My mother's hospital bill was $50,000. And I had exactly $32 in my bank account. "Miss Hayes, if we don't get the deposit by Friday, we'll have to take Mrs. Hayes off the priority list," the nurse said on the phone, her voice almost sympathetic. I stared at the eviction notice taped to our tiny apartment door. Second one this month. That was when the email came in. Subject: URGENT: Contract Marriage - $100,000 for 6 Months. I thought it was spam. Or worse, a trafficking scam. But the sender was Sterling & Associates - the biggest law firm in Manhattan. I clicked it. We represent a private client seeking a contractual wife for a period of six months. Requirements: Female, 22-26, presentable, educated, no criminal record, no current romantic attachments. Compensation: $100,000 plus all living expenses, paid in full upon completion. Discretion is absolute. If interested, be at 590 Park Avenue, Penthouse A, tonight at 8 PM. Come alone. It was crazy. Insane. The kind of thing you see in romance novels. But $100,000 would save my mom. It would save our home. I had nothing left to lose. 590 Park Avenue was not an apartment. It was a kingdom in the sky. The elevator opened directly into the penthouse, and I was met by a wall of glass overlooking all of New York. And standing in front of it, with his back to me, was the tallest, broadest man I had ever seen. He was in a black suit that looked like it was sewn onto him. Dark hair, perfectly styled. He turned around. And I forgot how to breathe. He was beautiful. Not handsome - beautiful. Like a statue that had been carved too perfectly. Sharp jaw, cold grey eyes that looked right through me, and lips that were pressed into a hard line. He looked me up and down, and his frown deepened. "You're late," he said. His voice was deep and cold enough to freeze water. "I'm - I'm Lila. Lila Hayes. For the -" "I know who you are. I had you background-checked before you even got in the elevator." He walked to his desk and picked up a thick file. "Lila Hayes, 24. Mother - cancer patient at St. Jude's. Father - absent. $12,000 in student debt. Works at a bookstore for $15 an hour. You're evicted in three days." My cheeks burned with shame. "You didn't have to -" "I need to know what I'm buying," he said bluntly. Buying. "I'm not for sale," I whispered. "You are tonight. Sit." I sat, my hands shaking. He slid a document across the polished marble table towards me. It was thick. At least 20 pages. "This is a standard non-disclosure and marital contract," he said. "My name is Damien Sterling. I am 31. CEO of Sterling Industries. My grandfather is dying. His last wish is to see me married before he passes. He is... traditional. He will not leave me controlling shares of the company unless I am married and 'settled.'" "So you want me to be your fake wife?" "I want you to be my wife. On paper, in public, in front of my family. For six months. You will live here. You will attend events with me. You will convince my grandfather that I am a changed man. In return, you get $100,000. Your mother's bills will be paid. Your debt will be cleared. At the end of six months, we divorce quietly, you sign another NDA, and you never see me again." He said it like he was ordering coffee. No emotion. It sounded simple. Too simple. "What's the catch?" I asked. He stared at me, his grey eyes dark. "There are rules," he said. "One: No falling in love. Two: No sex. I do not mix business with pleasure. Three: You do not touch my things. You do not ask about my business. And four: You do absolutely nothing to embarrass me." No falling in love? As if I would fall for a cold robot like him. "And if I break a rule?" "I will ruin you." He said it so calmly that I knew he meant it. "Do you understand?" I should have walked out. Every instinct told me to run. But then I thought of my mom's face. The hospital machines. "Okay," I said, my voice barely audible. "I'll do it." Something flashed in his eyes. Surprise? Relief? He held out a Montblanc pen. "Sign." I took the pen. My hand was trembling so hard I could barely write my name. Lila Hayes. The moment I signed, he took the document back and looked at me. For the first time, his eyes softened - just a fraction. "Welcome home, Mrs. Sterling," he whispered. And then, without warning, he leaned across the table, took my chin in his large, warm hand, and pulled me close. His lips were inches from mine. I could feel his breath. "One more rule, Lila," he murmured, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "From now on, you only look at me like that. Like you're obsessed with me. Because my grandfather is watching. Always." My heart slammed against my chest. This was a mistake. A huge, terrible mistake. Because for a second, when he touched me, I didn't have to pretend at all.

