Married by Mistake, Loved by Design

Monterrey, Mexico – 7:42 a.m.

And into that silence stormed Valeria Mendoza, twenty-six, five-foot-five, soaked in caramel macchiato, and dangerously close to snapping.

“¡Maldita sea!” she hissed, dabbing at her blouse with a napkin that was failing its life’s mission.

The receptionist flinched. “Señorita Mendoza, are you okay?”

Valeria forced a tight smile, clutching her ruined coffee cup. “Fine. Just another glamorous Monday of burning my chest and soul.”

She strode toward the elevator, high ponytail swaying, heels clicking with purpose. She had five minutes to get to the top floor and deliver updated design boards to The Ice King himself — Alejandro Herrera.

CEO. Architect. Walking thundercloud in a designer suit.

Valeria had been Alejandro’s assistant for exactly four weeks. In that time, he had:

Learned her name (barely).

Criticized her font choices.

Complimented her once — for silence.

She stabbed the elevator button and muttered under her breath, “One day I’m going to pour hot coffee on him and call it a design feature.”

“Noted,” said a deep, cool voice behind her.

Valeria froze.

She turned slowly to find Alejandro Herrera standing there — tall, dark, annoyingly gorgeous in a charcoal suit, one brow arched with amused warning.

“Señor Herrera,” she said sweetly, straightening. “Didn’t see you there. My eyesight gets blurry when I’m assaulted by caffeine.”

“Clearly.” His eyes dropped to the stain on her blouse. “Interesting choice for a staff meeting.”

Valeria swallowed her pride — and her urge to throw her shoe at him.

“I’ll change before the meeting. I had a coffee incident.”

His lips twitched. Was that... a smile?

“Make sure you change your attitude, too.”

Then he stepped into the elevator and, without looking, said, “Coming?”

She sighed. “Do I have a choice?”

He pressed the top floor button. “Not today.”

—

8:00 a.m. — Conference Room

Valeria set the design boards on the table, her cheeks still burning from the elevator ride. She hated how he made her feel — small, flustered, noticed.

The door opened again. Alejandro walked in with his usual unreadable expression. But something was off. His steps were slower, more thoughtful.

He looked at her. Really looked at her.

“Change of plans,” he said.

Valeria tensed. “Did I miss something?”

“I need you to come with me. Now. No questions.”

“Excuse me?”

“There’s a brunch. An investor. They’re... old-fashioned. Conservative. They value stability. Family. Marriage.”

“And you want me to serve the coffee?” she asked, hands on hips.

He walked toward her, stopping just inches away.

“I want you to be my fiancée.”

Silence.

Valeria blinked. “I’m sorry, did I fall into a telenovela?”

Alejandro didn’t blink. “I’ll pay. Triple your salary. It’s temporary. Just for the investor meeting.”

“You want me to pretend to be engaged to you?”

He gave her a lazy, almost smug smile. “You’re already good at pretending to like me.”

Valeria's jaw dropped. “You arrogant—”

“Say yes,” he said quietly, stepping closer. “You need the money. I need the image. We don’t have to like each other. Just act like we do.”

And that was how Valeria Mendoza — broke, burnt, and one spilled coffee away from quitting — became the fake fiancée of Mexico’s most heartless CEO.

At least, that was the plan.

Neither of them knew the marriage certificate she'd accidentally signed last week as part of a legal folder would soon make it all very, very real.