Chapter 3: The Contract

Eva Point Of View''

I gripped the pen as if it were about to snap at me. The weight of it surprised me—sleek, heavy, real gold. It felt like a weapon dressed as luxury.

"Initial here," Felix said, tapping the first page. "And here. And here."

I scanned the paragraphs again, though my eyes burned and my brain already ached from the legalese. Most of it boiled down to this: pretend to be Cassian Vale’s fiancée for one year. Attend functions. Appear in photos. Behave like a woman in love with a dying billionaire.

Do not speak to the press. Do not breach confidentiality. Do not, under any circumstance, fall apart.

I signed.

Each letter sealed something inside me—freedom, maybe. Or morality. Or just the last of my own name.

Felix gathered the papers like he’d done this a hundred times. Maybe he had. He didn’t look like a man unfamiliar with lies.

"You’ll be moved in tonight. We’ll arrange transport for your things—"

"I don’t have things," I said flatly.

He paused. Then nodded. "Right. A car will pick you up in two hours. Don’t be late."

He left without a goodbye.

—

The black car that came for me gleamed like oil in the moonlight.

A driver in a crisp uniform swung the door open as if I were someone special. I found myself gazing at the cracked concrete outside my apartment, the old, rusted mailbox, and catching a whiff of burnt toast wafting from my neighbor’s kitchen.

Then I got in.

The penthouse was straight out of a billionaire's dream: with its marble floors, shiny chrome fixtures, and artwork that likely cost more than Liam’s whole treatment plan. It was the kind of place where sounds didn’t just echo—they seemed to disappear entirely.

Cassian was lounging in the living room, engrossed in something on his sleek digital tablet. He didn’t even glance up when I walked in. Just gestured toward the hallway.

"Third door on the left. That’s yours.”

I didn’t thank him. I didn’t say a word. I just walked away.

The room they’d given me was so spacious it could’ve easily held my entire apartment twice over. With white linens, silk curtains, and a view of the city that made me feel like I was floating above it all.

On the bed, there was a note: Breakfast at 8. Media training at 10. Family dinner at 6. Wear something fancy.

I read it three times.

Then I lay back and stared at the ceiling until sleep finally pulled me under.

Morning came with designer coffee and a team of people who wanted to paint me into someone else. Hair, nails, makeup, and styling. I sat there like a mannequin while they worked their magic.

Cassian strolled in right in the middle of my makeover. He leaned casually against the doorway, sipping on his espresso.

"You clean up well," he said.

"You know you’re paying them to do this to me, right?"

He smirked. "Then I want my money’s worth. Don’t embarrass me tonight."

"Is that possible?"

"With my family? Always."

---

Media training was worse than a root canal.

I learned the art of smiling without revealing my teeth, how to look infatuated without coming off as needy, and how to weave a convincing love story without ever uttering the word "love.”

They gave me a fake backstory. We met at a hospital charity gala. He offered to sponsor my nonprofit. We fell in love over late-night dinners and shared trauma.

Trauma. That was the only thing they got right.

---

Dinner with the Vales felt like walking into a lion's den dressed as bait.

Cassian’s mother, Vivienne Vale, greeted me with a look so sharp I felt my skin peel. She wore pearls like armor and didn’t rise when I approached.

"So you’re the waitress," she said.

I smiled. "And you must be the one who taught Cassian how to insult people without blinking."

She blinked.

Cassian stifled a laugh.

His sister, Harper, barely acknowledged me.

Her husband—some hedge fund leech named Thomas—looked at me as if I were just a cocktail waitress at a strip club.

Dinner felt like a haze of passive-aggressive digs and empty toasts. I played my role perfectly. I touched Cassian’s hand, leaned in when he spoke, and laughed at all the right moments.

"So, Eva," Vivienne said, swirling her wine with a flourish, "what was it that made you fall for my son?"

"His personality," I replied sweetly. "So warm. So inviting."

Cassian coughed into his napkin.

"And your intentions?" Harper cut in. "They’re good, I assume?"

I met her eyes. "As pure as your Botox."

The silence was delicious.

After dinner, Cassian and I escaped to the penthouse. He poured himself a drink and handed me one.

"That went well," he said dryly.

"They hate me."

"They hate everyone. You held your own.”

I plopped down on the couch and slipped off my heels.

"So what now?"

He leaned against the window. The city sprawled behind him.

"Now," he said, "we make them believe this lie so hard they forget it ever started."

"And if we start believing it?"

He looked at me. That sharp, unreadable stare.

That night, I found myself lying in bed, just staring up at the ceiling.

The contract was all signed and sealed. The clothes fit perfectly. The family had witnessed the whole circus act.

But there was something else eating away at me—a knot in my stomach, a heavy feeling pressing down on my chest.

Cassian Vale wasn’t just some cold, wealthy guy playing house with a stranger.

He watched people like he already knew how they’d fail him.

And I had a terrible feeling I was next.