THE CEO'S STOLEN SECONDS

“The final notice is already printed, Miss Brooks. If we don’t see the deposit in our account by midnight, Leo’s name drops from the surgical list.”

Dr. Evans didn’t bother looking up from his tablet. The way he tapped his stylus against the glass was a kind of clinical torture, slow and steady.

“I’ve got the media coverage for the City Hospital Gala set,” I said, knuckles pressed so hard into his polished desk I thought my fingers would snap. “The contract pays out on the first. That’s two weeks. Please, Dr. Evans. Leo can’t wait—his heart valve won’t survive another delay.”

“The hospital board doesn’t take IOUs, Sierra. There are three hundred children lined up for that surgical theater.” He finally met my eyes—detached, practiced. “One hundred thousand dollars. By midnight. Or the slot goes to someone else.”

My phone nearly buzzed itself out of my blazer pocket. I snatched it up, desperate for anything to cut the tension in the room and in my chest.

“Sierra, look at the TV right now,” Debby barked as soon as I answered. I heard chaos behind her, voices shouting. “Turn on the news—it’s the King Empire.”

“Debby, I’m in the middle of—”

“No, Sierra, listen!” she screamed, louder than the bedlam behind her. “There’s been a massive whistle-blower leak. The King Empire’s seaport contract is about to get revoked. The board’s threatening to oust their CEO unless he fixes everything—family image, corporate restructuring—the whole mess. Now, guess what? He just walked into our agency. He’s in your office. Christian King is here, and he wants the principal crisis manager. He’s waving a blank check. Get back here, now!”

Call ended, just like that.

I stared at the screen, blood rushing in my ears. Four years since the crash wiped me from Christian’s life. Four years since his mother shoved a suitcase at my feet, screamed parasite, threatened my unborn child. I rebuilt everything. Became a fixer for Seattle’s elite, every penny for Leo’s meds.

Now, Christian King—the man who erased me—was sitting in my office.

“Miss Brooks?” Dr. Evans sounded impatient. “Are you resolving this tonight?”

I shoved my phone away and squared up. “You’ll have your money by midnight, Doctor. Don’t change that list.”

I didn’t wait for an answer. I bolted through the clinic, flagged down a cab with shaky hands. Rain pounded the city. The drive felt endless, purgatory in motion. All I saw was Leo’s tiny, pale hand squeezing mine in the hospital. One hundred thousand. I didn’t have it. But Christian King did.

When I crashed through Brooks & Associates PR, the usual noise was gone. Everyone clustered near the copy machine, whispering and staring. Debby met me at the door, wide-eyed.

“He’s inside,” she whispered. “Cleared his own security. Alone. Sierra, he looks awful—and he’s terrifying.”

“Did he ask for me?” I muttered, brushing rain from my face.

“He asked for the best fixer in Seattle,” Debby replied, squeezing my arm. “He doesn’t know it’s you.”

I closed my eyes for a second, forced a steely calm over the panic. Then I opened the door.

The smell hit first—sandalwood and tobacco, heavy with storm. The same scent that once haunted every corner of my old life.

Christian King sat in my leather chair, legs crossed, staring at Seattle’s gray skyline. Immaculate suit, flawless hair—only his jaw was clenched tight. He looked unchanged and completely different. The warmth I once saw in his eyes? Gone. Nothing left but cold calculation.

“You’re seven minutes late,” he said without turning. His voice was deep, steady, and I felt it in my bones.

“The rain’s brutal, Mr. King.” I kept my tone even, hands pressed neatly in my lap to hide the tremor.

He spun the chair around. Our eyes met.

I waited for shock, recognition—something. His gaze swept over me like I was just another problem to solve.

“Sit down, Miss Brooks.” He pointed to the chair across from my desk.

I took the seat, steeled myself. “Your assistant gave us the basics. The King Empire is in crisis.”

“‘Crisis’ barely covers it.” Christian leaned in, forearms on my desk. The closeness made me tense. “A rogue employee leaked fake documents about financial instability in our maritime sector. Now the federal board’s freezing our contract. My directors gave me an ultimatum—fix the company’s public image, paint a stable family front, or I’m gone by noon tomorrow.”

“And you came here for a press strategy?” I forced a smile.

“I don’t need press. I need a wife.”

The words hit me like a punch. I stared, throat dry. “Excuse me?”

He slid a thick leather document across the desk. Gold lettering: Marital Partnership Agreement.

“A public marriage to a reputable, self-made professional cuts the playboy narrative. Stability, maturity, commitment. I’ve looked at your profile—no scandals, respected agency, you know how to handle the press because you own them.”

I stared at the contract, fingers trembling under the desk. “You want a fake marriage. With me.”

“Business only,” he said, clipped. “Six months. We live together in my penthouse, attend every public event as a loving couple. Then, quiet dissolution. No shared assets.”

“And what do I get out of this, Mr. King?” My voice dropped.

He leaned back, arms crossed. “Name your price. Five million? Ten? Whatever your agency charges, times ten.”

“No. I don’t want millions. I need one hundred thousand wired to Seattle Children’s Hospital by eleven-thirty tonight. And ironclad medical privacy for my dependent.”

He arched an eyebrow, curiosity flickering and disappearing. “A hundred thousand? Pennies for a contract this big. Done when you sign.”

He flipped to the last page, unscrewed a silver fountain pen, held it out.

I paused, staring at that pen, at his elegant fingers. I remembered how they once traced my jaw, promising forever. Not anymore. Now, he was buying me like a commodity.

“Why me, Christian?” His name slipped out, my voice rough.

He stopped, eyes narrowing. For a heartbeat, I thought something might break through. Maybe he’d remember our secret vows, the chapel.

“Because you look like a woman who understands discretion.” His voice was ice. “And you look desperate enough to do whatever I say.”

The insult landed. But it was true. I was desperate. For Leo.

I grabbed the pen. Cold metal bit my skin.

“Six months, Mr. King.” I kept my voice flat, armor up. “No touch. No intrusion in my life. Business partners, period.”

“Naturally.” His smile was sharp, mocking. “I have no interest in anything else. Sign.”

I signed. Sierra Brooks. My red ink spread across the white paper like blood.

Christian took the contract, checked the signature, pocketed the pen. He stood, imposing and cold, blocking the light.

“My assistant will handle the hospital wire within an hour,” he said. “A car picks you up at eight tomorrow. Pack light. You’ll have everything you need at the penthouse.”

“I have responsibilities, Christian.” I stood, refusing to shrink.

“Your only responsibility now is being my wife.” He moved to the door, pausing. “Oh—and Miss Brooks? Be convincing. My mother arrives tomorrow afternoon. She can spot a liar from a mile away.”

The door shut with a soft click.

I dropped into my chair, shaking as air finally filled my lungs. I covered my face, biting back a sob. Leo was safe. Funded. But at what cost? I’d signed myself into the very life that shattered me, with Christian and his merciless mother.

My phone buzzed again. I grabbed it, bracing for Debby, or the hospital. But the number was encrypted, untraceable.

I read the text, cold fear running through me:

I know you think he forgot you, Sierra. But if he really has amnesia, why is your original wedding ring in his office safe? Who’s playing who?

I stared at the screen, breath locked in my throat, phone trembling in my grip. What had I just agreed to?