Mia's POV
I woke to sunlight stabbing through floor-to-ceiling windows.
For three beautiful seconds, I forgot where I was. Forgot the wedding. Forgot the contract.
Then I saw the white silk nightgown twisted around my legs and reality crashed down.
I was married to Christian Steele.
I was trapped in a six-month lie.
I was going to be sick.
I bolted upright, heart racing, and grabbed my phone. 6:47 AM. Elena would be here in thirteen minutes.
Christian's side of the penthouse was silent. Had he even come home last night? Or had he spent the night at his office, avoiding the stranger he'd married?
I stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom.
The mirror showed a disaster—mascara smudged under my eyes, hair tangled, lips still swollen from yesterday's kiss at the altar.
The kiss I couldn't stop thinking about.
I splashed cold water on my face and tried not to remember how Christian's hand had felt on the back of my neck. How his mouth had been warm and firm and—
Stop it, I told myself. The contract says no romantic involvement. He made it very clear.
But my traitorous heart didn't care about contracts.
I changed into jeans and a sweater—my own clothes, comfortable and worn—and stepped into the hallway.
The penthouse was silent as a tomb.
Christian? I called.
No answer.
I walked down the hall, past closed doors. Everything was white and pristine, like a museum. Like no one actually lived here.
At the end of the hall, one door stood slightly open.
Christian's office.
Off-limits, the contract had said. Do not enter without permission.
But the door was open. And I just wanted to see
I pushed it wider.
The office was all dark wood and leather, completely different from the rest of the penthouse. Books lined the walls. A massive desk faced the windows. And on that desk sat a framed photo.
I stepped closer.
The photo showed a younger Christian—maybe twenty-two—standing with an older man who had the same ice-blue eyes. Both were smiling. Really smiling, not the cold corporate mask Christian wore now.
His father. The one he'd mentioned last night.
He spent his whole life trying to make my stepmother happy. And she destroyed him anyway.
I reached for the frame
Looking for something?
I spun around.
Christian stood in the doorway, wearing running clothes, sweat dampening his shirt. His hair was messy. His eyes sharp.
He'd been out running. At six in the morning.
I'm sorry, I stammered. The door was open, and I didn't think
The door is always closed. He walked past me and shut it firmly. Elena leaves it open when she cleans. That doesn't mean you're invited in.
I just saw the photo
Which is none of your business. His voice was ice. What part of 'my office is off-limits' was unclear?
Heat flooded my cheeks. I said I'm sorry
Sorry doesn't change the fact that you violated our contract on day one. He crossed his arms. Elena will be here in five minutes. Go wait downstairs.
He turned his back, dismissing me.
Something inside me snapped.
You know what? I'm tired of apologizing! My voice came out louder than intended. I made one mistake. One! I didn't steal anything or break anything or—
Christian turned slowly. Excuse me?
You heard me. My hands clenched into fists. I'm not Vivienne. I don't know all your rules. I don't know how to be the perfect wife who never makes mistakes. But I'm trying, and you standing there acting like I committed a crime because I looked at a photo is—
Is what? He stepped closer. Dangerous. Intense.
Is mean, I finished. You're being mean, and I don't deserve it.
Silence filled the office.
Then Christian's lips twitched. Almost a smile.
Mean? he repeated.
Yes. Mean. Cruel. Whatever word you prefer. I lifted my chin. I signed your contract. I'll follow your rules. But I'm still a person, Christian. Not a robot.
He studied me for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes.
You're right, he said finally. That was unnecessarily harsh. The photo— He paused. It's personal. I don't like people touching it.
I didn't touch it. I just looked.
Even that feels invasive. His jaw tightened. But you're correct. You didn't know. I should have made my boundaries clearer.
Was he... apologizing?
Elena will be here soon, he continued. She'll go over everything—what's allowed, what isn't. After today, you won't have any excuses.
He moved to walk past me.
Who was he? I asked quietly. The man in the photo?
Christian stopped. My father. James Steele.
He looks like you.
I look like him. Christian's voice softened almost imperceptibly. Everyone says so.
He seems happy in that picture.
He was. For about five minutes. Christian's hand gripped the doorframe. Then he married wife number two, and the happiness ended.
I wanted to ask more. Wanted to understand the pain behind his words.
But the doorbell rang.
That's Elena, Christian said. Go. I need to shower and get to the office.
He disappeared into his bedroom, leaving me alone in the hallway.
I walked downstairs on shaking legs.
Through the windows, Manhattan spread out below—millions of people living their normal lives. While I was trapped in this beautiful prison, pretending to be someone I wasn't.
The doorbell rang again.
I opened it.
A woman stood there, mid-thirties, sharp suit, sharper eyes. She studied me like I was a problem to be solved.
Mia Chen, she said. Not a question. I'm Elena Rodriguez. We have a lot of work to do.
She swept past me carrying garment bags and boxes.
