Chapter 1

Rain slicked the sidewalk like lacquered glass as Savannah Cole stood before the towering steel-and-glass monolith that was the Briggs & Vale building. She had borrowed her cousin's heels, a coat two sizes too big, and a résumé printed on the back of her overdue rent notice. Her fingers were numb from gripping the subway pole all the way uptown, and her nerves felt like frayed electrical wire, sparking quietly beneath her skin.

The doorman barely looked up as she crossed the marble threshold into a world that reeked of wealth and sterilized ambition. Inside, everything gleamed — polished chrome, white marble floors, glass surfaces that reflected not just your face but every insecurity hiding beneath it. Savannah felt like an imposter from the second her foot touched that floor.

Upstairs, on the forty-third floor, the elevator opened with a whisper. It released her into a corridor so silent she could hear the blood in her ears. The carpet swallowed her footsteps. Behind a marble desk, a receptionist with eyes like frost and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass said only, “He’s expecting you.”

No smile. No name.

Savannah nodded, lips pressed tight, and walked past her.

She stepped into the penthouse office—and stopped short.

It wasn’t an office.

It was a cathedral of glass.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across three walls, unveiling Manhattan in all its glittering arrogance. Beyond the windows, the skyline glowed like a circuit board, the city’s heart beating in neon and steel. The ceiling soared above, draped in a glass-and-steel lattice like a cage designed for gods. And seated before that sprawling view was a man too still to be anything but dangerous.

Colton Briggs.

He didn’t stand. Didn’t smile.

His face was sharp, symmetrical, carved with precision. His eyes—cold silver-gray—moved slowly over her like she was being scanned.

“You’re punctual,” he said.

“I always am,” Savannah replied. Her voice, though thin, didn’t crack. It couldn’t. Not today.

He gestured to the chair across from him. Leather. Immaculate.

She sat.

“I won’t waste your time, Miss Cole,” he said. “I’ve read your application. You’re broke. Your mother is in the hospital. Stage three, correct?”

Savannah’s jaw tightened. “That wasn’t on the résumé.”

“No,” he agreed smoothly, folding his hands, “but I make it a point to know everything about people I’m about to employ.”

Savannah’s fingers curled in her lap. She had expected arrogance. Had braced herself for predatory questions, false kindness. But this? This was surgical. Clinical. Chilling.

He didn’t let the silence settle.

“I’m not offering you a job,” he said.

Her heart stalled.

“Then what is this?” she asked.

“A contract,” he said. “A marriage contract.”

She blinked. Once. Then again.

“I’m sorry—what?”

“Six months. In name only,” he said. “You become Savannah Briggs. Public appearances, occasional press, but you’ll live here. With me. We share a last name. Nothing more.”

She tried to laugh. But his face didn’t shift.

“You’re serious.”

“One million dollars,” he said, still as a statue. “Tax-free. Payable upon the sixth month.”

She stared at him. “Why?”

“You don’t get to ask why,” he said. “Not yet.”

***

The next room was quieter, if such a thing was possible. The walls were ivory, the floor lined with soft Persian wool, and a sleek conference table stretched down the middle like a runway. Outside, Central Park looked like a painted dream.

A man sat beside her. Skeletal, rimless glasses, charcoal gray suit. His name was Calvin Knox, and his voice reminded her of dry leaves rustling on pavement.

“Miss Cole,” he began, opening a document thick enough to drown in. “This marriage contract is binding for six calendar months. The terms are absolute and non-negotiable.”

Savannah flipped through the pages. Clauses, sub-clauses, entire paragraphs of legalese she could barely absorb. But her eyes caught on a few bold phrases:

No sexual contact.

No inquiries into Mr. Briggs’s personal affairs.

No contact with media, family, or external parties regarding the agreement.

Violation of any clause results in forfeiture of full payment.

Savannah looked up, throat dry. “And after the six months?”

Knox smiled, but it was a shark’s grin. “You walk away with your million. Free and clear.”

She swallowed. “Why the secrecy?”

Knox didn’t answer.

From the doorway, Colton’s voice broke the silence. “You wanted a way out. I’m offering one.”

Savannah stared at the pen. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, weak from medication. The hospital bills, the shut-off notices, the constant choking panic of not having enough... it all sat on her shoulders like a dying god.

“I need time,” she whispered.

Colton nodded. “You have until noon tomorrow.”

***

The elevator ride down felt endless.

In her hand, she clutched the thick folder like it might burn her. The weight of it wasn't just paper — it was the price of breathing room, of saving someone she loved.

The lobby was colder than before. More watchful.

She passed the security desk and pushed toward the exit, her mind spinning, chest tight.

“Don’t do it.”

The voice was sudden, sharp. Savannah turned.

A woman leaned against a marble column. Beige trench coat, red lipstick, eyes hard and unblinking. Her posture radiated fury barely held in check.

“I was you,” she said. “Two years ago.”

Savannah blinked. “I—what?”

“I signed a contract. Not the same one, but close. Assistant to Briggs. Personal liaison. All neat and quiet.”

“Who are you?” Savannah asked.

“Presley Monroe. His former assistant. Former... something else. It doesn’t matter.”

Presley stepped closer, eyes narrowing.

“He’ll own you. Quietly. Thoroughly. You’ll think you’re safe, but that man doesn’t do safety.”

Security shifted near the elevators, watching.

Presley didn’t care.

“You think a million is worth your soul? Ask yourself why someone like him needs a wife he can buy.”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Presley snapped, then whispered: “He doesn’t keep his wives. Not past the contract.”

Savannah stood frozen.

Presley leaned in.

“You sign that contract, you won’t live to see the seventh month.”

And then she was gone.

***

The next morning, Savannah stood at the same penthouse window.

Her fingers trembled.

She hadn’t slept. Her mother had coded twice in the night. The doctors had whispered complications. The bill had tripled.

She’d sat beside her mother’s bed, gripping her hand, staring into the void. And in that silence, she’d made her choice.

She turned.

Colton was already waiting.

No greetings. No smile.

Just the contract.

She sat. Picked up the pen.

Each letter felt like a heartbeat.

Each signature, a promise to abandon parts of herself.

She handed it over.

Colton took it. Checked the pages.

Then pulled out his phone.

“Activate Phase One,” he said.

A pause.

Then, to someone on the other end:

“She’s signed.”

Another pause.

And then, quiet as the wind:

“She won’t live to see the seventh month.”