(Noor's POV)
It was two days before my parents were set to leave for their couples' retreat in Kuwait, and everything in the vineyard already smelled like goodbye.
Mom had been humming all morning as she packed her favorite scarves, while Dad kept wandering between the kitchen and the wine cellar, pretending to check labels he'd memorized years ago. The house felt different lighter, but lonelier.
I tried to focus on work instead. The café was slow that afternoon; sunlight spilled through the windows of Noor's Latte & Brew, painting soft gold lines across the counter. I was sketching a new logo idea on a napkin a steaming cup shaped like a heart. Cute, right? Maybe too cute for a woman whose dreams were on hold.
The bell above the door chimed.
I didn't look up immediately. Tourists, probably. Or one of the vineyard staff wanting another cappuccino. But then the air shifted heavy, controlled, confident. Like someone who never entered a room; they claimed it.
When I finally looked up, I froze.
The man standing by the counter didn't look like someone who belonged in a small café. He was all sharp lines and composure dark suit, gold cufflinks, eyes like winter. Even his stillness had power.
"Good afternoon," he said, voice smooth but distant. "You're Noor Bayender, right?"
"Yes…" I said slowly. "And you are?"
He pulled a card from his coat pocket and slid it across the counter. Ethan Ellison.
The name hit like static. I'd seen it before in magazines, online business articles, those glossy features about Manhattan's youngest real estate mogul. He was that Ethan Ellison.
My pulse skipped. What was someone like him doing here?
He leaned slightly against the counter, eyes steady on me. "I'll get straight to the point. I know you applied for a business loan recently."
I blinked. "What, how do you know about that?"
"Does it matter?" His tone was calm, almost cold. "What matters is that I'm here with an offer."
I crossed my arms, instinctively on guard. "An offer for what? A coffee franchise audit?"
The corner of his mouth twitched not quite a smile, more like a man amused by his own secret. "Marriage."
I laughed. Out loud. "Marriage? Is this a prank? Because if it is, you might want to work on your delivery."
He didn't flinch. "It's not a prank. It's a contract. Two years. In exchange, I'll provide full financial backing for your business expansion including your second café branch."
I stared at him, the words not sinking in. Marriage? Contract? Expansion?
"Why me?" I asked finally.
"Because you're perfect for what I need."
I hated how he said it. Like I was part of a checklist. Like I was a convenient solution.
"And what exactly do you need?" I asked, my voice a bit sharper.
He hesitated for a second, studying me like he was choosing how much truth to give away. "My parents are retiring. They've made certain… conditions for succession. This arrangement satisfies them and helps me secure a merger I've been working on for two years."
"So, you want me to pretend to be your wife for two years?"
"Yes."
"And in return, you'll give me enough money to expand my café?"
"Correct."
I shook my head, half-laughing again, though my heart was racing. "You're insane."
"I've been told that," he said simply.
There was something about the way he said it not defensive, not proud. Just factual. Like insanity was a familiar suit he'd learned to wear comfortably.
I leaned on the counter, trying to read him. "Do you do this often? Walk into women's cafés and offer them fake marriages?"
He actually smiled this time faint, but it reached his eyes for a second. "No. You're the first."
I swallowed. The room felt smaller now, the air thicker. His cologne was subtle, expensive, intoxicating. I hated that I noticed.
"I don't know who told you about my loan, but this whatever this is doesn't make sense."
He straightened, slipping his hands into his pockets. "It doesn't have to. It just has to work."
And just like that, he turned to leave. No desperation, no pleading, just that calm, businesslike finality. Like he'd already made peace with rejection.
Something in me snapped then. Maybe pride, maybe instinct. Or maybe it was the way he walked away confident, certain I'd say no.
"Wait."
He stopped at the door, turned halfway. Those steel eyes met mine again.
"What's the catch?" I asked softly.
He tilted his head. "You'll be my wife, on paper. Attend events. Look the part. And when it's over, we both walk away richer in our own ways."
"Emotionally richer too?" I teased, trying to cover the chaos inside me.
He almost smiled again. "Let's not complicate things."
I looked down at his business card Ethan Ellison, Ellison Estates. It felt unreal. Like the universe was playing a joke too expensive for me to get.
My parents' laughter floated from the vineyard outside. I thought of Dad's voice the night before: You're destined for big things, Noor. Don't let fear stop you.
Maybe this was what he meant. Or maybe I was out of my mind.
I looked back at Ethan. "Do you even drink coffee?"
He arched a brow. "Only when it's good."
"Then sit down," I said, motioning toward a table. "If I'm going to sign my life away for two years, at least let me serve you a proper latte."
He hesitated for a second probably not used to being told what to do then sat. I made his drink carefully, slower than usual, trying to ignore the tremor in my hand.
When I slid the cup in front of him, he lifted it, took one sip, and looked at me differently like he wasn't expecting it to taste that good.
"What do you think?" I asked.
"It's perfect," he said. "Balanced. Strong."
The way he said strong made my pulse flutter again. I hated it.
He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a sleek folder, and placed it between us. "All legal. You can have your lawyer look at it."
I stared at the papers at my future at him.
"You're really serious about this?"
"Completely."
Something inside me some rebellious, reckless spark whispered, Why not?
I picked up the pen he offered. My hand hovered over the dotted line.
"This is crazy," I murmured.
"Most good things are," he replied, voice low.
I signed.
When I looked up, he was already watching me unreadable, but there was something else there too. Admiration, maybe. Respect. Or maybe just relief.
"Congratulations, Mrs. Ellison," he said quietly.
The words sent a shiver down my spine.
I laughed nervous, breathless. "You should probably have that latte now, Mr. Ellison."
He smiled really smiled this time. "I already did."
And as he stood to leave, the bell above the door chimed again. I watched him disappear into the Manhattan sunlight, my heart pounding in rhythm with the fading echo of his footsteps.
Somewhere deep inside, I knew nothing about my life was ever going to be the same again.