Day two was worse.
Rowan Vale ran his empire like a war room and Mara like a private battlefield.
By noon she had re-typed the same email six times because he didn't like the word "regards."
By three she had cancelled and re-booked his private jet twice because the leather colour in the new Gulfstream "offended" him.
By six she was surviving on spite and vending-machine expresso.
At 7:15 p.m. the entire floor was dark except for the glow spilling from his office.
Everyone else had fled hours ago.
Mara was printing the final version of tomorrow's board packet when the intercom crackled.
"Whitlock. My office. Bring the Tanaka file."
She grabbed the folder and walked in.
Rowan was at the window, city lights glittering behind him like scattered diamonds.
Jacket off, white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled high.
He looked exhausted in a way that made him more human and twice as dangerous.
He didn't turn around.
"Do you know why I own this company, Mara?"
The use of her first name jolted her.
"No, sir."
"My grandfather started Vale Industries in 1948 with one ship and a loan he could never repay. He died of a heart attack on the dock when my father was nineteen. My father rebuilt it, took it public, but spent the last ten years gambling it away on bad investments and worse women. He later met my mom and fell in love with her, She changed him, he decided to become a better man and spent the last thirty years building this empire and my grandfather's legacy"
His voice was quiet, almost conversational. "Six months ago he had a stroke. He's alive, but the board is circling. They want new blood. They want me gone."
He finally faced her.
"I need controlling shares to stay CEO. My father's will is… complicated. There's a morality clause. If I'm not 'settled'...married or credibly engaged... by my thirty-fifth birthday, fifty-one percent of voting stock reverts to a charitable trust run by my uncle. My uncle who has been waiting thirty years to sell this company for parts."
Mara's mouth went dry. "When is your birthday?"
"Four months and twenty-two days."
He crossed the room until he stood directly in front of her.
"I don't have time to date, besides I don't date. I don't trust anyone who wants to date me. Every woman in my phone would sell the story to Page Six before dessert."
He reached into his desk drawer and slid a black folder toward her.
"Six-month engagement contract. You will move into the penthouse tomorrow. You will accompany me to exactly seven events—four family dinners, two charity galas, one weekend in Aspen with my mother. You will wear the ring I give you. You will smile for photographs. In return I pay every debt you have tonight, give you one million dollars now, another million on the day the clause expires. After six months we stage an amicable break-up. You walk away rich and untouchable."
Mara stared at the folder like it might explode.
"Why me?" she whispered.
Rowan's smile was thin and sharp.
"Because you hate me. You're not dazzled by money—you tore up ten grand in the rain. You have no powerful family, no hidden agenda. You need this job, which means you won't quit when I'm difficult." his gaze flicked over her face, something unreadable flickering there,
He stepped closer.
"Plus, my mother might like you."
Mara's heart pounded so hard she was sure he could hear it.
"I'm not an actress."
"You won't have to be. Just be quiet, polite, and let me do the talking."
She opened the folder.
The first page listed her outstanding debts—hospital bills, credit cards, student loans—every ugly number itemised like he'd had her investigated overnight.
He had.
Page two was the penthouse address.
Page three was the ring: 6.8 carat Asscher-cut diamond, platinum band, already sized.
Page four made her breath stop.
Clause 17: The Party of the Second Part shall reside exclusively at the residence of the Party of the First Part for the duration. Separate bedrooms may be provided at the discretion of the Party of the First Part.
She looked up.
"You want me to live with you."
"I want this to look real. Separate apartments don't look real."
Silence stretched.
Mara thought of Lucas's sneer, Camille's smile, the eviction notice still taped to her old door.
She thought of never having to choose between groceries and electricity again.
She picked up the Montblanc pen.
Rowan watched her, expressionless.
She signed.
He took the contract, slid it into a locked drawer, and pressed a button on his desk.
"Security will escort you to your apartment tonight. Pack light. A mover will handle the rest tomorrow. Car arrives at 7 a.m."
Mara nodded, numb.
She was almost at the door when he spoke again, voice softer.
"Mara."
She turned.
Rowan was staring out at the city, hands in his pockets.
"You can still say no. Walk away right now, keep your job, no hard feelings."
For one heartbeat she considered it.
Then she remembered the sound of Camille moaning Lucas's name.
"I already signed," she said.
He gave a small, almost-smile. "Good."
She left.
The elevator ride down felt like falling.
At 11:47 p.m. Mara stood in her tiny, half-empty apartment throwing clothes into a single duffel bag.
Her phone buzzed—an unknown number.
She answered.
"Miss Whitlock?" A woman, crisp and professional. "Mr. Vale asked me to inform you that your debts have been cleared. Confirmation emails are in your inbox. The first payment will hit your account at midnight."
Mara sank onto the bare mattress.
Midnight came and went.
Her banking app refreshed.
Balance: $1,000,000.00
She stared at the zeroes until they blurred. How did she get here? One minute she was broke with only $32 left to her name, Now she has a million dollar sitting pretty in her account.
At 6:58 a.m. the next morning a black Maybach idled outside her building.
The driver loaded her one sad duffel into the trunk like it weighed nothing.
Mara climbed into the back seat.
Rowan was already there, reading on a call in rapid Japanese.
He ended it, slipped the phone away, and finally looked at her.
No greeting.
Just one slow, assessing sweep from her messy bun to her scuffed flats.
"Seatbelt," he said.
She clicked it.
The car pulled away from the curb.
Forty-five silent minutes later they entered an underground garage beneath a building that looked like a blade of black glass.
Private elevator.
Penthouse button.
The doors closed.
Rowan leaned against the mirrored wall, arms crossed.
"Ground rules," he said. "You have the east wing. I have the west. Common areas are neutral. You do not enter my bedroom. Ever. You do not bring anyone here. Ever. You speak to the staff only when necessary. You smile when I tell you to smile. You cry in your own bathroom. Understood?"
Mara lifted her chin. "Crystal."
The elevator opened directly into the penthouse.
Marble floors, thirty-foot ceilings, windows everywhere.
A view that made Manhattan look like a toy set.
Rowan walked ahead, not looking back.
"Your room is down the hall on the left. Staff unpacked you already. Wardrobe is stocked. Ring is on the dresser."
He paused at a set of double doors.
"Tonight we have dinner with my mother. She thinks we've been secretly dating for three months. Try not to look like you want to murder me."
He disappeared inside what was clearly his private wing.
Mara stood alone in the echoing silence.
She walked to her new bedroom, bigger than her old entire apartment.
On the dresser sat a black velvet box.
She opened it.
The diamond caught every shard of morning light and threw it back like fire.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
A new message from an unknown number.
One line.
Welcome home, fiancée.
Mara's hand trembled.
And then, from the hallway, Rowan's voice—low, amused, dangerous.
"Oh, and Mara?"
She stepped out.
He was leaning in his doorway, shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes dark.
"Try not to fall in love with me.
It never ends well."
The door closed.
'He's so full of himself' Mara thought, she stared at the ring, heart hammering.
And somewhere in the apartment, a grandfather clock struck eight.
Six months had just begun.
She realized she had just sold six months of her life to a ruthless playboy and a devil.
And
from the master bedroom drifted the faint, unmistakable sound of a woman's laugh.
Soft.
Intimate.
Very much still there.