The world outside the window is a predator.
A hungry, circling beast made of flashing lights and long lenses.
And we're the bait.
Theo doesn't move.
He just stands beside me, watching the frenzy he knew was coming.
He was never just managing a crisis.
He was waiting for the trap to spring.
My dream, the Atherton Clinic, flashes behind my eyes.
The clean lines of the research labs.
The chance to do real, meaningful work.
The life I've sacrificed everything to build.
Then I see the headline.
Renowned Trauma Therapist in Unethical Vegas Wedding Scandal.
It's over before it even begins.
Unless…
I hate him for it.
I hate him for being right.
I hate that his insane, manipulative, completely unhinged idea is the only lifeline in sight.
I take a slow, steadying breath, pulling every ounce of my professional composure around me like a shield.
"Fine."
The word is small, but it costs me everything.
Theo turns his head slowly, his eyes searching mine.
He's looking for the cracks.
For the fear.
"Fine?" he repeats, a single eyebrow raised.
"Yes. Fine," I say, my voice gaining strength. "We do this. We play this ridiculous game."
A slow smile spreads across his face.
The smile of a chess master who just cornered the queen.
"But," I add, holding up a single, trembling finger. "If we do this, we are not improvising."
"No?"
"No. We are not two chaotic messes making it up as we go along."
"Could have fooled me."
"We need rules," I continue, ignoring him. "We need boundaries. We need a legally binding document that governs every aspect of this… arrangement."
"A contract," he says, the amusement dancing in his eyes.
"A contract," I confirm. "Non-negotiable."
"Everything is negotiable, Doc."
"Then you can negotiate with the paparazzi."
I turn from the window, my decision made.
My soul may be on fire, but at least I can try to write the fire code.
The hotel business center is a circle of beige hell.
The fluorescent lights hum with a depressing, monotonous buzz.
The air smells faintly of warm plastic and desperation.
A balding man in a terrible suit is loudly printing a fifty-page PowerPoint presentation.
And here we are.
Me, in last night's clothes, which now feel like a costume of shame.
And Theo Raine, looking infuriatingly fresh and in charge, tapping his fingers on the desk.
We're about to draft the operating agreement for our own personal psychodrama.
It's the most surreal moment of my life.
And that's saying something.
I sit at one of the computer terminals, my back ramrod straight.
My fingers find the keyboard.
This, at least, is a familiar feeling.
Control.
A blank document stares back at me.
"Okay," I begin, the clicking of the keys unnaturally loud in the quiet room. "Article one. Term."
"Six months," he supplies, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. "One hundred and eighty days of wedded bliss."
I type.
"Article two. Nature of the Relationship."
I pause.
"The relationship will be, for all intents and purposes, strictly platonic."
"Ouch," he says. "No conjugal visits?"
My head whips around to glare at him.
"This is a business arrangement, Theo. Not a romance."
"Right. Business. Got it." He smirks. "Just checking the fine print."
I turn back to the screen, my cheeks burning.
I type faster.
"Clause 2a: Separate living quarters will be maintained at all times."
"Acceptable."
"Clause 2b: Public displays of affection will be limited to what is deemed necessary to maintain the public narrative. Hand-holding is permissible. Kisses on the cheek at galas. Nothing more."
"You're breaking my heart, Elara."
"Clause 2c: There will be no expectation of intimacy, emotional or otherwise."
I stop, my fingers hovering over the keys.
This is the important part.
The wall.
"Article three," I continue. "Financial Arrangements."
"Simple," he says. "What's mine is mine, what's yours is yours. I'll handle all joint household and public-facing expenses. You won't owe me a thing."
It's a clean break. Too clean. But I can't afford to argue.
"Article four. Confidentiality."
"The ironclad NDA," he says, nodding in approval. "Breach of contract results in financial ruin and social annihilation. I like it. My lawyers will love it."
For the next twenty minutes, we hammer it out.
A protocol for dealing with family.
A script for intrusive questions from the press.
A list of approved joint appearances.
With every clause I type, I feel a tiny piece of myself returning.
These are rules.
This is a framework.
