Cassandra Stone learned very early in life that desperation had a sound.
It was the low hum of an empty stomach at midnight.
The crackle of unpaid electricity cutting off without warning.
The silence of unanswered messages when you asked for help one time too many.
Tonight, desperation sounded like the steady ticking of a clock echoing through a room too large for her to belong in.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Cassandra sat stiffly on the edge of a leather chair that probably cost more than her entire tuition. Her fingers were clasped tightly in her lap, nails digging into her palms as if pain could anchor her to reality. The office was cold, sleek, and overwhelmingly expensive—glass walls, marble floors, city lights glowing behind dark curtains.
This wasn't a place meant for people like her.
And he wasn't a man meant to notice people like her either.
Lucien Blackwood sat across from her, composed and unreadable, dressed in a tailored black suit that clung to his broad frame like it was custom-made for dominance. His posture was relaxed, but there was nothing casual about him. Everything about Lucien spoke of control—his sharp jaw, his stillness, the way his dark eyes rested on her like she was something already assessed and claimed.
"You're late," he said calmly.
Cassandra swallowed. "Traffic."
A lie. She had arrived early, waited in the lobby for nearly an hour, watching wealthy people come and go while her nerves twisted tighter with each passing second. But admitting that felt like exposing weakness—and something told her Lucien Blackwood fed on weakness.
He didn't respond. He simply glanced at his watch, then back at her.
"You have three minutes," he said. "After that, the offer is withdrawn."
Her heart slammed violently against her ribs.
"Sir," Cassandra began, then stopped. Her voice sounded small even to her own ears. She cleared her throat. "I still don't understand why I'm here."
Lucien leaned back in his chair slowly, fingers steepled together. The movement was unhurried, deliberate, as though he enjoyed the tension filling the room.
"You were recommended," he said.
"By who?"
"That information is unnecessary."
She bit the inside of her cheek. Of course it was.
He slid a thick folder across the table toward her. Cassandra hesitated before picking it up, her fingers brushing the cool surface of the glass desk. Inside were neatly printed pages—legal language, bullet points, signatures waiting at the bottom.
A contract.
Her stomach dropped.
"This is a temporary arrangement," Lucien said, his voice even. "Six months."
Cassandra skimmed the first page, her eyes widening.
Fake engagement.
Public appearances.
Absolute confidentiality.
Full financial compensation.
Her breath caught when she reached the amount listed under compensation.
It had to be a mistake.
"That number…" she whispered. "It's too much."
Lucien's gaze sharpened slightly. "It's precise."
Her thoughts raced. That money could pay her tuition. Clear her debts. Move her mother out of the cramped apartment they shared. It could end the constant fear gnawing at her chest every single day.
But nothing in life came without a price.
She looked up at him. "Why do you need a fake fiancée?"
Lucien's lips curved faintly—not a smile, but something colder. "Appearances matter."
"To who?"
"To people who would prefer to see me vulnerable."
Cassandra felt a chill crawl down her spine.
She turned another page, her fingers trembling now. The rules were clear. No discussing the contract with anyone. No independent media interaction. No falling in love.
Her throat tightened.
"And if I refuse?" she asked quietly.
Lucien leaned forward.
The air shifted.
"If you refuse," he said softly, "you leave this room and return to the life you were desperate enough to escape."
Her chest ached at the truth in his words.
He knew.
He knew she was drowning. He knew she had nowhere else to go. And worse—he knew she was smart enough to understand the opportunity he was offering… and foolish enough to take it.
"Why me?" Cassandra asked again, more urgently this time.
Lucien studied her face for a long moment. His gaze lingered too long on her eyes, her lips, the tension in her posture.
"Because you don't belong to anyone," he said. "Because you won't be missed. And because when this ends, no one will believe you mattered to me."
The words cut deeper than she expected.
Her hands shook as she stared down at the contract.
Six months.
Six months pretending to belong to a man like Lucien Blackwood. Six months under the scrutiny of his enemies, his family, the public.
Six months inside the devil's world.
"Once I sign," Cassandra said slowly, "can I leave?"
Lucien nodded. "Immediately."
"And after six months?"
His gaze darkened.
"That," he said, "depends on how well you play your role."
That wasn't an answer.
Cassandra picked up the pen.
Her pulse roared in her ears as she hovered it above the signature line. Every instinct screamed at her to run. To stand up and walk away before she disappeared into a life that would swallow her whole.
But survival had never cared about instincts.
She signed.
The moment the pen left the paper, Lucien stood.
He extended his hand toward her.
"Welcome, Cassandra Blackwood," he said quietly.
Her stomach twisted violently.
She took his hand.
His grip was firm. Warm. Possessive.
And for the first time since walking into that building, Cassandra understood something terrifying.
This wasn't a contract.
It was a cage.
And she had locked herself inside.