Married To My Cold Billionaire CEO For hundred days

I wasn’t supposed to be here

I was supposed to be at the hospital, sitting beside my mom. Instead, a nurse had called that morning and told me the insurance had denied the next round of treatment. The bill—three million dollars—was due Friday.

So there I was, on the forty-second floor of a glass tower, staring at a man I’d only ever seen on magazine covers.

Oliver Vance. CEO of Vance Global. Thirty-two. Billionaire. Everyone called him cold, and sitting across from him, I could see why.

He didn’t even glance up when I walked in. Just kept typing away in a black suit, no tie, wearing a watch that probably cost more than my car. His assistant finally spoke.

“Sign it.”

She slid a thick stack of papers toward me. The top page was impossible to miss:

MARRIAGE AGREEMENT

Term: 100 Days

Parties: Oliver Vance & Nadia Carter

I laughed. Actually laughed. What else was I supposed to do?

“This is a joke, right?”

The assistant didn’t crack a smile. “Mr. Vance doesn’t joke.”

The door opened then, and he walked in.

Up close he was worse—taller, sharper, smelling faintly of cedar and coffee. He didn’t sit. Just stood at the head of the table like the air in the room belonged to him.

“You’re Nadia Carter,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“And you’re the man who wants to buy a wife,” I shot back before I could stop myself. Stupid. I should’ve kept quiet.

He didn’t get angry. He just looked exhausted, like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Sit.”

I sat.

“My grandfather left a clause in his will,” he said, no small talk, no warmup. “If I’m not legally married by the end of this quarter, I lose controlling shares of the company. The board is watching. The press is watching. I need a wife. For one hundred days.”

He pushed a folder across the table. Inside were hospital bills—my mom’s name, Room 204, every page stamped OVERDUE.

My chest tightened. “How did you get these?”

“I have people,” he said. “Here’s the deal. I pay your mother’s hospital bill. In full. Today. You marry me. You show up to events. You wear the ring. No dating. No love. No touching. In a hundred days we file for divorce, and we go back to our separate lives.”

I stared at the papers. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“What if I say no?”

“Then I find someone else,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “And your mom’s bill doesn’t get paid.”

Low. But true.

I hated him for it. Hated that I didn’t have another option.

“Why me?” I asked. “You could hire an actress.”

“Actresses talk. You need the money. You’re quiet. No scandals. You’re the safest option.”

Safest option. Great.

I picked up the pen. My hand was shaking when I signed Nadia Carter. The signature looked too small, too uncertain.

He took the papers and had his assistant notarize them on the spot. Just like that, I was married.

“Congratulations,” the assistant said, completely flat.

Okoye finally looked at me straight on.

“Rule one,” he said. “We don’t tell anyone this is fake. Not family. Not friends. No one.

Rule two. Separate bedrooms.

Rule three. No physical contact. Not even for photos.

Rule four. Breakfast at seven. Dinner at eight. You come to events when I say so.

Rule five. One hundred days. Then it’s over. No contact after.”

He listed them like he was reading off a grocery list.

I nodded. What else could I do?

“Good. A car will take you to the house. Clothes will be waiting. First event is tomorrow at ten. Don’t be late.”

He turned and walked out. No handshake. No congratulations. Nothing.

I sat there for a minute after he left, just me and a ring box on the table. Inside was a diamond—huge, heavy, and somehow ugly. It didn’t fit.

The driver took me to the mansion. Gates. Security. Marble floors. It felt less like a home and more like a very expensive hotel.

A housekeeper showed me to my room: big bed, white sheets, a wide window. On the dresser was a note in sharp, almost angry handwriting.

Rule 6: Don’t be late.

— O

I dropped it and sat on the edge of the bed. The ring still felt heavy in my hand.

One hundred days.

I’d just married a stranger to save my mom. A cold billionaire who made it clear he didn’t want me, who’d given me five rules just to make sure I never forgot it.

My phone lit up with three missed calls from the hospital. I called back.

“Hi, this is Nadia Carter. About my mom’s bill…”

“Oh, Ms. Carter! It was paid an hour ago. In full. We’re so sorry for the trouble.”

I hung up and stared at the wall.

It was real. The marriage. The money. All of it.

Day one.

Ninety-nine to go.

God help me if I start to like him.