Mia's POV
I stared at Marcus Webb's text until the words blurred.
I know who you really are. And I'm going to destroy you both.
My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped the phone.
Footsteps on the stairs made me jump. Christian descended, holding a tablet and looking grimmer than before.
My lawyers just sent the contract. He thrust the tablet at me. Read it. Sign it. We don't have time to waste.
I took the tablet with trembling fingers. The document was forty-seven pages long.
Forty-seven pages? My voice came out high and strangled. For a fake marriage?
For a binding legal agreement that protects us both. Christian poured himself another scotch. Read the important parts. I'll summarize the rest.
I scrolled through pages of legal language that made my head spin. But certain phrases jumped out:
Party A (Christian Steele) and Party B (Mia Chen) agree to maintain the public appearance of marriage for a period of six (6) months...
Party B will reside in Party A's primary residence and attend all social functions as required...
Party B will maintain absolute discretion regarding the nature of this arrangement...
No romantic or physical relationship will exist between parties...
That last line made my stomach twist. Not because I wanted a relationship with Christian—I barely knew him. But seeing it in cold legal terms made everything feel more real. More permanent.
More like a prison sentence.
The financials are on page twelve, Christian said, watching me over his glass.
I flipped to page twelve and my breath caught.
Five hundred thousand dollars upon successful completion of the contract. Plus all family debts paid immediately—the wedding fund, Dad's medical bills, the restaurant mortgage.
It was more money than I'd see in ten years of working at Dad's restaurant.
This is too much, I whispered.
It's what your silence is worth. Christian set down his glass and walked toward me. Six months of your life. Six months of convincing performances. Six months of lying to everyone you know.
He stopped in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
That money is your payment for becoming someone you're not. For giving up your freedom. For letting me control every aspect of your life. His voice was soft. Dangerous. Still think it's too much?
When he put it that way, it wasn't enough.
What about the rules? I asked, my voice steadier than I felt. You said there were rules.
Page fifteen.
I found the section and read, my heart sinking with each line:
Party B will occupy the guest bedroom on the second floor.
Party B will not enter Party A's private office or bedroom without explicit permission.
Party B will not invite guests to the residence without prior approval.
Party B will not discuss the arrangement with family, friends, or any third party.
Party B will attend all required social functions and maintain appropriate appearance and behavior.
Party B will not engage in romantic or physical relationships with any third party during the contract period.
That last one made me look up. I can't date anyone for six months?
You're married to me. Dating someone else would be adultery. Christian's smile was cold. Bad optics.
But you just said we wouldn't have a romantic relationship—
We won't. But the world doesn't know that. He leaned against the arm of the couch, too close for comfort. To everyone else, you're madly in love with me. You wouldn't dream of looking at another man.
The way he said it—low and intense—made heat crawl up my neck.
What about you? I challenged. Do you get to date other people?
His eyebrow arched. Would that bother you?
I no, I just I stumbled over my words. It's not fair if you can and I can't.
Life isn't fair, Mia. Haven't you figured that out yet? But something flickered in his eyes. For the record, I won't be dating anyone either. Same rules apply to both of us.
I didn't know why that made my stomach flip.
I scrolled further. What's this about Elena?
My assistant. She'll be your handler. Christian pulled out his phone and typed something. She'll coordinate your schedule, take you shopping for appropriate clothes, teach you how to navigate society events. Think of her as your guide to being Mrs. Christian Steele.
Will she know? About the arrangement?
Elena knows everything. She's the only person besides us who will. His jaw tightened. She's also the only person I trust completely. You can trust her too.
Something in his voice made me believe him.
I kept reading. The contract covered everything—what I could wear, where I could go, who I could talk to. Every detail of my life for the next six months was controlled by Christian Steele.
This is insane, I breathed.
This is survival. He took the tablet from me and pulled up the signature page. Sign it, and we both get what we need. You save your father. I save my company. We endure six months and walk away clean.
And if I don't sign?
Christian's expression went cold. Then I report the fraud. Your mother goes to prison. Your father loses everything. And you spend the next five to ten years behind bars for identity theft and wire fraud.