I thought signing the contract was the hard part. I was wrong. The hard part was when Damien's driver pulled up in front of my crumbling apartment building in a black Maybach, and all my neighbors came out to stare. "You have ten minutes," the driver said. Ten minutes to pack my entire life. I ran upstairs. My mom was asleep on the couch, her scarf wrapped around her head. The chemo had taken all her hair last month. "Mom," I whispered, shaking her gently. "Mom, we're moving." She opened her eyes. "Lila? What time is it?" I had told her I got a new job. A live-in housekeeper job for a very rich family. It wasn't exactly a lie. "It pays a lot, Mom. Enough for your treatment. Enough for everything. But I have to live there." She touched my face. "Is it safe?" I thought of cold grey eyes and a thumb on my lip. "I think so," I lied. I packed one small suitcase. That was all I had that was worth taking. Two pairs of jeans, three old tops, my bookstore uniform, and a photo of me and my mom. When I came back down, the driver was holding the door open like I was someone important. The penthouse at night was even more terrifying than during the day. Damien was waiting for me in the living room, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He had taken off his jacket. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up, showing strong, veined forearms. He looked at my tiny, battered suitcase and his jaw tightened. "That's all you have?" "It's all I need." He scoffed. "We have a problem then. My grandfather is coming for dinner tomorrow. He cannot see my wife dressing like a charity case. You will embarrass me before we even start." My eyes stung. "I don't have money for new clothes. That's why I'm here, remember?" He stared at me for a long second, then put his glass down and walked toward me. I backed up until my back hit the door. He stopped right in front of me. Too close. I could smell his cologne - expensive, woody, intoxicating. "Lila," he said, his voice low. "You are Mrs. Sterling now. At least for the next six months. My wife does not wear rags. My wife wears Dior. Do you understand?" "I - I understand." "Good." He stepped back and picked up his phone. "Elena will be here in twenty minutes with clothes. Your room is down the hall, last door on the left. Do not enter my room. Ever." "My room?" "Yes. We are married, but we are not that married. We will have separate rooms. This is business." Of course. Separate rooms. No sex. No falling in love. Rules. So why did my chest feel a little... disappointed? Twenty minutes later, a beautiful woman named Elena arrived with racks and racks of clothes. Dresses, heels, bags. All designer. All my size. "How did you know my size?" I asked Damien. "I know everything about you, Lila," he said without looking up from his laptop. "I told you. I had you checked." I went into my room - my room was bigger than our entire old apartment - and tried on a black dress. It hugged me perfectly. I had never felt so beautiful. And so fake. When I came out, Damien finally looked up. He stared. His eyes went from my face, down to my waist, down to my legs, and back up again. His throat moved as he swallowed. For a moment, the cold CEO was gone. He just looked like a man looking at a woman. "You'll do," he said hoarsely, quickly looking back at his laptop. But his hands were clenched tight. Elena smiled knowingly. "Mr. Sterling has good taste." That night, I lay in a bed that was softer than clouds, in a room that cost more than my life, wearing silk pajamas that cost $500. And I stared at the ceiling, listening to the silence of the penthouse, wondering if I had just sold my soul. Then there was a knock on my door. "Lila?" It was Damien's voice. I opened the door. He was standing there in black pajama pants and no shirt. My mouth went dry. The man had abs that looked photoshopped. "My grandfather calls early," he said, his eyes avoiding mine. "He will want to speak to you tomorrow. If he asks how we met -" "How did we meet?" I interrupted. We never discussed it. He stepped into my room, closing the door behind him. "We met at the bookstore you work at. I came in to buy a first edition for my grandfather. You recommended poetry. I fell in love with your mind before your body. Tell him that." "That's... actually romantic." "It's a lie. Just remember it." He turned to leave, then stopped. He looked back at me, his eyes lingering on my silk pajamas. "And Lila? Don't ever open the door dressed like that again. Unless you want me to break my own rules."

