(Amira's POV)
I barely slept that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him, Leonardo Vance, standing by that tall window, his voice calm and powerful as he said, "You'll hear from me soon."
He didn't sound like a man who made empty promises.
By morning, I was restless. I paced the small kitchen, pretending to make breakfast, but my thoughts kept drifting back to that cold office and his piercing eyes.
Mom's soft cough pulled me back to reality. She sat up weakly on her bed, her face pale but smiling.
"Morning, sweetheart," she said in a tired voice. "Did the interview go well?"
I forced a smile. "It was... different."
She raised an eyebrow. "Different good or different bad?"
I didn't know how to answer that. "I guess I'll find out soon."
She nodded slowly, her smile fading. "Just be careful, Amira. People like them... they play by their own rules.
"I will," I said quietly. But deep down, I already knew it was too late.
At exactly noon, my phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Mr. Vance requests your presence at 4 p.m. A car will pick you up. Do not be late.
That was it. No explanation. No name.
My hands trembled as I read the message again. It didn't sound like an invitation — it sounded like an order.
I thought of ignoring it, but something in my chest whispered that this was important. That maybe, just maybe, this was my only way out.
So, I typed a reply: I'll be ready.
At four o'clock sharp, a sleek black car stopped in front of our worn-out apartment building.
A tall man in a suit stepped out and opened the back door. "Miss Daniels?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Vance is expecting you."
The car smelled like leather and money. As we drove through the city, I stared out the window, wondering what I was walking into.
When we finally stopped, I realized we weren't at the same office building.
This was somewhere else—a quiet glass tower surrounded by tall hedges and private security.
The driver opened my door. "Top floor," he said simply.
I swallowed hard and stepped into the elevator.
When the doors opened, I froze.
The place didn't look like an office at all. It looked like a penthouse wide, open, and beautiful.With Glass walls, marble floors and grand piano in one corner.
And there he was.
Leonardo Vance stood by the window again, one hand in his pocket, staring at the city below like he owned it.
"Miss Daniels," he said without turning around.
"Mr. Vance." My voice sounded small, even to me.
"Sit."
I obeyed. My heart was pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it.
He finally turned, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe. He looked impossibly sharp in his black suit — calm, controlled, and unreadable.
"I assume you're wondering why you're here," he said, his tone smooth.
"Yes," I admitted.
He placed a black folder on the glass table between us. "I have an offer for you."
My fingers itched to touch it, but I didn't move. "A job offer?"
"Something like that," he said. "But not a normal one.
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
He looked directly at me. "I need someone to act as my girlfriend for the next six months."
My mouth fell open. "Your what?"
"My girlfriend," he repeated. "Publicly, at least."
I blinked. "This is some kind of joke, right?"
"I don't joke," he said flatly.
My heart skipped. "You want to hire someone to pretend to date you?"
"Yes," he said simply. "There are false stories spreading about me in the media — things that could damage my reputation and my company. I need to look stable and... human."
"And you think I can help with that?
"You're believable," he said. "Real. People will trust what they see."
I laughed nervously. "You don't even know me."
He leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving mine. "I know enough. You need money. I need discretion. We can help each other."
"I came for a real job," I said. "Not this."
"This is a job," he said calmly. "A well-paid one."
He opened the folder and slid it toward me. "The contract explains everything."
I hesitated, then slowly opened it.
The first few lines looked normal — dates, signatures, legal terms. But then I saw something that made my stomach drop:
The client agrees to live with Mr. Leonardo Vance for the duration of the agreement.
I looked up sharply. "Live with you?"
He nodded once. "If we live separately, it won't be believable."
"Unbelievable," I muttered. "You're insane."
He didn't react. "You can walk away. But think carefully before you do."
"Why?"
"Because your mother's hospital needs payment by next week," he said smoothly. "If I'm right, you can't afford it."
My breath caught. "How do you know about my mother?"
He didn't flinch. "I know everything I need to."
"That's not your business," I said, my voice trembling.
He leaned forward slightly. "You're right. It's not. But I make it my business when I see potential."
"This is manipulation," I whispered.
"This is opportunity," he corrected. "Six months. I'll pay you more than you've ever dreamed of. You'll have comfort, protection, and freedom after. I'll have my peace."
I stared at him, shaking my head. "Why me?"
He smiled faintly. "Because you're not like the others."
"The others?"
"The ones who would say yes too easily."
For a second, our eyes locked, and I couldn't look away. There was something unreadable in his gaze — power, yes, but something else too. Something almost lonely.
"I need time to think," I said finally.
"You have twenty-four hours," he said. "My driver will return tomorrow. If you're not in the car, I'll take your silence as a no."
"And if I say yes?"
He paused, then said quietly, "Then your life will never be the same."
I left the penthouse feeling like I'd just walked out of a storm.
The ride home was a blur. The city lights glowed outside the window, but my mind was miles away — replaying every word he said.
When I got home, I sat at the small kitchen table and pulled the folder from my bag.
It was heavy, like it carried the weight of my future.
I flipped through the pages again, rereading the numbers, the rules, the warnings:
Six months.
Live with him.
Pretend to be his girlfriend.
It sounded crazy and dangerous. Maybe even wrong.
But then I thought of Mom — the bills, the sleepless nights, the fear of losing her because I couldn't pay for her medicine.
And for a moment, I wondered if selling my peace was the same as saving her life.
I looked at the empty line where my name should go.
Signature: Amira Daniels.
My fingers hovered over it. My chest felt tight.
The rain started again outside, soft and steady, just like the night I first met him.
Maybe it was a sign. Maybe it was madness.
I was about to close the folder when my phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Time's running out, Miss Daniels. Choose wisely.
My heart stopped.
I looked at the message again, my pulse pounding in my ears.
How did he know I hadn't decided yet?
I turned toward the window. Across the street, a black car sat under the dim light — engine running, windows tinted.
Someone was watching.
And that's when I realized—
This wasn't just an offer.
It was a trap.