ALMS TO LOVE CHAPTER 3

Fiona bit her lip, holding back tears.

“Thank you, baby.”

“I love you more than yucky soup.”

“I love you more than all the stars.”

“Even the ugly ones?”

“Even the ugly ones.”

The call ended, and Fiona sat still, eyes closed.

When she finally stood, she wasn’t the same woman who walked into that marble room an hour ago.

She was a mother with a mission.

And soon… she’d become the wife of a man who didn’t believe in love—but might be about to learn just how dangerous it was to underestimate a woman fighting for her child.

Outside, the music throbbed and laughter spilled through velvet curtains, but in this room—this private little war zone—the air was still.

Fiona stepped in slowly, phone clutched in her hand like a lifeline, the ghost of her daughter’s voice still echoing in her chest.

Charles Billion stood near the tinted window, watching the city lights shimmer below. One hand held a crystal glass of scotch, the other rested on a leather folder placed deliberately on the table between them.

He turned only slightly, his voice low and sharp as a scalpel.

“Well?”

Fiona flinched.

“She said yes,” Fiona whispered. “But she also said if you make me cry, she’ll bite you.”

A flicker of something passed through his eyes—humor? Guilt? Whatever it was, it died quickly.

“Then I’ll try not to make you cry,” he said simply. “Though I make no promises.”

He walked to the table, pushed the folder toward her.

“This is it. The agreement. Three months. A marriage, in name and appearance. Public displays. Press dinners. Family weekends. One believable love story.”

He leaned in, voice steel-edged.

“The rules are simple: no emotions, no attachments… and walk away when the contract ends.”

Fiona stared at the folder like it was ticking.

“Sixty million dollars?”

He nodded. “Transferred to your account in full the moment the marriage certificate is signed.”

Her fingers hovered above the contract.

“Why me, Charles?”

“Because you’re perfect,” he said, without blinking. “You’re unknown enough to avoid public suspicion, smart enough to handle the pressure, and desperate enough to accept. You need me.”

A beat.

“And I—”

He looked away for the first time.

“I need someone who can fool my grandmother.”

Fiona’s eyes narrowed. “Madam Jamaica. The woman threatening to cut you off.”

He smirked bitterly. “She didn’t raise me to be weak. She raised me to conquer. But apparently, I can’t conquer her damn will without a wife.”

He stepped closer—too close.

“You want to save your daughter. I want to save my empire. We can lie together for three months… or we can lose everything separately.”

Fiona’s heart pounded. “You say that like it’s a fair trade.”

“It is,” he said coolly. “You just don’t want to admit how much you need it.”

She looked away, trying to breathe through the swirl of guilt, fear, and aching hope.

“And if someone finds out it’s fake?”

Charles didn’t blink. “Then I’ll make it real enough that no one questions it.”

The words hit like a punch.

For a moment, Fiona saw it all—Liza in a hospital bed smiling again, their bills erased, her daughter’s life spared. And in the mirror of it, Charles: cold, brilliant, untouchable.

A deal with the devil.

And the devil looked heartbreakingly human tonight.

She walked to the table, placed her hand on the folder, and slowly sat down.

“You’ll protect her?” she asked. “My daughter. No matter what happens between us.”

“I give you my word.” He said it like a vow. No hesitation.

Fiona stared at the empty signature line.

Her hand didn’t shake as she reached for the pen.

Outside, the party roared on—Valeria laughed somewhere, models clinked glasses, and no one knew that a billion-dollar love story had just begun behind a closed door…

…on a lie.

The pen in Fiona’s hand hovered inches above the line.

Charles stood across from her, calm on the surface—but his jaw ticked, his gaze watching her like a hawk.

“You always get what you want, don’t you?” she said, voice low.

He didn’t smile. “Not always. But I always pay for it.”

Her signature hit the page like a strike of lightning.

Silence swallowed the room.

It was done.

Charles picked up the contract and closed the folder with a decisive snap. “We’re married in three days. Civil ceremony. Private. I’ll send a stylist, a legal rep, and security to your apartment tomorrow.”

Fiona raised an eyebrow. “Security?”

“You’re marrying one of the most followed men in Asia. Paparazzi will sniff this out within hours. You need to disappear until we’re ready to control the narrative.”

Her lips curled. “You sound like you’re staging a war, not a wedding.”

He stepped closer—close enough to feel his breath. “It’s both.”

A charge snapped between them. The air was too quiet, too hot.

“And what do I call you after this?” Fiona asked. “Husband? Commander? Or just... billionaire bastard?”

He stared at her. “Call me anything you want—just don't forget the rules.”

His voice dropped, slow and rough.

Charles watched her like a hunter who’d finally closed the trap. He picked up the folder, slid it into his coat with surgical precision, then turned back to her—eyes cold, voice colder.

“No emotions. No attachments.”

Each word landed like a commandment.

“You’re sweet in the public eye—especially in front of my grandmother. She’s watching everything.”

He stepped closer, low and lethal.

“She’ll test us. Ask questions. What you say… must match what I say. Always.”

Fiona raised an eyebrow. “Loving wife mode, got it.”

He didn’t blink.

“Slip up, and the inheritance is gone. The game is over. We both lose.”

Her smile was slow. Dangerous. Her voice, silk with a blade underneath.

“You’re really good at this. Cold. Calculated. Like you’ve done it before.”

Charles didn’t answer.

A beat of silence passed. Heavy. Burning.

Then Fiona stepped forward—so close their breath collided. Her gaze never wavered.

“No emotions. No attachments,” she repeated, voice dripping sarcasm. “Smile on cue. Lie like it’s love.”

She tilted her head slightly, her smile deepening like a dare.

“Too late.”

Charles froze.

The line hung in the air like a spark about to ignite everything.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

He just stared at the woman who had agreed to fake love… and maybe, just maybe, had already begun to feel something real.

They stood there, locked in something that felt more dangerous than a contract.

Then—his phone buzzed.

A message from Grandmother Jamaica lit the screen:

“Bring her to dinner Sunday. I want to see the woman who finally trapped you.”

Charles didn’t flinch. But the way he looked at Fiona changed—for just a second.

Then he handed her a black platinum card.

“Use this. For everything. You represent me now.”

Fiona took the black platinum card from Charles’s hand—cool to the touch, but burning against her skin like fire.

She slipped it into her purse without blinking.

“Yes, boss,” she said lightly, her voice wrapped in sugar and steel.

Charles didn’t smile.

He stepped closer, his cologne a quiet storm. His gaze pinned her, sharp and exact.

“Remember the rules.”

His voice dropped, slow and deliberate.

“No emotions. No attachments. No improvising. And above all—don’t let my grandmother suspect anything. She sees through lies like glass.”

Fiona held his stare, the pulse in her neck betraying the calm on her face.