Emily Ross stood outside the towering glass building, gripping the crumpled contract in her hand. The early autumn wind tugged at her coat, but the chill that gripped her came from somewhere much deeper — her heart.
Three months ago, she had it all: a prestigious surname, a fiancé from a powerful family, and a future paved with silk and champagne. Now, she was about to walk into a stranger's office to trade her dignity for survival.
Her fingers tightened around the contract. It was simple, brutally so: three months of a fake marriage. No love. No interference in each other's personal lives. Absolute discretion.
In exchange?A bailout for her father's bankrupt company.A lifeline for the Ross name.
She walked through the marble lobby, each step echoing against the cold floors. The receptionist looked up and, as if expecting her, gestured silently toward the private elevator. No words were spoken. None were needed.
Emily took a deep breath as the elevator ascended.This is just a business transaction, she reminded herself.Like signing a lease. Or a merger. Just... with a man.
The doors slid open on the top floor. A sleek hallway led to a single black door, slightly ajar.
She stepped in.
The room was cold. Modern. Immaculate.
So was the man behind the desk.
Alexander Knight didn't look up immediately. He was reviewing papers, the silver watch on his wrist catching the light as he moved. His presence filled the room even in silence, tall, composed, and unapproachable. The kind of man who commanded empires before breakfast.
"You're late," he said, without glancing up.
"I wasn't aware we had an exact time," she replied, matching his tone with practiced poise.
He finally looked up.Gray eyes. Sharp jaw. Expression unreadable.Emily felt a chill again — not of fear, but of recognition. This was a man who could ruin you or save you with the same sentence.
"You read the contract?"
"Yes."
"And you understand the terms?"
"Yes."
His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, as if weighing her soul.
"Good," he said, sliding a pen across the desk. "Sign it."
Emily walked over and signed with a firm stroke.
No hesitation. No tears.Just survival.
Alexander observed her as she signed. She was beautiful, yes — but more than that, she was composed. Controlled. Not a damsel begging for rescue, but a queen who'd lost her throne and was ready to reclaim it, piece by piece.
The kind he could work with.
"Your things will be moved into my penthouse by this evening," he said. "A staff member will assist you with clothing and appearance standards."
Emily raised an eyebrow. "Appearance standards?"
Alexander looked up from his papers. "We'll be attending public events together. You're now Mrs. Knight, at least in the eyes of the world. You'll be expected to act like it."
Her voice stayed calm, but steel laced the words. "I didn't sign up to be your puppet."
"No," he said. "You signed up to be my wife."
They stared at each other, two storms quietly brewing in parallel.
Then she nodded once. "Fine."
That evening, Emily stood in the guest room of Alexander's penthouse — if "guest room" could describe a space larger than most Manhattan apartments.
A new wardrobe hung in the closet. Designer labels. Cold elegance.All of it screamed his world — sharp, calculated, untouchable.
She touched the edge of a midnight-blue evening gown. Soft silk, stiff memories.
So this is my life now, she thought. Wearing someone else's choices. Living someone else's lie.
The door knocked once before opening.
Alexander stepped in, dressed in charcoal black. His gaze flicked across her face, then the untouched wardrobe.
"Get ready. We have a charity gala in an hour."
"I need more time."
He checked his watch. "You have twenty minutes."
Emily crossed her arms. "You're enjoying this, aren't you? Pulling strings. Controlling the narrative."
He stepped closer, his voice low. "No, Emily. I'm surviving it — same as you."
Their eyes locked again. But this time, something shifted.A flicker of something unspoken. Recognition. Pain. Fire.
Then he turned and left.
Emily exhaled.She had twenty minutes to become someone else.Mrs. Alexander Knight.
And so began a marriage written not in love, but in necessity.
What neither of them knew —Was that necessity often grow roots deeper than passion ever could?