ログインSo here's the thing about bad decisions. They usually start with a broken heart and a glass of whiskey. My boyfriend cheated. I got drunk. I found a gorgeous stranger at the bar and asked him to take me home. One night. No names. No strings. Until I walked into my first class and found out he's my professor. Alexander Morreti is cold, impossibly rich, and completely off-limits. Now he wants me to be his fake wife. A contract. One year. Money to save my grandmother. Rules? Separate rooms. No attachments. Keep it professional. I've never been good at professional. Living with him is dangerous. His eyes, his voice, his body—I remember all of it. And when we finally stop pretending, the heat is terrifying. His family hates me. His mother has chosen a better bride. And everyone thinks I'm a gold digger. But when they try to buy me off, I don't take the money. And Alexander... Alexander looks at his father and says, "If you want her gone, you'll lose me too. I'll walk away from everything. I don't want your company. I want her." That's when I knew. This isn't just a contract anymore. This is real. This is reckless. This is ours. And if you think a story about a fake marriage and a forbidden professor can't be sexy... You clearly haven't met Alexander Morreti. I dare you to read this. I double dare you not to fall in love with him.
もっと見るALEXANDER My bath is long. Necessary.The hot water washes away some of the tension from the day. From the week. From my entire life. I let my head fall back against the edge of the tub and close my eyes.What am I doing?I don't bring strangers to my home. I don't bring anyone to my home. My penthouse is my sanctuary. My fortress. The one place where I don't have to perform. Where I don't have to be Alexander Morreti, heir to a fortune.But tonight, I brought a woman home. A woman I don't even know. A woman who walked up to me in a bar and asked me to have sex with her.She's broken. I recognized it the moment I looked at her. The same emptiness I see in the mirror every morning. She's running from something. Trying to erase something.Just like me.I step out of the bath. Wrap a towel around my waist. Pull on my shirt and shorts. My hair is still damp, falling across my forehead.My phone is on the counter. Already on speaker. Dean's voice fills the bathroom."So anyway, I was thin
ALEXANDER I'm reading.The words blur on the page. I've been staring at the same sentence for five minutes. My glass of Old Fashioned sits on the table, the ice long melted, the whiskey watered down. I don't drink it. I never do. I just order it. The routine is the point.This place is the only place where I can escape the hurricane of my life. Here, I'm just a man with a book and a drink. Anonymous. Invisible.I glance at my watch. 6:15. Almost time to leave. Back to the cold penthouse. Back to the silence."Excuse me?"A voice cuts through my reading. Female. Young. I don't look up."I was wondering—"I set my book aside. Slowly. I look up.She's standing there. The waitress from earlier. She's served me a few times. Not today, though. Her shift must have ended.Brown hair. Messy. Glasses. She's short. Maybe five foot five. Her eyes are brown. Warm. But there's something behind them. Something raw. Something broken.She looks nervous. Her hands fidget. She's wearing a thin coat. Sh
MIAThank God my shift is over.My feet are screaming. My back is aching. And I'm pretty sure I have whiskey permanently embedded in my clothes. But it's done. Another double shift in the books. Another night of smiling at customers who don't see me, just a woman with a tray and a fake smile.I pull my phone out of my apron pocket as I'm walking toward the back. It's 5:15 PM. The bar is still buzzing with the after-work crowd, but I'm free. Free to go home, collapse, and maybe eat something that isn't a stale pretzel.There's an email notification. I almost swipe it away—probably spam, probably another bill I can't afford—but something makes me stop. My thumb hovers. The subject line catches my eye.Kingston Business School - Your Application DecisionMy heart stops.I fumble with the phone, nearly dropping it. My hands are shaking. The screen is too bright. I blink, trying to focus. My finger taps the email and the screen loads.Dear Mia Scofield,We are pleased to inform you that yo






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