Mia's POV
The conference room was filled with sharks in expensive suits.
Christian's hand stayed locked on mine as we entered. Every eye in the room turned to us—measuring, judging, calculating.
And at the far end of the table sat Marcus Webb.
He was younger than I expected—maybe thirty-eight, with slicked-back hair and a smile that didn't reach his eyes. When he saw me, that smile widened.
Christian! And the beautiful bride. Marcus stood, extending his hand. Vivienne, you look... different. Radiant, of course. But different.
My throat closed.
Christian's arm slid around my waist, pulling me against his side. She had some work done. Minor adjustments. I think she's even more beautiful now.
His voice was warm. Proud. Completely convincing.
Marcus's eyes narrowed. Of course. Though I could swear your voice sounds different too.
Panic spiked through me.
Christian laughed easily. Wedding stress. She's been fighting a cold all week. Haven't you, darling?
He looked down at me, his eyes telling me exactly what to say.
Yes, I managed, making my voice raspy. My throat is killing me.
Poor thing. Marcus's smile was sharp. You should be resting, not attending boring business meetings.
I wanted to support my husband, I said softly, leaning into Christian. His work is important.
Christian's hand tightened on my waist—approval or warning, I couldn't tell.
The meeting started. Christian and Marcus discussed merger terms, market projections, things I barely understood. But I felt Marcus's eyes on me constantly. Watching. Analyzing.
Looking for cracks.
Christian kept me close the entire time—his hand on my knee under the table, his arm around my shoulders when we stood, his fingers playing with my wedding ring during breaks.
To everyone watching, we looked perfectly in love.
But his touch burned through my dress. Made my pulse race. Made me forget this was supposed to be fake.
After an hour, Christian stood. Gentlemen, my wife and I have another engagement. Marcus, we'll continue this discussion tomorrow.
Marcus's eyes glittered. Of course. Enjoy your newlywed bliss while it lasts.
The threat was clear.
We didn't speak until we were in the car, privacy screen up.
Christian's mask dropped instantly. He loosened his tie, tension radiating from his shoulders.
You did well, he said.
He knows something's wrong.
He suspects. That's different. Christian pulled out his phone, typing rapidly. But we gave him nothing concrete. No proof.
Yet.
Yet, he agreed.
The car fell silent. Christian focused on his phone, his jaw tight.
I stared out the window, watching Manhattan blur past. Normal people doing normal things. While I lived this bizarre lie.
I need to work late tonight, Christian said suddenly. Client dinner. You'll eat alone.
Relief and disappointment warred in my chest. Okay.
Elena left instructions in the kitchen. Follow them exactly. He didn't look up from his phone. And stay out of my office.
The coldness in his voice stung.
I already apologized for that
I know. I'm just reminding you. His eyes finally met mine. This arrangement only works if we maintain boundaries. You understand that, right?
I understood perfectly. He was drawing a line.
Reminding me this was business. Nothing more.
Crystal clear, I said.
Something flickered across his face. But before I could identify it, the car stopped at his building.
We rode the elevator in silence. Christian walked to his office without another word.
The door closed behind him with a firm click.
I stood alone in the massive penthouse, feeling smaller than ever.
By eight PM, I was going stir-crazy.
Christian was still locked in his office. The penthouse was silent. I'd tried reading, watching TV, anything to distract myself.
Nothing worked.
Finally, I did the only thing that ever calmed me down.
I baked.
The kitchen was huge and pristine—all marble and stainless steel. The pantry was fully stocked with ingredients I recognized. Flour. Butter. Sugar.
I could work with this.
I tied my hair back, rolled up my sleeves, and started making croissants. The recipe I learned from Dad when I was ten. The one that always made him smile.
My hands moved on autopilot—measuring, mixing, kneading. The familiar rhythm soothed my racing thoughts.
Fold the dough. Turn it. Fold again.
This was real. This was mine. This was something no contract could take away.
Two hours later, the penthouse smelled like butter and home.
I pulled the last tray from the oven—twelve perfect golden croissants. My shoulders relaxed for the first time all day.
