The rain wouldn't stop that night. It came down hard, tapping against the tall office windows like it was trying to break its way in.
I stood at the doorway, half-soaked, hugging a small bag to my chest. My clothes clung to my skin, my hair was damp, and my fingers had gone numb from the cold.
I shouldn't have come. I told myself that a hundred times on the way here. But reason doesn't matter when you're desperate.
The message had been short:
"Come to Ethan Hayes' office. 8 PM."
No explanation. No warning. Just that.
I almost ignored it. I almost deleted it and pretended I'd never seen it. But then I thought about my brother—his pale face, the oxygen mask hissing with each shallow breath—and that was enough to make me get in a cab and come here.
I needed the money. I needed it more than I needed my pride.
When the door opened, Ethan Hayes was exactly where I expected him to be—behind that massive desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, posture too calm for a man who ran half the city.
He looked up at me. Didn't smile. Didn't even seem surprised.
"Miss Miller," he said, his voice calm and low, steady like the rain outside.
"Sit down."
My legs moved before my mind caught up.
The office smelled faintly of wood polish and rain. Everything inside screamed wealth—the sleek desk, the marble floor, the city lights glowing behind the glass walls.
He studied me for a few seconds, eyes sharp and unreadable. Then he asked, "Do you know why you're here?"
I shook my head. "No, sir. You just… you sent for me."
"I did," he said. "Because I have a proposal."
My heart skipped. "A… proposal?"
He leaned back in his chair, gaze steady. "A marriage. With me."
I thought I'd misheard him. I even laughed—a small, nervous sound that died too fast.
But his face didn't change.
"A marriage?" I whispered, searching for any sign that this was a joke.
"Yes," he said evenly. "You'll marry me for six months. When it ends, you'll receive ten million dollars. No strings."
I froze. For a second, the sound of rain was all I heard. My pulse pounded so hard it hurt.
"This isn't funny," I said.
"I'm not joking."
His voice didn't waver once.
My throat went dry. "Why me?"
He paused, eyes flickering with something distant. "You remind me of someone."
That was all. No name. No explanation.
The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy.
I didn't know what to say.
Finally, I whispered, "And if I say no?"
"Then walk away," Ethan said, leaning forward slightly. "But the offer won't come again."
I looked down at my shaking hands. I thought about hospital bills, overdue rent, my brother's weak smile, and how hope felt like a luxury I couldn't afford anymore.
It was madness. All of it.
But desperation makes you brave.
"I'll do it," I said quietly. The words tasted strange in my mouth.
---
The next morning, I signed the papers. My hand trembled so much that the pen left uneven strokes on the pages.
Ethan didn't look at me once. He just flipped each page over, pointing where to sign. His tone was brisk, his face unreadable. It wasn't a conversation—it was a transaction.
When we finished, he said, "My driver will pick you up tonight. Move into the mansion."
That was it. No emotion. No smile. Just business.
By evening, I stood in front of a house that looked too perfect to be real—white walls, wide iron gates, a garden that smelled like rain and roses.
Before I could knock, the door opened.
A woman with kind eyes and soft gray hair smiled warmly. "You must be Emily," she said. "I'm Mrs. Hayes. Welcome, dear."
Her voice was gentle, and for a brief second, I felt something close to peace.
"Thank you," I whispered.
Home. The word felt foreign.
---
Days passed.
Ethan was polite, but distant—always distant.
He left early, came home late, barely said a word over dinner. He'd sit across from me, scrolling through his phone or reading reports like I wasn't there. Sometimes, though, I'd catch him looking at me when he thought I wasn't paying attention. That look—cold, searching, almost pained—always made my chest tighten.
But he never said a word about it.
One night, I couldn't sleep. I padded downstairs barefoot and found him sitting in the dark living room, the city lights spilling through the windows and painting half his face gold and half in shadow.
He looked tired. Human, almost.
"Couldn't sleep?" I asked softly.
He didn't look up. "I don't sleep much."
I hesitated, then crossed the room and sat across from him. "Do you regret this?"
He turned his head slightly, eyes meeting mine. "What?"
"This marriage."
He stared at me for a long time, his expression unreadable. Then he said, "Regret doesn't fix things."
The words lingered in the air, sharp and sad all at once. I wanted to ask what he meant, but he stood up and walked away before I could say another word.
---
Then came Lydia.
Tall. Striking. The kind of woman who made rooms fall silent when she walked in.
I'd seen her before—on magazine covers, in interviews, in photos where Ethan's name was always printed beside hers.
When I walked into his office that afternoon, she was already there—laughing, leaning close to him like they were the only two people in the world.
The laughter stopped the moment she saw me.
"So, you're the wife," she said, her tone slicing through the air. "Interesting choice, Ethan."
I froze. Ethan's jaw clenched. "Lydia, that's enough."
But she wasn't done. She moved closer, her perfume expensive and suffocating.
"You must be proud," she said, voice sweet and poisonous. "Marrying a man you know nothing about."
My pulse raced. "That's not true—"
"Oh, sweetheart," she smirked. "You have no idea what kind of man he is."
"Leave," Ethan said, his voice low, warning.
Lydia smiled, slow and deliberate, like she'd already won. Then she turned and walked out.
Her perfume lingered long after she was gone.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep again.
Lydia's words replayed in my head like a curse. You don't know what kind of man he is.
I turned over again and again until I heard Ethan's voice downstairs.
I crept halfway down the stairs, barefoot and silent.
He was on the phone, his back to me.
"She doesn't know," he said, his voice low. "And she doesn't need to. The deal's done. Six months and she's gone."
My chest tightened.
"She's nothing to me," he said. "This was never about her."
The glass in my hand slipped and shattered on the floor.
He turned sharply. "Emily—"
But I was already running.
---
The rain came down in sheets as I burst outside. Cold and sharp, it soaked through my clothes instantly.
"Emily!" Ethan's voice echoed behind me. "Wait!"
I turned, hair plastered to my face, tears mixing with rain.
"Was it all fake?" I shouted. "Every word?"
He didn't answer.
My heart cracked in my chest. "I thought you were different."
Lightning split the sky, white and violent.
And then, a voice I never wanted to hear again.
"You should've kept quiet, sweetheart."
Lydia.
She stood behind Ethan, holding up her phone.
On the screen—our wedding photo. My name. His signature.
And then came the bright flash.
Live.
Broadcasting.
My breath caught as I realized what was happening.
The world now knows.
Ethan Hayes, billionaire.
And me...Emily Miller.
His secret wife.