This is a cage, yes, but it's a cage of my own design.
I can survive this.
"There," I say, scrolling through the three-page document. "I think that covers the major contingencies."
"It's a masterpiece," he says, his voice laced with a humor I don't appreciate. "A pre-nuptial agreement for a marriage that's already happened. It's poetic."
He leans forward, his chin resting on his hand as he reads over my shoulder.
I can feel his breath on my neck.
I refuse to move.
"It's good," he says after a moment. "Very thorough. You didn't miss a thing."
He pauses.
"Except one."
I turn to him. "What?"
"My clause," he says simply.
He reaches around me, his arm brushing mine, and takes control of the mouse.
His presence is overwhelming.
All I can smell is cedar and ozone and the faint, clean scent of his skin.
He highlights a space at the bottom of Article two.
His fingers, long and sure, move across the keyboard.
He types a new clause.
Clause 2d.
My eyes follow the words as they appear on the screen, each one a nail in a coffin I didn't see coming.
Clause 2d: The Therapeutic Boundary. Party A (Dr. Elara Voss) will not, under any circumstances, attempt to analyze, diagnose, treat, or otherwise engage in therapeutic practice with Party B (Theo Raine).
My breath catches in my throat.
He keeps typing.
The therapist-patient relationship is permanently and irrevocably terminated. Party B will not be a patient, a case study, or a subject of professional inquiry. All interactions will be between two equal, private citizens.
He stops.
The words stare back at me from the screen.
A declaration of independence.
A weapon aimed directly at the heart of my identity.
He's stripping me of my armor.
He's taking away my professional shield, the one thing that has always separated us, the one thing that gave me power in our dynamic.
He's not just a patient anymore.
And I'm not his doctor.
According to this, I'm just… a woman.
A woman who is trapped in a fake marriage with him.
"No," I say, the word a choked whisper. "That's not… that's not necessary."
"I think it is," he says, his voice quiet but unyielding. He pulls back, and the warmth of his presence is gone, leaving the space beside me cold. "You're brilliant at what you do, Elara. Too brilliant. I can't spend six months as a bug under your microscope."
"That's not what I do."
"It's exactly what you do," he counters. "It's how you protect yourself. You analyze, you diagnose, you keep everyone at a safe, clinical distance. Not this time. Not with me. If we're going to be partners in this little farce, then we're going to be equals."
"This clause isn't about equality," I argue, my voice rising. "This is about you refusing to be held accountable for your own psychological chaos."
"No," he says, his eyes locking with mine. They're deadly serious. "It's about me refusing to let you hide behind your PhD. It's my one condition. My dealbreaker."
He leans back in his chair, the picture of calm.
"Those are my terms. Take them, or we can go say hi to the nice men with the cameras downstairs."
He has me.
And he knows it.
The Atherton Clinic.
A stable personal life.
I close my eyes, defeated.
"Fine," I bite out.
I print two copies.
We sign them right there, using a cheap pen chained to the desk, next to the man who is now collating his PowerPoint.
The signatures are stark and angry on the page.
Elara Voss.
Theo Raine.
A contract for a lie.
A six-month sentence, signed and sealed.
We stand up. The deal is done.
And in the sterile, humming silence of the business center, my phone rings.
The sound is a gunshot in the quiet room.
I look at the screen.
MAYA
My best friend.
My lawyer.
The sanest, most ruthless person I know.
My heart plummets to my sensible, currently-missing shoes.
I have to answer. Ignoring Maya is not an option.
I take a step away, turning my back on Theo for a sliver of privacy that I know doesn't exist.
I swipe to answer.
"Maya," I say, trying to sound normal and failing spectacularly.
"Don't you 'Maya' me, Elara Voss," she screeches, her voice a hurricane of controlled panic. "I have exactly one question for you."
"Okay…"
"Why," she says, her voice dangerously low and fast, "did I just get a TMZ push alert on my phone, with a crystal-clear photo of you, kissing Theo-goddamn-Raine outside a Vegas wedding chapel, under a headline that says 'BILLIONAIRE TYCOON'S SHOCK VEGAS WEDDING'?"