First, we're throwing out everything you brought from Brooklyn. Mrs. Christian Steele does not wear Target jeans. She dumped the bags on the couch. Second, we're fixing your posture. You walk like you're apologizing for existing. Stop that.
I
Third, we're working on your voice. Vivienne spoke higher, breathier. You sound like a normal person. That needs to change. Elena pulled out a tablet. I have your schedule for the next three days. It's brutal. Hope you don't need sleep.
My head spun. What's happening in three days?
Christian's business partner is throwing a dinner party. Fifty guests. Including Marcus Webb and his investigators. Elena's eyes were sharp. That's your first real test. You need to be perfect, or Webb proves you're a fraud and Christian loses everything.
Three days. Seventy-two hours.
I can't—
Yes, you can. Elena's expression softened slightly. Christian chose you for a reason. He sees something in you worth protecting. Don't prove him wrong.
She pulled out a measuring tape. Now strip. We're starting with your wardrobe.
Strip? Right here?
Christian's seen you in a wedding dress. I think he can handle seeing you in underwear. She snapped the tape impatiently. Unless you want him to walk in on us? He's in the shower upstairs.
Heat flooded my face imagining Christian in the shower. Water running over his—
Stop it. Contract. No romantic involvement.
I pulled off my sweater.
Elena measured me efficiently, calling out numbers. 34-28-38. Good. We can work with curves. Vivienne was all angles and bones. You're actually more beautiful, but we need to dress you right.
I'm not beautiful
Stop that. Elena's voice was sharp. Rule number one: Mrs. Christian Steele does not put herself down. Ever. You're gorgeous, you're confident, and you know it. Say it.
I can't
Say. It.
I took a shaky breath. I'm... gorgeous?
With conviction.
I'm gorgeous and confident. The words felt like lies.
Better. We'll work on it. Elena pulled out a dress—emerald silk that probably cost more than my car. Put this on. Christian has a meeting at nine. You're going with him.
What? No one said—
I'm saying it now. His investors need to see you together. Happy. In love. Elena's eyes were knowing. Can you fake being in love for two hours?
I thought about Christian's hand on mine. His mouth on mine. The way his eyes had burned when he looked at me.
Yes, I whispered.
Good. Elena checked her watch. You have twenty minutes. Let's make you into Mrs. Steele.
Forty minutes later, I stood in front of a mirror and didn't recognize myself.
The emerald dress hugged my curves perfectly. My hair was styled in soft waves. My makeup was natural but polished. I looked like I belonged in Christian's world.
Better, Elena said. Now walk. Show me your posture.
I walked across the room.
No. You're shuffling. Elena demonstrated. Shoulders back. Chin up. You own this penthouse. Act like it.
I tried again.
Better. Again.
I walked back and forth until my feet hurt.
Acceptable. Elena handed me a pair of heels. Put these on. Christian likes his women in Louboutins.
I can barely walk in heels
Then learn. Fast.
I slipped on the shoes—red-bottomed heels that made me four inches taller. My ankles wobbled.
Walk.
I took three steps and nearly fell.
Elena caught me. Again. You have ten minutes before Christian comes downstairs.
I practiced until my calves screamed.
Finally, I managed five steps without dying.
Good enough, Elena said. Remember, smile, stand close to him, let him do the talking. You're the supportive wife. Nothing more.
Footsteps on the stairs.
Christian appeared, dressed in a charcoal suit that made him look like he could buy and sell countries. His hair was still damp from the shower. He smelled like expensive cologne.
His eyes swept over me—quick, assessing—and something flickered in their depths.
Much better, he said. Elena works fast.
She's terrifying, I said.
Elena smiled. That's the nicest thing anyone's said about me all week.
Christian walked to the door, then paused. You coming, Mrs. Steele?
My new name. My new identity.
I followed him on wobbling heels.
In the elevator, Christian stood close—close enough that I could feel the heat from his body.
You look good, he said quietly. Nervous, but good.
I feel like I'm playing dress-up.
Fake it until it feels real. His hand settled on my lower back—warm, possessive. That's what we're both doing.
The elevator doors opened.
A black car waited.
Christian guided me inside, his hand never leaving my back. We sat close—his thigh pressed against mine in the small space.
Marcus Webb will be at this meeting, Christian said. He'll be watching you. Analyzing everything.
What do I do?
Smile. Look at me like you adore me. Touch my arm occasionally. Let him see that we're real. Christian's eyes met mine. Can you do that?
I thought about the contract. The money. My father's restaurant.
Yes.
Good. His hand found mine, lacing our fingers together. Because if you can't convince Marcus Webb, we both lose everything.
The car pulled up to a sleek office building.
Through the window, I saw them—photographers. Reporters. All waiting for Christian Steele and his new wife.
For me.
Ready? Christian asked.
No. Not even close.
But I squeezed his hand and said, Yes.
He smiled—a real smile that transformed his face.
Then let's put on a show, Mrs. Steele.
The car door opened.
Cameras flashed.
And I stepped into Christian's world, holding tight to his hand.
Praying I wouldn't destroy us both.