Chapter 4

I stepped into the elevator, my reflection mirrored directly on the steel walls. I still looked like a mess. My eyes looked the most tired it had ever looked all my life, my hair messy and lips chapped. I didn't even have the time to do any little touch ups. The elevator hummed softly as it rose, each floor passing like a heartbeat.

And when the doors opened, he was there.

Standing behind a wide desk of dark wood, sunlight spilling behind him like something out of a portrait.

He turned when he heard the doors open, and for a second, the air left my lungs.

Adrian.

He didn’t look forty-five - maybe because youth clung to him in strange ways like in his posture, the shape of his mouth, the deliberate grace in his movements. But the small white beard that shadowed his jaw, and the faint lines by his eyes both gave him a gravity that youth never could.

Then those brown hazel eyes that kept looking straight at me like he was assessing every bit of emotion I could hide.

I froze in the doorway.

He didn’t speak immediately. Just watched me. It wasn’t leering, it wasn’t soft. It was knowing like he’d already decided what to do with me, and was waiting for me to catch up.

“Sit,” he said finally.

His voice was deep, low, the kind that doesn’t need to rise to be obeyed. It slid through the air like smoke.

I sat before I even realized I’ve moved.

He walked around the desk, each step unhurried, precise. The faint glint of his watch caught the same one from the bar that had diamonds along the face.

“You look better today. I'm glad,” he said. Not like a compliment. More like he was studying evidence.

I found my voice. “Where… am I? How did I……?”

“I brought you there,” he cut in, calm and cold. “You were in no condition to get home.”

I swallowed hard. “And you just let me sleep in your space?”

A shadow of a smile crossed his face. “Would you rather I’d left you on the floor in the bar?”

I hate that he made me hesitate. That part of me wants to say no.

“Why?” I whispered. “Why did you help me?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he leaned against the desk beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him. The scent of cedar and spice filled the space between us.

Every nerve in my body tensed.

“You’ve had a difficult few days,” he said finally, his tone softer now. “You’ve lost your job. Your reputation. And your trust in people.”

I flinched. “You’ve been doing research, I see.”

“I didn’t need to. The world did it for me. It’s all over the internet.” His gaze sharpened. “The world likes to watch people burn. But sometimes fire can be useful.”

I didn’t know what that meant, but it made my skin prickle.

He straightened, adjusted his cuff, then opened a drawer. From it, he pulled a sleek black folder thick paper, gold edges, one word printed in neat, deliberate letters:

AGREEMENT.

He set it in front of me.

The air thickened. My breath faltered.

“What is this?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

His hazel eyes lifted to meet mine, unreadable, calm, absolute.

“The reason you’re here,” he said. And just like that, I realized whatever last night was, it wasn’t an accident.

It was an invitation.

Or a trap.

And I’ve already stepped into it.

My eyes skimmed the first line.

This agreement was entered into willingly by both parties.

Willingly. The word snagged in my chest.

The undersigned shall assume the role of spouse to Mr. Adrian Cole (henceforth referred to as the Benefactor) for the duration of six months.

My breath caught. I looked up, searching his face for some hint of humor. There was none.

He stood motionless, gaze steady.

I turned to another page. The clauses blurred together, but one stood out.

The Benefactor reserved all rights to the schedule, public appearances, and conduct of the undersigned for the duration of the agreement.

I read it again, slower. It didn’t sound like a contract. It sounded like ownership.

“You want to control my schedule?”

“Read everything before you ask questions.”

His tone was calm, not dismissive, simply final.

My fingers trembled as I turned the page.

The undersigned shall refrain from any form of relationship, physical or emotional, outside of the Benefactor’s direction.

“Direction?” I whispered, more to myself than to him.

The next line was worse.

The undersigned acknowledges that this arrangement includes emotional commitment, companionship, and physical presence, as deemed appropriate by the Benefactor.

I looked up. “This isn’t a contract,” I said quietly. “It’s a cage.”

He didn’t deny it. His gaze remained steady, unwavering.

“You’re the one who needs three million dollars,” he said. “I’m giving you a way to get it.”

My stomach twisted. Hearing him say the number made it heavier.

“And in exchange?”

“A wife. A play thing. My little toy.”

The word felt cold, foreign, stripped of warmth.

I turned to another page.

The undersigned is expected to reside at the Benefactor’s estate, uphold confidentiality, and maintain the public image of a devoted partner.

My pulse thudded when I read the next sentence. I could feel him watching me - every flick of my eyes, every uneven breath.

Payment will be made upon immediate signing and compliance with all terms of the agreement.