Married to my Arrogant Sponsor

Ava stared at the ceiling of her tiny dorm room, the contract spread open on her bed like a monster baring its teeth.She’d read it twice. Then a third time. And now she was just… lying there, hoping it would evaporate if she ignored it long enough.But it didn’t.Clause 4B: “No public display of affection unless requested by Mr. Wolfe for press-related appearances.”Clause 7C: “All matters related to marital intimacy are strictly prohibited unless mutually agreed upon in writing.”Clause 10A: “Early termination of the contract by either party results in a $250,000 penalty.”She rolled over and groaned. “What the hell am I even considering?”The fluorescent light above flickered, echoing her mood. Her roommate was out for the weekend thank God because how was she supposed to explain this?Fake marriage. To a billionaire. For money.It sounded like a plot from the kind of romance novels she secretly binged on during midterms. The difference? She was living it and there was no guarantee

The mansion was less of a home and more of a castle dropped into the edge of the city all white walls, high windows, and gates that clicked shut like secrets locking themselves in.Ava stared from the passenger seat, clutching the strap of her purse like a lifeline. Her eyes followed the endless white stone fences, the sharp angles of the house that rose like it didn’t need permission to exist. It was beautiful, yes but also intimidating. Like something out of a glossy magazine or a Netflix series where the rich play pretend.“This is where you live?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.Grayson didn’t even glance at the estate as the gates opened, parting smoothly to let them in like they knew him. Like they’d been expecting royalty.“Where we live now,” he corrected.Her stomach did a small, confused twist. We.The car curved up a long stone driveway flanked by manicured hedges, fountains, and the kind of flowers you only saw in wedding magazines. When they finally stopped, a su

Ava had survived a fake kiss, a public appearance, and Vanessa the venomous ex.She thought she deserved a night off.Instead, she got a dinner invitation.From Edward Wolfe.Not an invitation, really. More like a summons.Grayson had handed her the embossed envelope without a word. His jaw had been clenched, his eyes unreadable. The envelope itself was thick, cream-colored, and heavy enough to double as a paperweight. The ink was black, bold, and painfully formal.“You don’t have to go,” he said finally, voice low.Ava raised an eyebrow, reading the elegant card aloud. “Dinner. 7PM. Wolfe Estate. Business Attire.”She looked up. “Just four words and I already feel like I’m being subpoenaed.”Grayson didn’t even crack a smile. “Because it is a trap.”The Wolfe Estate wasn’t a home. It was a fortress. A symbol. A warning.Tall wrought iron gates creaked open as their car approached, and the driveway seemed to stretch on forever, lined with manicured hedges and cold marble statues of fo

12:01 a.m.Ava’s phone buzzed.Blocked number.No name.Just a single voice note.She sat up slowly, the blue glow of the screen casting eerie shadows across the bedroom walls. Her heart thrummed not from fear exactly, but from that gut-deep knowing. That sick pull in her stomach that whispered:Nothing good comes after midnight.Her finger hovered over the play button.Then, she tapped it.“They’re setting you up, Ava.The envelope was just the beginning.Check Grayson’s second phone.The black one. Top drawer. Behind the sweaters.”The voice was scrambled, digitized like something out of a crime thriller. Male. Cold. Distorted beyond recognition.But chillingly certain.She blinked, trying to breathe. Second phone? Sweaters?Without thinking, she tossed the duvet aside and padded to the door barefoot.The Wolfe estate was swallowed in silence. The long hallway stretched out like a tunnel of secrets, dimly lit by antique sconces that flickered with every shift of the night wind.Gray

There were two versions of Ava Grace Sinclair.The first was the girl who walked blindly into a marriage she didn’t fully understand.The second sat now in front of a cracked screen, burner phone in one hand, and a name on her lips like a whispered rebellion.Marcus Hale.She stared at the email Vanessa had sent unsigned, untraceable but definitely her. The subject line read like a dare: He knows where the skeletons are buried. Use him wisely.Ava hadn’t responded. Not yet. She didn’t trust Vanessa, not completely, but she trusted what fear looked like in a woman’s eyes. And Vanessa hadn’t just looked scared she’d looked haunted.The same way Ava felt.She leaned back against the windowpane, the city humming quietly beneath her. This version of her was quieter, sharper. Less emotional, more precise. There wasn’t time for panic anymore not with Clause 17 hanging over her like a noose with velvet trim.And now… a witness.Or something close to it.By noon, Ava had made the decision.