His Temporary Wife | SPG

Arabella Sinclair had exactly three days to save her family’s home.

Three days before the bank seized the mansion where she had grown up. Three days before the servants who had worked for her family for decades would lose their jobs. Three days before the last remaining piece of her late father's legacy disappeared forever.

And she had exactly zero ways to stop it.

“Miss Sinclair, I'm afraid we've exhausted every possible option.”

Arabella stared at the bank manager through the glass wall of his office. His sympathetic expression only made her want to scream.

“There's a mistake,” she insisted, clutching the folder against her chest. “My father made payments before he passed away. I have the records.”

“The outstanding debt has accumulated beyond what those payments can cover. Unless the full amount is settled by Friday, foreclosure will proceed.”

“How much time can you give me?”

“Three days.”

Three days.

The words followed her all the way out of the building.

Outside, rain poured over the city, soaking the pavement and blurring the lights of passing cars. Arabella stood beneath the entrance awning, staring at her phone.

Twenty-seven unanswered messages. Four missed calls from her family's lawyer. And one email from an unfamiliar address.

Subject: A Proposal That Could Solve Your Problems.

She almost deleted it.

Almost.

But desperation had a way of making a person consider things they would normally reject.

She opened the email.

Miss Sinclair,

Mr. Damien Blackwood requests your presence at Blackwood Tower tonight at eight o'clock. He wishes to discuss a private business arrangement that may be of mutual benefit.

Transportation will be provided.

Arabella frowned.

Damien Blackwood.

Even people who knew nothing about business recognized that name. At thirty-one, he was the youngest chairman of Blackwood International, a ruthless billionaire whose company owned luxury hotels, real estate developments, and several international brands.

He was handsome, powerful, and notoriously private.

More importantly, he was the kind of man who never offered anything without expecting something far more valuable in return.

Why would he want to meet her?

And what could a bankrupt heiress possibly offer a man who already owned half the city?

At exactly seven forty-five that evening, a black limousine stopped outside her apartment.

Arabella almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.

She had spent the afternoon calculating grocery expenses, yet now she was being escorted to a billionaire's tower in a vehicle worth more than everything she owned.

She wore a simple black dress, borrowed heels, and the only diamond earrings she had managed to keep after selling most of her jewelry.

If Damien Blackwood expected her to look like a desperate woman, she would disappoint him.

She had lost her money.

She hadn't lost her dignity.

---

The top floor of Blackwood Tower looked like something from a luxury magazine.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering city. Dark marble floors reflected the warm lights, while expensive artwork decorated the walls. Everything was immaculate, elegant, and intimidating.

Including the man waiting beside the windows.

Damien Blackwood wore a tailored black suit, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His dark hair was neatly styled, and his expression remained unreadable as he turned toward her.

Arabella hated that her first thought was that he looked unfairly attractive.

Her second thought was that he probably knew it.

“Miss Sinclair.”

“Mr. Blackwood.”

His gaze traveled over her dress before settling on her face.

“You came.”

“Your email sounded important.”

“It is.”

He gestured toward the chair across from his desk.

“Sit.”

Arabella lifted an eyebrow. “You could try saying please.”

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes.

Amusement, perhaps.

“Please, Miss Sinclair.”

She sat down, refusing to acknowledge the strange satisfaction she felt at making him say it.

Damien took his seat and opened a folder.

“I'll get straight to the point. Your family owes the bank approximately eight million dollars. Your remaining assets won't cover the debt.”

Arabella's fingers tightened around her handbag.

“I know my financial situation.”

“Then you understand that you cannot save the estate alone.”

“And you invited me here to remind me that I'm broke?”

“No.” He slid a document across the desk. “I invited you here because I have a solution.”

She glanced at the paper.

Then she read the first line.

TEMPORARY MARRIAGE AGREEMENT.

Arabella blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then she looked up at him.

“I'm sorry. What?”

“Marry me.”

Silence filled the office.

Arabella stared at him, waiting for the punchline.

There wasn't one.

“You're serious.”

“Completely.”

“You want me to marry you?”

“For six months.”

She let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Not recently.”

“Then perhaps you should have it examined.”

Damien leaned back in his chair, entirely unaffected by her response.