My hands would not stop sweating. I had changed dresses four times. The black one made me look too serious, the red one made me look like I was trying too hard, the white one made me look like a bride, and now I was in a soft blue silk dress that Elena swore brought out my eyes. "Stop fidgeting," Damien said from behind me. He was standing in the doorway of my room, leaning against the frame. He was in a navy suit that made his grey eyes look almost blue. He looked calm, collected, perfect. Like he did this every day. "I'm nervous," I admitted. "My grandfather is a sweet old man. He just wants to see me happy. You just have to pretend you are the reason I am happy. Can you do that?" I nodded. He walked over to me and before I could react, he reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brushed my cheek. "You look beautiful," he said quietly. My heart did a stupid little jump. "Thank you," I whispered. "Don't thank me yet. Wait until you meet him." The doorbell rang. Damien's entire body tensed. "That's him. Remember the story. Bookstore. Poetry. Love at first sight." "Poetry, bookstore, love at first sight. Got it." He took my hand. His hand was large and warm and it swallowed mine completely. It was the first time he had held my hand. "Ready, Mrs. Sterling?" The way he said Mrs. Sterling sent shivers down my spine. We walked out together. A frail old man with snow-white hair and kind eyes was standing in the living room, leaning on a cane. But his eyes were sharp, just like Damien's. This was Mr. Arthur Sterling, the man who owned half of New York. "So this is the girl who finally tamed my grandson," Arthur said, smiling at me. Damien's hand tightened around mine. "Grandfather, this is Lila. Lila, my grandfather." I smiled, the best smile I could manage. "It's so nice to meet you, Mr. Sterling." "Arthur, please. Any wife of Damien's is family." He looked me up and down, but not in the cold way Damien did. His look was warm, approving. "You're even more beautiful than he said." Damien told him I was beautiful? Arthur took my other hand. "He told me he met you in a bookstore. He said you were reading Rilke and he knew you were the one." Rilke. I had never read Rilke in my life. I worked at a bookstore but I mostly stocked the romance section. "Oh, yes," I said quickly. "Rilke. Letters to a Young Poet is my favorite." I saw Damien's eyebrows rise slightly. He was impressed I knew that. Arthur beamed. "A girl who reads Rilke. No wonder he's obsessed. Damien never cared for books unless they had dollar signs." "Hey," Damien protested, but there was a smile in his voice. A real smile. I had never seen him smile before. It transformed his entire face. Dinner was... surprisingly nice. Arthur told stories about Damien as a little boy. Damien rolled his eyes but he listened, his thumb drawing small circles on the back of my hand under the table. That thumb was distracting. It made it hard to think. "So, Lila, tell me," Arthur said as dessert was served. "What do you love about my grandson?" I froze. What do I love about him? I had known him for 24 hours. He was cold, rude, arrogant, controlling. But he had paid for my mother's hospital bill without me even asking. Elena had told me this morning that the hospital had received full payment anonymously. I looked at Damien. He was watching me, his eyes warning me: don't mess this up. I took a deep breath. "I love that he pretends he doesn't care," I said slowly. "But he does. He acts like he's all business, all cold. But he notices everything. He notices when someone is hurting. And he fixes it, even if he pretends it's just business." The table went silent. Damien stared at me, his mouth slightly open. His thumb had stopped moving on my hand. Arthur's eyes glistened. "Exactly like his father," he whispered. After dinner, Arthur hugged me goodbye. "Take care of him, Lila. He's been alone a very long time." When the door closed, Damien and I stood in silence. "You did well," he finally said, his voice strange. "Did you really pay my mom's hospital bill?" I asked. He didn't answer. He just walked to the window, his back to me. "Damien?" "It was part of the contract. Living expenses." "It wasn't in the contract." He turned around. His eyes were dark, stormy. "Don't read into it, Lila. Don't make it more than it is." But he wouldn't look at me. "Why are you looking at me like that?" I whispered. "Like what?" "Like you're angry at me for telling the truth." He walked toward me, slowly, until we were chest to chest. He was so close I had to crane my neck to look up at him. "I'm not angry," he said, his voice low and rough. "I'm trying very hard not to break rule number two." No sex. Oh. My breath caught. He reached out, as if to touch my face, then stopped himself, his hand fisted at his side. "Goodnight, Lila," he said, and walked away to his room, leaving me standing alone in my blue dress, my hand still tingling where he had held it.