The threat hung in the air between us.
That's not a choice, I said quietly. That's blackmail.
That's business. He held out a stylus. What's it going to be, Mia?
I looked at the contract. At the rules that would govern every moment of my life. At the money that would save my father.
At Christian's ice-blue eyes watching me with an intensity that made my breath catch.
I took the stylus.
My hand shook as I signed my name Mia Chen on the dotted line.
Christian took the tablet and added his own signature with swift, confident strokes. Then he tapped send, and the contract disappeared into cyberspace.
Congratulations, Mrs. Steele. His voice was empty. You're officially mine for the next six months.
Mine.
The word echoed in my head, sending unwanted shivers down my spine.
Christian's phone buzzed. He glanced at it and his expression darkened.
What now? I asked, exhausted.
He showed me the screen.
Another email from his security team.
Webb's investigator interviewed three people tonight who knew Vivienne personally. Including her former roommate and her yoga instructor. They're building a comparison timeline. Estimate 48 hours until they have conclusive proof.
We lost a day? My voice cracked. We only have two days now?
We have tomorrow. Christian's voice was steel. And tomorrow, you become Vivienne Chen Steele so convincingly that no one, not Marcus Webb, not his investigator, not anyone—will doubt who you are.
How am I supposed to do that?
By doing exactly what I tell you. When I tell you. He walked toward the stairs. Elena will be here at seven AM. Don't be late.
Christian
He paused, his back to me.
I'm scared, I admitted.
For a long moment, he was silent.
Then, without turning around: Good. Fear will keep you sharp. We'll need that.
He climbed the stairs and disappeared, leaving me alone in the massive penthouse.
I stood there in my wedding dress, wearing a stranger's ring, signed to a contract that gave away six months of my life.
My phone buzzed.
A text from my father.
Can't sleep. Keep thinking about how beautiful you looked today, Mimi. Your mother said you're exhausted from the wedding and need to rest, so I won't call. But I'm so proud of you. Love you forever. -Dad
My mother. Already controlling the narrative. Already lying to Dad about why I wasn't calling him back.
Tears burned my eyes, but I blinked them away.
I typed a response.
Love you too, Dad. Everything's perfect. I'll call you soon. -M
The lie tasted like acid.
I was about to put the phone down when another text came through.
From Elena Rodriguez—the assistant I hadn't even met yet.
Welcome to the family, Mia. See you at 7 AM sharp. Wear something comfortable—we have a lot of work to do. And don't worry. We'll get through this together. -E
The kindness in her words made my chest ache.
I climbed the stairs to my assigned bedroom—the guest room that would be my prison for six months.
The room was beautiful. Enormous bed with white silk sheets. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park. A bathroom bigger than my entire Brooklyn apartment.
And completely, utterly empty. No photos. No personal items. Nothing that said home.
I peeled off the wedding dress and left it in a heap on the floor. Found an oversized t-shirt in my hastily packed bag and pulled it on.
The bed was soft. Too soft. I sank into it and stared at the ceiling.
Somewhere in this penthouse, Christian was also getting ready for bed. Was he thinking about the contract? About Marcus Webb? About the ticking clock counting down to our exposure?
Or was he thinking about the kiss at the altar?
Because I couldn't stop thinking about it.
The way his lips had felt against mine. The way his hand had tightened on the back of my neck. The way my entire body had responded to his touch—
No.
I shoved the thought away.
This was a business arrangement. Nothing more.
My phone lit up one last time.
A news alert.
Breaking: Vivienne Chen-Cross Released on Bail in Paris Fraud Case - Claims She Knew Nothing of Husband's Crimes
Below it, a photo of Vivienne outside the police station, looking perfectly beautiful even in yesterday's makeup. Her lawyer stood beside her, already spinning the narrative.
My sister was free.
While I was locked in a gilded cage of my own making.
I turned off my phone and closed my eyes.
Tomorrow, I became someone else.
Tomorrow, the real performance began.
And I had forty-eight hours to be perfect.
Or lose everything.