1

ALEXA POV

The crosswalk sign was flashing orange, but traffic laws are clearly optional when you drive a car worth more than my yearly grade-school teacher salary.

Before I could blink, the sleek black bumper clipped me, sending spelling tests flying into the rain and my left knee cracking against the curb. Pain seared up my leg, but the driver didn't even kneel. Jerome Washington stepped out, checked his Rolex, and rolled his eyes with total indifference.

"You walked into my blind spot," he said with a smug smirk. "Are you getting up, or turning this into an Oscar performance?"

"I had the right of way, you arrogant jerk," I snapped.

I know the guy, he was the famous billionaire CEO everybody was talking about.

Bored, Jerome scribbled a check for $100,000 and let it flutter into a puddle. "Take it, and we both move on."

Spite ignited in my chest. Leaving his money in the dirt, I dragged myself up against a streetlamp. "Keep your insulting cash. I don't sell my dignity."

He tossed me a clinic card and sped off.

An hour later, the doctor wrapped my fractured knee and handed me a $500 bill. Instead of mailing it, I hobbled on crutches into Washington Enterprises, rode to the 80th floor, and barged into his executive board meeting.

"Five hundred dollars," I announced, slapping the receipt over his financial reports. "Not a penny more. Reimburse my exact change."

Jerome stared at the slip, his bored mask shattering into dark fascination. "You dragged a broken knee to my top floor just to demand pocket change?"

"Not everything has a price tag, Mr. Washington," I said, holding my chin high.

Two months later, my knee was healed when I spotted an elderly man in a runaway motorized wheelchair speeding toward a busy intersection. I lunged, digging my heels into the asphalt until the chair stopped inches from traffic. The man was Arthur Washington—Jerome’s grandfather.

Charmed by my attitude, Arthur delivered Jerome a ruthless ultimatum: Marry Alexa June, or lose your CEO position and inheritance.

"I am not marrying you," I glared at Jerome across a private booth a few days later.

"It’s a two-year fake business contract," he replied coolly. "My fortune is riding on it."

Before I could refuse again, my phone buzzed with a catastrophic family medical emergency, one requiring an astronomical sum my savings couldn't touch. Swallowing my pride, I looked at the man who treated emotions like tax liabilities.

"Two years," I whispered. "You cover the emergency tonight, and I walk the second the clock runs out."

"Deal," he smirked.

I signed, completely unaware of his real motive. His childhood love, Anna Jaylon, had just married his best friend, Collin.

Jerome was using our fake marriage as a cover to make them comfortable while he secretly watched over Anna from afar, leaving me trapped as a convenience to a billionaire pining for another man's wife.

******

Two days after a ridiculously quick, quiet civil ceremony performed by a judge who happened to be his grandfather’s old college buddy, I was officially moved into Jerome’s penthouse.

Calling it a penthouse felt like a gross understatement. Compared to my cramped, ugly little studio apartment with its leaky faucet and peeling wallpaper, this place was a five-star luxury resort.

It was massive, suffocatingly clean, and staffed by an elderly butler named Thomas and two quiet maids who looked at me like I was a lost kitten Arthur Washington had dragged off the street.

Jerome put me in a bedroom right next to his, a room that was easily three times the size of my old living room.

That night, we sat across from each other at a dining table so long we practically needed megaphones to communicate.

"Rule number one," I said, stabbing a roasted asparagus spear with my fork. "No physical contact. Ever."

Jerome raised an eyebrow, pausing with his wine glass halfway to his lips. "Planning on jumping my bones, Miss June?"

"In your wildest dreams, Washington," I snorted, rolling my eyes. "Let's be crystal clear: you might be an eight out of ten on a good day if you keep your mouth shut, but I am just a girl trying to survive a two-year sentence. I don't need your hands anywhere near me."

"An eight?" He let out a low, disbelieving laugh, leaning back in his chair with that signature insufferable smirk. "Women pay millions just to sit in the same VIP lounge as me, and I get downgraded to an eight by a third-grade teacher?"

"Your personality knocks you down to a solid four, actually. Be grateful I rounded up."

He shook his head, though a treacherous little twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed his amusement. "Moving on. You’re quitting your teaching job."

I froze, setting my fork down. "Excuse me? I love my job."

"It's an hour away from here, Alexa," he said calmly, taking a sip of his wine. "And I don't have time to chauffeur you back and forth across the city every day."

"Did I ask you to drive me? I have legs. And public transit exists."

"My grandfather insists you work at Washington Enterprises so he can 'keep an eye on his favorite grand-daughter-in-law,'" Jerome countered, air-quoting with maddening precision. "You’ll apply for an entry-level position. Receptionist."

"Fine," I huffed, crossing my arms. "But under one condition. Nobody at that company can know who I am. I’m not using your last name, and I’m definitely not parading around as the CEO’s secret wife."

"Agreed," he said smoothly. "The last thing I need is HR questioning my sanity."

The next morning, I walked down the grand staircase wearing a crisp, practical gray pencil skirt and a plain white button-down. Jerome was already standing by the kitchen island, looking like an Italian suit commercial in his tailored navy three-piece.

He took one look at me and scoffed. "Why are you wearing that boring outfit?"

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw my own brain. "I’m going in as a low-level receptionist, Jerome. Not a runway model. Your grandfather sent three racks of Chanel and Valentino to my room yesterday. The purse alone could feed a small village! If I walk into entry-level orientation carrying a ten-thousand-dollar bag, people will think I'm either corrupt or a drug lord's mistress."

"It's called quality, Alexa," he said dryly. He reached into his pocket and tossed a set of silver keys onto the counter. "Fine. But you’re taking the Porsche."

I stared at the keys like they were radioactive. "Are you seriously this mental? I'm an entry-level receptionist. I'm not pulling up in a sports car that costs more than the department manager's house. Plus, I don't even know how to drive."

Jerome pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a heavy, dramatic sigh. "You know, for a former schoolteacher, you have an astonishing lack of basic patience."

"And for a billionaire CEO, you have an astonishing lack of common sense," I shot back, turning toward the foyer. "I’ll take a taxi."

"Get back here," he ordered, grabbing his briefcase. "We’re riding together."

"Only if you drop me off two blocks away near the traffic light," I bargained, pointing a finger at him. "Not a single soul at Washington Inc. can see me getting out of your car."

"Fine, fine. Just get in before I decide to fire you before your first day."