POV: Emma Winters
The eviction notice felt like ice against my fingertips as I read it for the third time, hoping the words would somehow rearrange themselves into something less catastrophic. Thirty days. That's all I had left before losing my jewelry studio—the cramped Brooklyn space that represented everything I'd worked for since graduating art school.
I crumpled the paper and tossed it toward the overflowing trash can, missing by at least two feet. Even my aim was off today. The morning light streaming through the grimy windows illuminated the chaos of my workspace: half-finished pieces scattered across my workbench, unpaid supplier invoices creating a paper mountain beside my laptop, and the coffee mug I'd been nursing since dawn, now cold and bitter.
My phone buzzed. Marcus again.
"Em, just saw your dad at the club. He's worried about you. So am I. We could get married next month—solve all your problems. Think about it. xo"
I deleted the message without responding, just like I'd done with his last five texts. Marcus Vale had been my friend since childhood, my fiancé for six months, and my biggest mistake for longer than I cared to admit. His solution to my financial crisis involved walking down the aisle with him and accepting his trust fund as my salvation. The thought made my stomach turn.
Another buzz. This time it was Dad.
"Emma, sweetheart, let me help. Your pride isn't worth losing your dream."
I stared at his message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Richard Winters could write me a check for half a million dollars without blinking—pocket change for the CEO of Winters Corporation. But taking his money would prove what I'd been fighting against my entire life: that I was just another spoiled rich girl playing at independence.
No. I'd figure this out myself.
The bell above my studio door chimed, and I looked up expecting to see Mrs. Chen from next door, coming to complain about my music being too loud again. Instead, a man stepped into my space, and everything seemed to shift.
He was tall—easily over six feet—with dark hair and the kind of commanding presence that made the air feel different, charged somehow. His charcoal suit probably cost more than my rent, and his steel-gray eyes swept across my chaotic studio with an expression I couldn't read. When his gaze finally settled on me, I felt exposed, like he could see right through my carefully constructed facade of having everything under control.
"Miss Winters." His voice was deep, controlled, with just a hint of something that might have been amusement. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
I straightened, suddenly aware of the paint smudges on my hands and the fact that I was wearing yesterday's jeans. "Do we have an appointment? I don't usually take walk-in consultations." Professional. I could do professional, even with my world crumbling around me.
"We don't." He stepped closer to my workbench, his movements precise and deliberate. "I'm researching local artisans for a corporate project. Your work was recommended."
That was impossible. I barely had enough clients to keep the lights on, and corporate projects weren't exactly beating down my door. But I watched as he picked up one of my pieces—a delicate silver bracelet I'd been working on—and examined it with genuine attention.
"This is exquisite," he said, turning the bracelet to catch the light. "The craftsmanship is exceptional. Most commercial jewelry lacks this kind of artistic integrity."
Despite my suspicion, warmth bloomed in my chest. "Thank you. I believe jewelry should tell a story, not just... exist."
He set the bracelet down carefully and turned those penetrating gray eyes back to me. "And what story does this one tell?"
I hesitated. Usually when people asked about my inspiration, they were just making conversation. But something in his expression suggested he actually wanted to know. "Resilience," I said finally. "The silver's been heated and hammered, shaped by pressure, but it emerges stronger and more beautiful than when it started."
Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or recognition. "Interesting." He moved to examine another piece, a necklace I'd designed around a raw emerald. "How long have you been working independently?"
"Three years." I crossed my arms, trying to project confidence I didn't feel. "I prefer maintaining creative control over my designs."
"Even when independence comes at a significant cost?"
The question hit too close to home. I glanced at the pile of bills on my desk, then back at this mysterious stranger who seemed to see too much. "Some things are worth the struggle."
He nodded slowly, as if I'd passed some kind of test. Then he did something that stopped my heart—he smiled. It was subtle, barely there, but it transformed his entire face from intimidating to devastatingly attractive.
"I agree," he said. "In fact, I have a proposition that might interest you."
Before I could ask what kind of proposition, he was pulling out a business card—thick, expensive stock with embossed lettering. I took it, my fingers brushing his for just a moment. The contact sent an unexpected jolt through me.
"Adrian Blackstone," I read aloud, then looked up sharply. "Blackstone Industries?"
Everyone in New York knew that name. Blackstone Industries was one of the most powerful corporations in the city, maybe the country. Tech innovation, real estate, acquisitions—if it involved serious money and serious power, Blackstone was involved. And this man was...
