Chapter 3 — Moving In

The lawyer called the contract airtight.

That was the exact word Claire Okafor used after spending nearly two hours reading every page at her kitchen table in Queens.

Claire was the only lawyer I actually knew personally, which was why I showed up at her apartment at nine in the morning carrying a five-million-dollar marriage contract and a rapidly dying sense of sanity.

“It protects you,” she said finally, pushing the papers aside. “Honestly, almost suspiciously well.”

I blinked at her. “Suspiciously?”

“There are exit clauses at six months, twelve months, and eighteen. You can leave early with prorated payment but he can’t. There are behavioral restrictions, privacy protections, financial protections and your photography business stays completely yours.” She tapped the contract with her pen. “Whoever wrote this made sure you wouldn’t get trapped.”

I leaned back in my chair slowly. “He said he wanted it fair.”

“And you believe him?”

I thought about his pale grey eyes and the way he’d texted good like approval instead of a response.

“I think he’s practical,” I admitted carefully. “I don’t think he wants emotional complications.”

Claire stared at me over the rim of her coffee mug. “Hautea, this is insane.”

“I know.” I rolled my eyes

“You’re going to live with Drake Javier."

"For eighteen months.”

“And you genuinely think you can keep this professional?”

I raised an eyebrow. “You Googled him, didn’t you?”

“I took one break while reading this contract. Of course I Googled him.” She pointed accusingly at me.

"And that man is offensively attractive.” She screamed so sharp like she was not a certified lawyer.

"I know right? I am aware of that."

“He looks like the human version of bad decisions.”

I laughed despite myself, and Claire groaned dramatically.

“You’re doomed.”

“I’m not doomed,” I said.

“It’s just a transaction. If I fulfill the agreement, I get paid, I can finally build my business properly for once, and then we move on with our lives.”

Claire looked unconvinced.

“There’s always emotional fine print,” she warned.

“There isn’t this time.” Her expression said that I am a poor idiot, but thankfully she kept that part to herself.

I signed the contract four days later.

The legal offices of Javier Group occupied half a floor in Midtown, all glass walls and terrifyingly quiet assistants. Drake wasn’t there, so his lawyer handled everything instead — a composed woman named Eleanor Park who walked me through every single page with practiced precision.

“Is this a normal arrangement for your firm?” I asked carefully at one point.

Eleanor didn’t even blink. “Mr. Javier’s affairs are confidential.”

Which definitely wasn’t an answer.

I signed anyway and just like that, my life split cleanly into a before and after.

Moving took less time than I expected because apparently I owned almost nothing.

Half my closet was work clothes. Most of my apartment consisted of photography equipment, unpaid bills, and determination. My entire life fit into a few bags, a couple rolling cases, and three boxes of books.

Standing in the middle of my apartment after packing everything up felt strange and makes me emotional like I was leaving behind a version of myself I’d spent years trying to survive as.

**

The Javier residence was a penthouse on the Upper East Side, though calling it a penthouse felt inadequate somehow. The private elevator opened directly into the apartment, and I immediately added that to the growing list of things rich people apparently considered normal.

Drake was waiting when the elevator doors opened and I hadn’t expected him to be there

His eyes dropped briefly to my luggage before returning to my face.

“You don’t own much,” he observed.

“I travel light.”

“Or you’ve spent years prioritizing survival over comfort.”

The accuracy of it irritated me instantly.

“Thank you for the psychological evaluation.”

Something flickered briefly across his face. “Your suite is this way.”

He led me down a long hallway lined with framed architectural photography. Real prints, original work, and some are from photographers I’d studied in college.

That alone almost distracted me from the fact that I was following my future fake husband through a multimillion-dollar apartment.

He opened double doors at the end of the hallway so I stopped walking.

The suite was larger than my entire Brooklyn apartment.

Cream-colored walls, sage accents, massive windows overlooking the city, a sitting area near the window and a marble bathroom bigger than my old kitchen.

And on the desk sat a brand-new laptop beside a handwritten note.

Equipment budget is separate, this is for work. — D.J

I turned toward him slowly.

He stood in the doorway watching me quietly, while his hands relaxed at his sides.

“The studio space is downstairs,” he said. “I had it renovated six weeks ago.”

I frowned. “Six weeks ago?”

“When I began the process.”

“You were already preparing before I even agreed?”

“I was preparing for the correct candidate.”

The confidence in that answer should’ve annoyed me more than it did.

“And if I’d said no?”

“The studio would’ve become a gym.”

I stared at him. There was no visible humor in his expression, but somehow I still felt it there beneath the surface.

“Breakfast is usually at seven,” he continued.

“Seven-thirty if you’d prefer privacy. I’ll text you before I leave for work.”

“You’re giving me your schedule?”

“You’re my wife,” he said simply. “Or you will be in eight days.”

Eight days.

The courthouse wedding.

Somehow hearing it out loud made it feel dangerously real.

“There’s also the Whitmore Gala two weeks after the ceremony,” he added. “It’ll be our first public appearance together.”

“Our first performance,” I corrected lightly.

His eyes settled on mine.

“No,” he said quietly. “Our first test.”

Something about the way he said it made my heartbeat stumble.

“What exactly does preparation for that involve?” I asked.

He looked at me carefully then. Fully, the same intense way he always seemed to.

“The kind that makes people believe this marriage is real, Hautea.”

It was the first time he’d said my first name.

And I stupidly, unbelievably, felt it right in the center of my chest.

“I can be convincing,” I said softly.

“I know.” Then he left me alone to unpack.

I stood in the middle of the room for a long moment after he disappeared, staring out at the city below.

I’d signed the contract because I was practical. Because I needed the money, because this was business.

That version of me still existed, but now something else existed too, a curiosity.

My phone buzzed in my hand.

'Dinner’s at seven if you’re hungry. I cook on Sundays. — D.J'

I stared at the message longer than necessary. Drake Javier cooking dinner was somehow more shocking than the five million dollars.

I typed back before I could overthink it.

I’ll be there.