Chapter 6: The Rule of One year

Amara’s POV

The morning of the gala didn't begin with sunshine; it began with a legal briefing.

Instead of a breakfast of pancakes and coffee, I found myself sitting across from Adrian in his obsidian-walled office. The room felt like the inside of a high-end watch—precise, cold, and ticking with an invisible pressure.

Adrian slid a leather-bound folder toward me. "The finalized Contract Terms. Read the addendum on page four."

I flipped through the pages. My eyes landed on the section highlighted in bold.

Article 7.1: Conduct and Attachment. Both parties agree to a strict boundary of professional distance. There shall be no emotional entanglements, no expectations of fidelity beyond public perception, and absolutely no romantic gestures outside of the presence of third-party witnesses.

"You're making it a law?" I looked up, the paper crinkling in my hand. "You're literally legislating that we can't like each other?"

Adrian didn't look up from his coffee. "I’m protecting us both, Amara. You’re here to save your father. I’m here to secure my position at Wolfe Industries. Emotions are a variable that neither of us can afford. If you start imagining this is real, you’ll get hurt. If I start treating it as real, I lose my edge."

"I'm not a 'variable,' Adrian. I'm a person."

"In this house," he said, finally meeting my gaze with a look so sharp it felt like a physical weight, "you are Mrs. Wolfe. Outside of it, you can be whoever you want. But for the next 365 days, this is the rule. One year. No attachments. Then we part ways, you get your payout, and we never have to see each other again."

"Fine," I snapped, grabbing a pen from his desk and scrawling my name so hard the nib nearly tore the paper. "One year. I can do that standing on my head."

"Good. Now, about tonight."

The Transformation

The rest of the day was a blur of high-end torture. Adrian’s "glam team" arrived at noon. Three men and two women descended upon my bedroom like a swarm of stylish locusts.

My hair was pulled, my skin was polished with diamond-dust scrubs, and my face was painted into a mask of "effortless billionaire chic."

"Mr. Wolfe requested the sapphire," the lead stylist, a man named Pierre, said as he held up a gown.

It was stunning. Midnight blue silk that felt like liquid moonlight, with a back so low it was scandalous and a slit that went up to mid-thigh. It was beautiful, but it wasn't me. It was a costume.

When I was finally ready, I stood before the full-length mirror. I looked like a stranger. A very expensive, very lonely stranger.

The Descent

I met Adrian at the foot of the grand staircase. He was in a black tuxedo, looking so impossibly handsome it actually hurt to look at him. He was the kind of man who didn't just walk into a room; he commanded the air within it.

He paused when he saw me. For the briefest of seconds, the "Ice King" mask slipped. His eyes darkened, tracing the line of my throat down to the curve of the silk over my hips.

The silence stretched for five, ten, fifteen seconds.

"Is something wrong?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "Is it too much?"

Adrian cleared his throat, his expression snapping back to its usual frozen state. "It’s adequate. The sapphires around your neck are worth more than your father’s shop, Amara. Try not to lose them."

He offered his arm. It was a cold gesture, but as my hand settled on his sleeve, I felt that same electric spark from the kitchen the night before.

"Remember the rule," he murmured as we walked toward the front door where the limousine waited. "No emotional attachment."

"Don't worry, Adrian," I whispered back, my heart thumping painfully against my ribs. "I'm not interested in falling for a statue."

The First Test

The gala was held at the Metropolitan Museum. As the car pulled up, the flashing lights of the paparazzi were so bright I had to squint.

"Stay close," Adrian said.

As the door opened, he didn't just lead me out; he placed a hand firmly on the small of my back. Through the thin silk of my dress, his palm felt like a brand.

"Adrian! Amara! Over here!"

He leaned in close to my ear, his breath warm against my skin. "Smile, Amara. Lean into me. Make them believe you’re the luckiest woman in the world."

I did as I was told. I tilted my head toward his shoulder, flashing a bright, fake smile for the cameras. To the world, we were the picture of a powerful, head-over-heels couple.

But as we moved through the crowd, Adrian’s hand never moved from my back. It felt possessive. It felt like he was claiming me, even as he told me I was nothing but a contract.

We were halfway to the VIP section when a woman in a dress made of literal gold sequins blocked our path. She was stunning—blonde, sharp-featured, and looking at me like I was a cockroach on a Chanel rug.

"Adrian, darling," she purred, ignoring me entirely. "I thought you said you’d never be tied down. And yet, here you are... with this."

Adrian’s grip on my waist tightened. "Serena. I believe you’ve met my wife, Amara."

Serena—the ex-fiancée. The woman who was supposed to be in my place. She turned her icy blue eyes on me, her smile not reaching her face.

"Wife," she tasted the word like it was bitter. "How charming. Tell me, Amara, does the contract have a clause for what happens when he gets bored of the 'designer' aesthetic? Because Adrian has a very short attention span."

I felt the blood drain from my face. She knew. Or she suspected.

"Adrian doesn't get bored of quality," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. I looked her dead in the eye, channeling every bit of the Wolfe arrogance I had seen in the last forty-eight hours. "But I can see why he’d want to move on from... sequins."

Adrian let out a short, dry bark of a laugh. It was the first time I’d heard him laugh, and the sound sent a shiver down my spine.

"We have people to meet, Serena," Adrian said, his voice clipped.

He pulled me away, but as we walked, he leaned down. "Well played," he whispered.

For a moment, we weren't a CEO and a debt-ridden designer. We were two people in a foxhole together.

But then he pulled his hand away as soon as we were out of sight of the main press line. The warmth vanished. The statue was back.

"The board is watching from the balcony," he said, his voice flat. "Go get a drink. I have business to attend to."

He walked away, leaving me standing in the middle of a room full of thousands of people, feeling more alone than I ever had in my life.

One year. I just had to survive one year.

I didn't know that tonight was the night the first cracks in the contract would appear.

And I certainly didn't know that in a few weeks, "Article 7.1" would be the least of my worries.