“My family has been pressuring me to settle down. Several major investors are also questioning my long-term stability. A marriage would eliminate both problems.”

“So you need a wife for your public image.”

“I need a wife who understands the arrangement and won't confuse business with romance.”

Arabella's smile vanished.

“And you think I'm that woman?”

“I think you're intelligent enough to understand the terms and desperate enough to consider them.”

The words struck harder than she wanted to admit.

She stood.

“You know what, Mr. Blackwood? Keep your money. I'd rather lose my house than sell myself to someone who thinks desperation makes a woman cheap.”

She turned toward the door.

“Eight million dollars.”

Arabella stopped.

Damien's voice remained calm.

“I'll pay the bank directly. Your family's estate will be protected, and your father's remaining legitimate debts will be settled. You'll also receive a personal allowance for the duration of the marriage.”

She slowly turned back.

“How much?”

“Fifty thousand dollars a month.”

Her heart stumbled.

He continued as if he were discussing the weather.

“You'll live in my residence, attend selected events with me, and maintain the appearance of a genuine marriage. In return, you'll receive everything specified in the contract when the six months are over.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then you walk out of this office, and we never discuss it again.”

That answer surprised her more than the proposal itself.

He wasn't threatening her. He wasn't begging her.

He was simply offering a deal.

A terrible, humiliating, life-changing deal.

Arabella looked down at the contract again.

Six months.

She could save the estate. Protect the people who depended on her family. Buy herself enough time to rebuild her life.

All she had to do was marry a stranger.

A beautiful, arrogant, dangerously wealthy stranger.

“What are the rules?” she asked quietly.

Damien's expression sharpened, as though he'd been waiting for those exact words.

“Three rules. You will never interfere in my business. You will never discuss our arrangement with the press. And you will never expect me to fall in love with you.”

Arabella swallowed.

“Don't worry. Falling in love with you is the last thing on my mind.”

“Good.”

He stood and walked around the desk, stopping a few feet away from her.

“Because I have no intention of becoming emotionally attached to my temporary wife.”

He offered her a pen.

Arabella stared at it.

Then at him.

She thought of her father's portrait hanging in the mansion hallway. The old servants waiting anxiously for news. The family home that had sheltered her through every storm.

She picked up the pen.

“I want one additional condition.”

Damien's eyebrows rose.

“Go on.”

“When the six months end, you let me leave without interference. No demands. No attempts to control my life. I walk away, and you never come after me.”

For the first time that evening, Damien's expression changed.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but she caught it.

Something cold and unreadable passed behind his eyes.

“Agreed.”

Arabella signed her name.

The moment the ink dried, Damien took the document from her and placed it inside the folder.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Blackwood.”

The title sounded foreign.

Dangerous.

Permanent, despite the expiration date written in the contract.

Arabella forced a smile.

“Six months, Mr. Blackwood. That's all.”

“Of course.”

He extended his hand.

She shook it.

His palm was warm, his grip firm. For one brief second, neither of them moved.

Then his phone rang.

Damien glanced at the screen, and the faint trace of amusement disappeared from his face.

He answered without releasing her hand immediately.

“What?”

A woman's voice came through the phone, sharp enough for Arabella to hear from where she stood.

“Damien, tell me you're not actually marrying that girl.”

Arabella froze.

The caller continued.

“Because if you are, you need to know something about Arabella Sinclair before you make the biggest mistake of your life.”

Damien's gaze shifted toward Arabella.

The woman lowered her voice, but not enough.

“Ask her what her father did to your family.”

The call ended.

For several seconds, the office was completely silent.

Arabella's blood turned cold.

She had never met Damien Blackwood before tonight.

At least, she thought she hadn't.

Damien slowly released her hand.

Then he picked up the contract, studied her signature, and looked at her with an expression she couldn't decipher.

“Tell me something, Arabella.”

Her throat tightened.

“W-What?”

He stepped closer.

“Did you really have no idea who I was before you signed this agreement?”

Arabella stared at him.

And for the first time since entering Blackwood Tower, she felt afraid.

Because the man she had just agreed to marry was no longer looking at her like a business partner.

He was looking at her like he had finally found someone he'd been searching for.

And whatever he knew about her father—

It could destroy everything.