"You're the CEO." It wasn't a question.
"Guilty." That almost-smile again. "And you, Miss Winters, are exactly what I've been looking for."
My heart was beating too fast. "For your corporate project?"
"Something like that." He moved closer, and I caught a hint of expensive cologne—something subtle but intoxicating. "I need someone with your particular talents for an exclusive contract. Very exclusive. Very lucrative."
The way he said it made my mouth go dry. "What kind of contract?"
"The kind that comes with a two-million-dollar signing bonus."
I actually laughed, the sound slightly hysterical even to my own ears. "Two million? For jewelry design? What exactly would you want me to create for that kind of money—a crown?"
His expression grew serious, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost intimate. "Actually, Miss Winters, I'd want you to create something much more valuable than jewelry. I'd want you to create the appearance of a marriage."
The world seemed to tilt sideways. "I'm sorry, what?"
"A marriage contract. One year, exclusively with me, for business purposes." His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing the weather instead of the most insane proposal I'd ever heard. "Two million up front, plus a monthly allowance and full support for expanding your jewelry business. All for playing the role of my devoted wife in public."
I stared at him, waiting for the punchline or the hidden cameras or something that would make this make sense. "You're serious."
"Completely."
"You want to pay me to marry you."
"For one year. After that, we divorce quietly, you keep the money, and we both move on with our lives. Think of it as performance art with exceptional compensation."
My legs felt weak. I sank onto my work stool, still clutching his business card. "Why? Why would you possibly need to hire a wife?"
Something shuttered in his expression, the warmth disappearing so quickly I might have imagined it. "Corporate image. Investors and board members prefer their CEOs to appear stable, settled. A wife projects reliability, especially one with your... particular background."
"My background?"
"Your father's reputation in the business community is impeccable. A connection to the Winters family would be beneficial for certain negotiations."
Of course. It always came back to Dad and his money and his connections. Even this impossible offer was really about him.
But two million dollars would save my studio, launch my business properly, give me the independence I'd been fighting for. All I had to do was pretend to be married to possibly the most intimidating man I'd ever met.
"This is insane," I whispered.
"Is it? We'd both get what we need. You get financial security and business support. I get corporate credibility. Everyone wins."
"What about..." I gestured vaguely between us. "Living arrangements, personal lives, expectations?"
"Separate bedrooms. No interference in your personal relationships outside of public appearances. Think of me as a business partner with benefits—financial benefits," he clarified quickly. "Nothing more."
Nothing more. Right. Except I was looking at him and thinking that nothing more might actually be the problem. Even in my current state of shock and financial desperation, I wasn't blind. Adrian Blackstone was the kind of man who probably had to fight off attention, not pay for it.
"I need time to think," I said.
"Of course." He straightened his already perfect tie. "Forty-eight hours should be sufficient."
"Forty-eight hours? That's not very long to decide whether to marry someone."
"It's a business decision, Miss Winters, not a romantic one. Analyze the terms, consider the benefits, make a choice based on logic rather than emotion."
The coldness was back in his voice, reminding me that whatever momentary warmth I'd glimpsed was probably just another part of his corporate arsenal. This man didn't do anything without calculating the cost and benefit.
But as he headed toward the door, he paused and looked back at me. "For what it's worth, I think you'd be surprised by what you're capable of achieving with the right resources behind you."
Then he was gone, leaving me alone with his business card, my mountain of bills, and the most impossible decision of my life.
I looked at the eviction notice on the floor, then at the card in my hand. Adrian Blackstone's direct line was embossed in elegant silver script.
Two million dollars.
One year.
A marriage that wasn't really a marriage to a man who wasn't really what he seemed.
My phone buzzed again—Marcus, probably, with another text about how marriage to him would solve all my problems. But somehow, I couldn't stop staring at that business card and thinking that maybe my problems had just gotten a lot more complicated.
And maybe, just maybe, that wasn't entirely a bad thing.
The business card felt warm in my palm as I turned it over, running my finger along the embossed edges. Forty-eight hours to decide whether to marry a stranger. Forty-eight hours to choose between the safety of depending on someone else and the terrifying possibility of getting exactly what I'd always wanted.
But as I sat there in my cramped studio, surrounded by my dreams and my debts, one thought kept echoing in my mind: Adrian Blackstone had known my name before I'd told it to him.
How was that possible? And why did it make my heart race instead of making me run?