and inevitable.
"Marriage," I repeat, numb.
"A legally binding, mutually beneficial contract. Publicly, we are a couple who fell passionately and privately in love, now joyfully expecting a child. We are reclaiming our story. Privately, we are allies. We consolidate resources. We present a unified front to draw out our enemy. The marriage provides you with total financial and physical security. It provides me with a stabilized public image and secures my heir."
My heir. He says it like he's securing a business asset.
"And after?" My voice is a whisper.
"The contract has a term. Eighteen months post-partum. Sufficient time to rehabilitate your image, ensure the child's stability, and neutralize the threat. After which, we dissolve the union with a pre-negotiated, quiet separation."
It is the most logical, most heartless thing I have ever heard. And it is, I realize with a sinking certainty, the only possible life raft in this shipwreck.
He sees the understanding in my eyes. He places the envelope on the glass coffee table between us. "The terms are inside. Non-negotiable on major points. You have two hours to read it. My lawyer will be here then to finalize."
He turns to leave.
"Wait."
He pauses, a silhouette against the bright window.
"The contract," I say, my mind racing, falling back on the only solid ground I have left: business. "Clause 4.B. What are the living arrangements?"
A beat of silence. "Co-habitation. My residence. Separate bedrooms, of course."
"Of course," I echo, the words dry as dust. "And the… performance? The fairy tale? What are the expectations?"
He turns his head, just enough to look at me over his shoulder. His profile is sharp enough to cut. "We will be seen together. We will act in accordance with the narrative. Displays of affection will be minimal and for public consumption only. Our private interactions will be transactional."
Transactional. The word echoes in the beautiful, hollow room.
"And if I say no?"
Finally, he fully turns. His gaze is like a physical touch, icy and assessing. "Then you will be devoured by the press, bankrupted by lawsuits, and spend the next two decades as a national punchline. The child will grow up in the shadow of a scandal I will have no obligation to publicly mitigate." He tilts his head. "You have a sharpness in your eyes today, Miss Sterling. I suggest you use it. Read the contract."
He leaves. The door locks behind him with a soft, definitive thud.
I am alone.
The silence is louder than the phones. I look from the envelope to my reflection—Luna's reflection—in the dark TV screen. The face of a ruined girl.
But I am not her.
I walk to the envelope. My hands don't shake. I open it.
The first line is in bold, stark font.
CONTRACT OF MATRIMONIAL ALLIANCE AND MUTUAL CONSOLIDATION BETWEEN ARTHUR JAMES VALENTINE AND LUNA MARIE STERLING...
I sink onto the white sofa, the pages rustling in the silent, gilded tomb. Outside, the city gleams, oblivious. Inside, a war begins. Not with tears, but with terms.
Two hours.
I have two hours to sign away my new life, to become Mrs. Valentine.
To start the greatest performance of my two lifetimes.
---
End of Chapter 1