Ana stared at him like he was a glitch in the universe.
Christian Blake.
Not just a name in Forbes. Not just a face in tabloids.
He was standing in front of her—real, cold, and just as terrifying as every article made him out to be.
And she had just married him.
"You're... Christian Blake?" she whispered.
His gray eyes didn't flinch. "I thought that was obvious."
Her breath caught. "No, no. I came here for a freelance contract. Design work. I thought this was a signing appointment—"
"It was a signing appointment," he said, voice like ice cracking. "Just not the one you expected."
"This is insane!" Ana took a step back. "I didn't agree to marry you. This is illegal. You can't just—"
"The documents were filed under your name," Christian interrupted. "The license is valid. The witnesses were present. And the media was tipped off ten minutes ago. You're already trending."
She stared at him in horror.
"You knew I wasn't the person you intended to marry," she said slowly. "And you let it happen anyway?"
His silence was her answer.
Ana's mouth went dry. "Why? Why would you marry someone you don't even know?"
He walked to the table, pulled out a leather folder, and placed it in front of her.
Inside: a contract.
"I need a wife for exactly 365 days," he said coolly. "My grandfather's will requires it to secure my inheritance. That's it. You play the part. You get paid. Then we walk away."
Ana blinked. "You married a stranger... for money?"
"I married a name. You were never supposed to be you," Christian said. "But now that you are, we adapt."
"You're unbelievable."
"And you're legally married to me. So you might want to stop yelling," he said without emotion.
Ana's hand shook as she pushed the folder away. "You think I'd sell myself into a fake marriage just to help you secure your empire?"
"I think you're in a position where saying no isn't going to fix anything," he said calmly. "And if you walk out, your name goes down with mine. The media's already running with it."
Ana felt the walls closing in. She hadn't signed up for this. She hadn't asked for cameras or headlines or a damn billionaire husband.
And yet…
Her signature was already on the document.
"Don't worry," Christian added, as if reading her panic. "You'll be compensated more than fairly. Apartment. Privacy. Monthly allowance. I don't expect anything from you, Ana. This isn't personal."
Ana stared at him.
And somehow, that last sentence was the coldest of all.
"This isn't personal."
But for her—it already was.
(Immediately after Ana storms out of the meeting room)
The door clicked shut behind her.
Christian didn't move. He stood by the window, watching her reflection in the glass as she disappeared down the hall.
A sharp silence wrapped around him. One he was used to. One he preferred.
His phone buzzed.
Lucas: You really went through with it? With a stranger?
Christian didn't reply.
He picked up the folder Ana had pushed away—her marriage contract. Her name printed neatly on the line where "Spouse" should be.
He ran a thumb along the signature. Anastasia Rae.
Not the name that was meant to be there.
Not the woman who had once destroyed him in a very different way.
But maybe that was the universe giving him a second shot at control.
He turned toward the bar cart in the corner and poured himself a glass of something dark and expensive. He didn't drink often. Only on days when things… moved.
Today, the board wouldn't question him.
The media would spin it as romantic mystery.
And his grandfather's clause? Locked in.
Married.
For real.
He downed the drink in one gulp, then set the glass down with a quiet clink.
"Checkmate," he muttered under his breath.
But a flicker of her eyes lingered in his memory.
The way she looked when she realized she'd been used.
There was something dangerous about that look. Something human.
Christian frowned.
He didn't like second thoughts.
He didn't like guilt.
And he sure as hell didn't like how her voice still echoed in his mind.
"You let it happen anyway?"
He turned back to the window, jaw tightening.
This wasn't about her.
This was about winning.
And revenge never required permission.
At least, that's what he kept telling himself.
To be continued…