I don't know what's worse—the fact that I shaved my legs for a job interview I don't even believe is real, or the fact that I'm actually standing here, in front of a mirrored skyscraper in the middle of Manhattan, pretending like I belong.
Spoiler: I don't.
I've got on my best blazer (thrifted), heels that don't wobble (miracle), and the kind of lipstick that says "I'm employed" even when your resume says "please consider me before I die broke."
The building is called The Obsidian, because of course it is. It's glass, steel, and vibes. The kind of place that smells like generational wealth and lawsuits. Two security guards flank the doors, and one of them actually scans me like I'm packing explosives.
"Name?" he asks, monotone.
"Savannah Dawson," I say. Then tack on, "I have an interview with…" Pause. I glance at my phone again. The email just said: Confidential Interview. Arrive at 10:00 AM sharp. Floor 61. Bring ID. Come alone.
Creepy, right?
Security gives me a once-over, then nods. "You're expected."
Oh-kay.
They buzz me in, and I step into the sleekest lobby I've ever seen. Marble floors. Modern art I'm too broke to understand. A receptionist who looks like she eats interns for breakfast.
The elevator's already waiting for me, doors open like it sensed my presence.
Alright. Cool. No pressure. I'm only walking into a building I've never been in, to interview for a job I didn't apply for, with a man I don't know, who somehow knows my name.
This is fine.
I hit 61, and the elevator launches up so fast my stomach actually drops. By the time the doors open again, my palms are sweating and I'm one wrong look away from running out of here screaming.
But then I see hard back.
He's standing by a massive window, back turned, talking on the phone in a voice so low and sharp it feels like glass dragging across velvet. He's tall. Broad. The kind of tailored menace that makes your lungs forget how to work.
His suit is black. Not navy. Not gray. Black like he buried someone in it this morning. And when he turns around—
Holy hell.
He's gorgeous.
But not in the soft, actor-boyfriend way. No. This man is a problem. Sharp jaw. Ice-blue eyes. Hair so dark it almost looks like ink. And a face that says, I don't lose. Ever.
His gaze slices through me.
"You're early," he says, still holding the phone but no longer listening to whoever's on the line.
"I thought being early was a good thing," I say, trying to sound like someone who isn't barely holding it together with drugstore concealer and blind faith.
He hangs up without a goodbye.
Then gestures toward the glass conference table like it's a throne room and I'm about to be executed.
"Sit."
I sit.
He remains standing, one hand in his pocket, studying me like I'm a stock that might crash any second.
"I reviewed your file," he says.
File?
"I didn't submit a file," I say.
His head tilts. "So,someone did. The person submitted it through a back channel I monitor."
Back channel?
"I liked what I saw," he adds. "Smart. Desperate. Pretty, but not dumb. And not addicted to social media."
"...Thank you?"
"It wasn't a compliment."
Wow. Okay. This man has the personality of a guillotine.
"So," I say, trying to find some balance in this weirdly intense job interview. "What exactly is the position you're hiring for? The ad wasn't very clear."
He leans forward, both hands on the table. His eyes never leave mine.
"I need a wife."
I laugh.
He doesn't.
"I'm sorry—what?"
"A wife. Not a girlfriend. Not a sugar baby. A legal, binding spouse."
Silence.
"You're serious," I say.
He nods once.
"You… want me to marry you."
"Yes."
I blink at him, waiting for Ashton Kutcher to pop out with a camera crew.
"Let me explain," he says, circling to sit across from me. "I'm in the middle of acquiring a company that requires board approval. The board, unfortunately, is old money. Conservative. Married. They trust family men. I am not one."
I squint at him. "So you want to… fake it?"
He raises an eyebrow. "No. I want to legally do it. For one year. I've already arranged the prenup. You'll be paid monthly. Handsomely. And at the end, we dissolve the marriage quietly. No publicity. No scandal."
I laugh again, because this is unhinged.
But also…
"How much?" I ask.
He doesn't flinch. "Half a million. Total. Paid out monthly."
I stop laughing.
"Jesus."
"There will be rules," he says. "Non-disclosure agreement. No public drama. No interfering with my work schedule. No developing feelings."
I snort. "Trust me. That won't be an issue."
His lips twitch. Almost a smile.
"I assume," he says smoothly, "this is a yes?"
I hesitate.
But then I remember my dad. The hospital bills. The eviction notice on our apartment door. My bank account that looks like it belongs to a dead hamster.
And I do the only thing I can do.
I nod.
He stands. "We marry Friday."
"Wait. This Friday?"
"Is that a problem?"
I stand too. "No. Just… wow. That's fast."
He walks to the elevator and presses the button. "You'll adjust."
The doors slide open. He holds them.
And just before I step in, I look back at him.
"Do I at least get to know your name?" I ask.
He smiles, sharp and unreadable. "Matthew Jones."
Then the doors shut.
And I realize I just said yes to marrying a stranger.
For half a million dollars.
In three days.
By midnight.