I was arranging them on a plate when I heard footsteps.
Christian stood in the kitchen doorway, tie gone, shirt sleeves rolled up. He stared at the croissants on the counter.
You made these? His voice was strange. Soft.
Baking calms me down. I wiped flour from my hands. I hope that's okay. I know the kitchen is probably off-limits too—
It's fine. He moved closer, studying the pastries. They look professional.
My dad taught me. He owns a restaurant in Brooklyn.
Chen's Family Restaurant. Christian picked up a croissant carefully. I know.
He took a bite.
I held my breath, waiting.
Christian's eyes closed. He chewed slowly, and something in his expression shifted. Softened.
This is... He opened his eyes. This is the best croissant I've ever had.
Heat flooded my cheeks. You don't have to say that—
I don't say things I don't mean. He took another bite. Where did you learn this recipe?
My dad. Sunday mornings, we'd make them together before the restaurant opened. My chest ached. He'd tell stories about his childhood in China. About his mother who taught him to cook. About coming to America with nothing.
Christian watched me as I spoke, his expression unreadable.
He sounds like a good man, he said quietly.
He's the best man I know. Tears pricked my eyes. Which is why I'm doing this. Why I signed your contract. Why I'm pretending to be someone I'm not.
To protect him.
To protect him, I agreed.
Christian set down the half-eaten croissant. My father used to make scrambled eggs every Sunday. Terrible eggs. Rubbery and overcooked. But he made them anyway because he wanted to give my mother breakfast in bed.
He walked to the window, staring out at the city.
She never appreciated it. Never appreciated him. She wanted someone flashy and exciting. Someone who'd give her diamonds and trips to Paris. His voice was rough. Instead she got a kind man who made terrible eggs and loved her completely.
What happened? I asked softly.
She had an affair. Multiple affairs. Bled him dry financially and emotionally. He died of a heart attack when I was twenty-two, still believing she loved him. Christian's hands clenched into fists. I vowed I'd never be that stupid.
The pain in his voice made my chest ache.
That's why you agreed to marry Vivienne, I said. Because it was safe. A business arrangement with no emotions.
Exactly. He turned to face me. No vulnerability. No risk. No one could hurt me if I never cared in the first place.
But you still got hurt. She still ran away.
She didn't hurt me. His smile was bitter. She inconvenienced me. There's a difference.
Is there?
His eyes locked on mine across the kitchen. With Vivienne? Yes. She was a transaction that fell through.
And me? The question slipped out before I could stop it. What am I?
Christian walked slowly toward me. Each step deliberate.
He stopped close enough that I could feel the heat from his body. Close enough to see the gold flecks in his ice-blue eyes.
You, he said quietly, are dangerous.
My breath caught. Why?
Because you make croissants that taste like home. Because you smile at me like I'm not terrifying. Because you walked down that aisle to save your father, not yourself. His jaw tightened. Because you remind me that genuine kindness still exists.
Christian
Don't. He stepped back, putting distance between us. Don't make this into something it's not. We have a contract. Six months. Nothing more.
But his eyes told a different story.
Tomorrow we have a charity gala, he said, his voice returning to businesslike. Elena will take you shopping. Wear something elegant. We need to look perfect.
He grabbed another croissant and walked toward the stairs.
At the bottom step, he paused.
The croissants were good, Mia. Really good. His voice was softer now. You have real talent. Don't waste it.
Then he disappeared upstairs, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
I cleaned up slowly, my hands shaking.
You are dangerous.
What did that mean? And why did hearing it make my heart race?
My phone buzzed.
A text from Elena.
Shopping tomorrow at 10 AM. The charity gala is your biggest test yet. Every society wife in Manhattan will be watching. Make Christian proud. - E
Below it, another message. From Marcus Webb.
Enjoyed meeting you today, 'Vivienne.' Though I'm curious—how does a supermodel develop a Brooklyn accent overnight? Looking forward to uncovering the truth. - M.W.
My blood turned to ice.
He'd noticed my accent. The way I spoke. The small slip-ups.
We had less than seventy-two hours before everything exploded.
And I had no idea how to stop it.