CHAPTER 3

Calista's POV

The fluorescent lights of the small downtown diner hummed with a grating, migraine-inducing frequency. Outside, the morning sun was trying to break through the gray aftermath of yesterday’s storm, casting a sickly, pale yellow light across the linoleum floor.

I stared down at the small plastic menu in my hands, though I wasn’t reading a single word. My fingers were trembling slightly against the faded paper. Across the table sat a cup of lukewarm black coffee—the cheapest thing on the menu—which I was nursing as slowly as humanly possible so the waitress wouldn't chase me out.

My phone lay beside the coffee mug, glowing every few minutes with fresh text messages from debt collection agencies and automated reminders about my frozen bank accounts. Four thousand dollars for the bakery lease. Thousands more in fraudulent credit card charges racked up by Julian. And in my pocket? Exactly twelve cents and a pocketful of wet lint.

A heavy, suffocating weight pressed down on my chest. I had spent the entire night sleeping on a hard wooden bench at a 24-hour laundromat, shivering in a pair of oversized sweatpants and a thrift-store hoodie that some kind-hearted cleaner had tossed my way. My dream of opening The Gilded Whisk—the pastry shop I had sacrificed my youth, my savings, and my sanity for—was officially dead and buried.

I swallowed the tight knot in my throat, blinking back the hot sting of tears. I refused to cry. Crying didn't pay lease balances or put food on a plate.

"Is this seat taken?"

A deep, commanding voice broke through my thoughts. The tone was smooth, crisp, and carried an unmistakable edge of absolute authority.

I looked up, expecting a tired commuter or a regular diner patron. Instead, my breath caught entirely in my throat.

Standing beside my cramped booth was a man dressed in a bespoke charcoal-gray suit that probably cost more than my entire life's earnings. He was tall, with broad shoulders, sharp jawline, and a cloud of dark, perfectly styled hair. His cold, piercing gray eyes locked onto mine with a look of intense, quiet recognition.

It was him. The driver of the matte-black sedan. The man who had turned my final worldly possessions into a soggy, floating mess of cardboard yesterday evening.

Panic and a sharp spike of adrenaline flared through my veins. I instinctively pulled back, my hands curling into fists against the edge of the table.

"You," I whispered, my voice tight and dangerous. "Are you stalking me now? Did you come back to finish running me over?"

Dominic Lancaster didn't flinch. A faint, humorless smirk touched the corners of his lips as he slid uninvited into the opposite side of the small vinyl booth. He moved with a heavy, deliberate grace, folding his long legs under the narrow table.

"Good morning to you too, Miss Monroe," he said smoothly, his deep voice effortlessly drowning out the hum of the diner's old refrigerator.

My eyes narrowed into thin slits. "How do you know my last name?"

"Finding things out is sort of my specialty," Dominic replied, resting his forearms casually on the table. He looked entirely out of place amidst the grease-stained walls and rattling ceiling fans of the diner, like an apex predator who had accidentally wandered into a petting zoo. "And for the record, I wasn't stalking you. I spent the last hour tracking you down through the dry cleaner's tag on that oversized hoodie you're wearing and a rather unpleasant conversation with your former landlord."

My stomach dropped. A cold wave of humiliation washed over me. "You spoke to my landlord?"

"I paid him," Dominic said flatly, watching my reaction with unreadable eyes. "Your back rent, your equipment storage fees, and the damage deposit for the storefront. It’s all settled."

I froze. The words hung in the air between us like heavy lead. My mind raced in frantic, disjointed circles. Why would a wealthy stranger pay off thousands of dollars of debt for a woman he had nearly run over twenty-four hours ago? Rich people didn't do acts of random charity out of the goodness of their hearts. There was always a catch.

"What's the catch?" I demanded, leaning forward across the sticky table, my eyes locked onto his. "Why would you pay my debts? What do you want from me?"

Dominic leaned back against the vinyl cushion, resting one hand on the table while his sharp gaze studied me with clinical detachment.

"I don't do charity, Miss Monroe," he said, his voice dropping into a low, serious register. "I need something. And as it turns out, you are uniquely positioned to give it to me."

"I have nothing," I retorted bitterly, gesturing vaguely to my worn-out clothes and the empty coffee cup. "I don't have money, I don't have a business, and I certainly don't have whatever corporate favor you're looking for."

"You have a pulse, you have a spine, and based on the way you yelled at me yesterday in the rain, you have enough fight in you to scare off half the board of directors at Lancaster Hotels," Dominic countered smoothly.

I stared at him, completely baffled. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Probably," he admitted without a trace of humor. "My grandfather's will dictates that I must be legally married by the end of this month, or my opportunistic cousin takes over the family empire. Last night, I was forced to sit through a dinner with a woman whose primary goal in life is spending my inheritance while treating everyone around her like dirt. I need a wife. Not a socialite, not someone looking for a high-society payout, but someone real."

The sheer absurdity of his words made me let out a short, harsh laugh. "So your brilliant solution to a family inheritance problem is to walk into a rundown diner and offer a complete stranger a marriage proposal? You must be insane."

"I am entirely serious," Dominic said, leaning forward again, his gray eyes piercing straight through mine. "Here is my proposal. A formal contract marriage lasting exactly three months. In exchange, I will clear every single cent of debt attached to your name—including the fraudulent balances your ex-fiancé left behind. Furthermore, I will personally fund *The Gilded Whisk* from the ground up, secure a permanent commercial lease in the city’s premier district, and hand you a lump sum of one million dollars when the divorce is finalized."

My breath hitched. One million dollars. A permanent commercial lease for my dream pastry shop. Every single debt—every crushing, suffocating weight that had kept me awake all night—wiped completely clean.

It was a life-changing amount of money. It was everything I had ever worked for, handed to me on a silver platter by a cold, arrogant stranger who needed a prop for a family inheritance game.

"And what's the catch?" I asked again, my voice shaking slightly despite my best efforts to keep it steady. "What do I have to do in return?"

"Be my wife in public," Dominic answered smoothly, his expression never changing. "Attend family dinners, smile for the cameras when necessary, play the part of a devoted spouse, and don't pry into my personal life. At the end of ninety days, we file for a quiet, uncontested annulment, and you walk away with your bakery fully funded and a million dollars in your bank account."

I sat back in my seat, my mind spinning violently. It was a terrible idea. Marrying a cold, controlling billionaire based on a legal contract was a recipe for disaster. It was messy, complicated, and entirely lacking in common sense.

Then I thought about the cardboard boxes soaking in the rain. I thought about the empty bank account, the fraudulent debts holding my name hostage, and the shattered pieces of five years of wasted effort. I had nothing left to lose.

I looked up, meeting Dominic Lancaster’s steady, calculating gaze without blinking.

"If I agree to this," I said slowly, every word deliberate and firm, "we add a clause to your precious contract. No one controls my bakery. Not your family, not your lawyers, and certainly not you. My kitchen is mine."

A slow, almost imperceptible smirk touched Dominic’s lips. He extended a large, impeccably manicured hand across the table toward me.

"Deal, Calista Monroe."

I stared at his hand for a second before sliding my palm into his firm, warm grip. The contract was sealed, and my life was about to change forever.