The moment Riley stepped into the towering glass facade of the Grant Corporation, her heart pounded so hard she feared it might burst from her chest. But she forced herself to stand tall, each step toward the elevator deliberate, as though she weren't walking into a deal that could alter her life forever.
"Miss Bennett, Mr. Grant is expecting you," said Margaret, Alexander's assistant, her tone as poised as ever. But Riley caught the flicker of scrutiny in the woman's eyes.
The elevator climbed steadily—42nd, 43rd, 44th floor—each number bringing her closer to a future that was no longer hers to control.
Alexander's office door was open. He stood facing the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to the room. Even from behind, his posture radiated power and distance.
"Have a seat," he said without turning around, his voice cool and measured.
Riley sat in the same chair she had occupied the day before. On the desk sat a thick folder, her name printed cleanly across the cover.
"I assume you've made your decision," Alexander finally turned, those glacial blue eyes scanning her face with clinical precision. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be here."
"I have," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "I accept your proposal."
"Good." He opened the folder. "But before we proceed, there are a few things you should know."
He began reading: "Riley Anne Bennett. Twenty-four. Born in Los Angeles. Bachelor's degree in English Literature from UCLA. Currently working as a freelance screenwriter. Father, David Bennett, deceased—heart failure—left behind a debt of one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Mother, Linda Bennett—pancreatic cancer, terminal stage."
Riley's face paled. "You did a thorough job digging into my life."
"That's not all." Alexander continued, unflinching. "Ex-boyfriend, Lucas Ward, an actor—cheated, you broke up. Best friend, Sophie Blake, art curator, and your current landlord."
"That's enough," she snapped. "You know everything. I get it."
"Not everything," he replied smoothly. "But enough."
He returned to his desk and retrieved a second folder. "This is the official draft of the agreement. I suggest you read every clause."
Riley flipped through the document. Legalese swarmed the pages.
"I can summarize it for you," Alexander offered. "First—this is a three-year contract. During that time, you will be my legal wife. On paper only."
"I understand." Her hand trembled as she turned the page.
"Second—you'll live in my Upper East Side residence. Separate bedrooms, shared spaces. You'll attend social functions with me—family gatherings, business galas, charity events."
"What kind of events?" she asked warily.
"The Grant name carries weight in New York. You'll be expected to behave accordingly," he said. "I'll arrange training—etiquette, speech, composure."
"Training?" she echoed.
"I won't have you embarrassing me in front of board members or family."
"I'm not uneducated."
"No," he agreed. "But you're unprepared."
She swallowed the sting of his words and continued reading. "'No physical intimacy permitted outside of public displays required to maintain the appearance of a loving marriage.'"
"Correct."
"But if we're pretending to be in love…"
"We'll act like it in public. That's all." His tone was clinical. Detached.
Another clause caught her eye. "'If the second party—' that's me—'breaches the emotional clause, the contract is void at the discretion of the first party.' What emotional clause?"
Alexander's jaw tightened. "You can't fall in love with me."
"What?" she stared at him.
"Love complicates things," he said. "If you develop real feelings for me, the contract ends."
"But… we're pretending to be a couple—"
"There's a difference between acting and reality," he interrupted. "This is a business arrangement. I'm not interested in romance, and I expect you not to be either."
She studied him. "Do you really think you can control someone's emotions?"
"I believe in discipline and boundaries."
"And if I can't separate the two?"
"Then we end this now."
Riley thought of her mother. The hospital bills. The calls from creditors. She had no choice.
"I can do it," she said, though part of her doubted it.
"Good. Now, more terms—You are not to disclose the nature of this marriage to anyone. Not your friends. Not your mother. Violation will result in a five-million-dollar penalty."
"Five million?" she gasped.
"My reputation—and the company's—depends on discretion."
Riley flipped to another page. "You'll monitor my whereabouts?"
"To ensure compliance."
"That sounds like surveillance."
"It's protection."
"For who?" she asked quietly.
"For both of us."
The final page detailed the financials. $500,000 immediately to the hospital, $10,000 monthly living allowance, and a $1 million lump sum after three years—contingent on full compliance.
"What if I want out early?"
"You forfeit all benefits except the hospital payment. You'll also reimburse the monthly allowance."
Riley felt sick. This was far more binding than she imagined. It wasn't a marriage—it was a contract of submission.
"I need time to think."
"There is no time," he said, glancing at his watch. "Either we go to court now, or this deal is off the table."
She looked at him, ice-blue and unreadable. Then she pictured her mother—frail, dying.
"If I sign this," she whispered, "my life won't be mine anymore."
"No," he agreed, "not for the next three years. But afterward, you'll be free. And very wealthy."
Riley closed her eyes. When she opened them, resolve burned in her gaze.
"I want one condition added."
Alexander arched a brow. "Go on."
"If you break the contract—by being caught in a scandal with another woman—I reserve the right to terminate the agreement and keep all compensation."
He considered this. "Fair."
"And," she continued, "I want to visit my mother regularly."
"That can be arranged."
Riley signed the bottom of the page. Her signature trembled, but it was legible.
Alexander signed next. His pen strokes were as precise as his words.
"Congratulations, Mrs. Grant," he said. "In an hour, you'll be my wife."
Riley swallowed hard. What had she just done?
"When will the hospital receive the money?"
"I'm handling it now." He picked up the phone. "Margaret—authorize the $500,000 transfer to NewYork-Presbyterian for Linda Bennett's surgery. Immediate processing."
"Yes, sir," Margaret's voice crackled from the other end.
"Now," he said to Riley, "let's go."
They took his private elevator to the underground garage, where a sleek black Rolls-Royce awaited them. She climbed in, sinking into the leather seats of a life she didn't belong to.
The courthouse ceremony was swift. Alexander had arranged everything.
"Do you take this man…?" the judge asked.
"I do," Alexander said, as if confirming a business acquisition.
"I do," Riley echoed, numb.
"You may kiss the bride."
Alexander turned to her. "This is necessary," he murmured before brushing his lips against hers—brief, cold, and calculated.
And yet, the contact sent a strange ripple through her.
As they stepped outside, Alexander handed her a small velvet box.
"Your ring."
Inside was a massive diamond, flawless and dazzling.
"It's valuable," he said. "Guard it well."
She slipped it on. It was heavy. Not just in carats—but in meaning.
"Let's go home," Alexander said.
Riley took one last look at the New York skyline through the tinted glass of the Rolls.
Her new life had begun.
Even if it was built on a lie.