The towering silhouette of Ashford Tower loomed like a fortress of glass and steel, slicing into the skyline like a blade. Amelia craned her neck as she stood outside the revolving doors, her worn heels barely holding up after a brisk subway run.
She took a breath. Her palms were damp.
The building was intimidating—mirrored glass from top to bottom, clean lines, perfectly polished. People in suits flowed in and out like water, talking into earpieces, checking watches worth more than her entire apartment. No one here paused. No one hesitated. They all belonged.
She didn't.
Still, she tugged at her blazer—a thrift store find, one size too big—and stepped forward. The revolving door whooshed closed behind her, sealing her fate.
The lobby was a cathedral of corporate power—marble floors, high ceilings, and an enormous Ashford Enterprises logo mounted in brushed gold on the far wall. A chandelier glistened above like a thousand hanging icicles.
Amelia approached the front desk, trying to keep her voice steady. "I… I have an appointment. Executive Suite 9B."
The receptionist didn't smile, but she nodded with the efficiency of someone who dealt with billionaires daily. "Name?"
"Amelia Hart."
A brief scan of the screen. Then: "Take elevator C to the 49th floor. You'll be expected."
Amelia blinked. Expected? What kind of job interview came with that kind of weight?
The elevator ride was eerily quiet. Just her and a smooth jazz instrumental playing from hidden speakers. She watched the numbers climb: 12… 21… 34… 49.
When the doors slid open, the mood changed entirely.
The 49th floor was… different.
It wasn't a bustling office like she'd imagined. It was quiet. Intimate. There were no cubicles or ringing phones. Just a long corridor lined with black wood panels and minimalist art. At the end was a pair of tall glass doors, frosted with the initials: D.A.
Amelia walked toward them, her heels tapping the floor like a countdown.
She raised a trembling hand and knocked.
No answer.
She hesitated… then turned the handle.
The office inside was enormous and flooded with morning light from wall-to-wall windows that overlooked the city. A massive glass desk sat near the window, sleek and spotless. Behind it, in a tailored black suit, stood a man with his back to her, staring out at the skyline like a king overseeing his empire.
He didn't turn around.
But he spoke. His voice—she recognized it immediately."I see you came."
She swallowed. "Yes. Though… I'm still not sure what this is."
He turned then.
And Amelia forgot how to breathe.
He was tall—easily over six feet—with broad shoulders and sharp features. His hair was dark and swept back with effortless precision. His eyes were piercing gray, cold and unreadable. There wasn't a single crease in his suit or a line out of place on his face. Everything about him radiated power… and distance.
Damien Ashford.
The man himself.
He walked toward her slowly, eyes assessing. "You look different than your file photo."
"Excuse me?"
"Less desperate in the picture," he said, with a ghost of amusement in his voice.
Her cheeks flushed hot. She opened her mouth to respond, but he raised a hand to silence her.
"I'm not here to interview you for a job, Miss Hart."
The room tilted a little.
She blinked. "Then why…?"
He stepped closer. "Because you're not here to work for me. You're here to marry me."
The silence rang loud between them.
Amelia stared, stunned. "I—what?"
"You heard me." He spoke like he was offering nothing more shocking than a coffee order. "One year. In exchange, I'll transfer one million dollars to your name. Half up front. The other half when the marriage ends."
She gaped at him. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"
"No," he said coolly. "This is business. I require a legal spouse to satisfy a clause in my grandfather's will. You need money. A lot of it. Immediately."
Her pulse thudded in her ears.
"How do you know about that?"
He turned to his desk, tapped a few keys. Her hospital records, financial history, even loan rejections—all of it—appeared on a screen behind him.
"I make it my business to know everything before I make an offer."
"You investigated me," she said, voice tight.
"I did," Damien replied, "because if you're going to be wearing my last name, I need to be certain you won't embarrass it."
She was still frozen. "You don't know me."
"I know enough. You're clean, responsible, and most importantly—desperate. That makes you dependable."
It wasn't a compliment. It was a calculation.
"I'm not for sale," she whispered.
"You're not. You're for rent," he corrected, unblinking. "One year, no physical expectations, no emotional entanglements. Appearances only. You get your money. I get my company."
She stood silent for a long moment, chest rising and falling.
And then she asked the question she hadn't meant to ask aloud.
"Why me?"
He met her eyes. For the first time, something flickered in his gaze—briefly, almost too fast to catch.
"Because," he said quietly, "you're the only one who looked me in the eye the entire time we've spoken."
He slid a contract across the glass desk.
"One year," he repeated. "You walk away with a clean break and a fortune. Or… you walk out of here and back into the world where no one's offering you anything at all."
Amelia stared down at the paper. Her fingers trembled.
Behind her eyelids, she saw her brother's pale face.
And for the first time in her life, she realized: sometimes survival means saying yes to something you don't understand—yet.
🖤 Next Chapter Preview:Amelia signs the contract and steps into a new world of luxury, cold stares, hidden glances, and strict rules. But not even she is prepared for the storm Damien Ashford truly is.