Chapter 4 Closed Deal

“I need a wife. Name your price,” he said, as if he were negotiating a business acquisition rather than rearranging someone’s life.

The words struck the air between them, but she didn’t immediately process their meaning.

“Pardon, Mr. Wright?” she asked slowly, confusion tightening her expression.

His gaze didn’t waver.

“I need someone to pose as my wife. Temporarily.” He slid a thick document across the table toward her with practiced ease.

“This is the agreement.”

Reluctantly, she took it. Her fingers hesitated before fully closing around the paper, as though it might burn.

Before she could even skim the first page, he added, almost casually, “I need to be married so my girlfriend will come back and stay for good. Once she returns, she’ll agree to marry me properly.”

Another document followed—placed beside the first with deliberate precision.

“This is the divorce agreement. Once she returns, you sign it, and we end everything cleanly. No complications.”

He leaned back slightly, expression unreadable, voice still level.

“You will be compensated. Name your price.”

For a moment, she said nothing.

The room felt too quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against her ears rather than filled them. She stared down at the papers, trying to make sense of the absurdity laid out so neatly in ink and clauses.

Lucien Wright.

The name alone carried weight—CEO, heir, one of the most talked-about men in business circles.

A ballerina—Ellen Johnson.

The prodigy who had once been engaged to him, the woman everyone said he never stopped chasing. She had left the country years ago to pursue her career, determined to become the finest ballerina of her generation.

And yet, despite her absence, stories followed Lucien everywhere—how he attended her performances in different countries, always seated far back, always unseen afterward. As if distance itself was not enough to loosen whatever tether still bound him to her.

People called it devotion. Others called it obsession. Either way, Ellen Johnson had become a myth wrapped in elegance and heartbreak.

And now, somehow, she was being offered a contract to stand in the space that myth had left behind.

Her grip tightened slightly on the papers.

Ten million. The number echoed in her mind, louder than anything else.

Ten million dollars—enough to erase the debt that had shadowed her for years, enough to breathe without calculation, without fear. It wasn’t just money. It was escape.

She exhaled slowly, eyes still lowered.

She understood the terms now, every cold, clinical detail hidden beneath polite phrasing. She would act as his wife in public. Fulfill all marital obligations expected of a husband and wife.

Even intimacy was not excluded—though reduced to something contractual, detached, almost procedural. No child was to result from the arrangement, and precautions were explicitly mandated. Any external relationships had to remain discreet, hidden from public scrutiny.

It was not a marriage. It was a performance with legal binding.

A stage built not for love, but for manipulation—so Ellen Johnson would see it, hear of it, feel it. A carefully constructed illusion meant to pull her back into Lucien Wright’s orbit.

Even his home was part of it. She would stay in his mansion—the same one Ellen had once lived in. A deliberate echo. A quiet taunt.

Her lips parted slightly, but no words came at first. Strangely, what unsettled her most wasn’t the morality of it.

It was how structured it was. How thoroughly planned. How certain he was that the world—and she—could be arranged like pieces on a board.

When she finally spoke, her voice was steady.

“Ten million dollars.” Her eyes lifted to meet his.

“I accept.”

Something shifted faintly in his expression—so subtle it might have been imagined. Interest, perhaps. Or calculation adjusting to an unexpected variable.

“Deal,” he said at once.

She picked up the pen without hesitation.

The ink flowed easily as she signed each page except the divorce agreement, leaving it untouched for now. A quiet reminder that nothing about this was permanent—only contracted.

“When do I get the money?” she asked, already moving to the next document.

“And when do I move in?”

“Tonight,” he replied.

“You’ll come with me. The funds will be transferred once you provide your account details.”

“Fine.”

Her tone was light, almost indifferent. As if she were agreeing to a shift in schedule, not the beginning of a fabricated marriage.

She set the pen down and flexed her fingers slightly, as though releasing something heavier than paper.

From his side, a black card slid across the table toward her.

“In addition to the payment, you’ll have access to this. Use it for anything you need.”

She picked it up, turning it between her fingers. The weight of it was understated, but its implication wasn’t.

A soft smile tugged at her lips before she could stop it. A faint dimple appeared on either side—subtle, but unmistakable. It softened her features in a way that often drew attention without effort, the same expression that had once made her briefly recognizable in small modeling circles before her career faded into uncertainty and survival work.

“It’s nice to have perks,” she murmured, almost amused.

Lucien watched her closely, expression still controlled, still distant. But his attention had sharpened—like a man recalculating a risk he thought he had already measured.

Then, abruptly, his voice turned colder.

“About the agreement,” he said.

“You are not to engage with other men during the marriage.”

She glanced up.

“I don’t intend to.”

“I don’t want to share my wife with anyone,” he added, more firmly this time.

That statement lingered in the air longer than anything else he had said.

She only shrugged.

“That won’t be a problem.”

Her gaze dropped back to the card as if the matter had already been dismissed from relevance.

“I’m not exactly looking for complications.”

For her, it was simple. The arrangement was temporary. Transactional. Survival dressed in luxury terms.

Lucien studied her for a moment longer than necessary. He had expected hesitation. Resistance. Negotiation.

Instead, she had agreed as though she had nothing left to lose—and nothing left to protect.

The enigma of his new wife was as compelling as the contract that bound her to him.

She had been a virgin, a fact that had surprised him, but her reaction to losing it was a study in cool detachment. Now, she was entering a marriage of cold convenience with a stranger.

Was it sheer desperation for money?

The background report had been sparse, highlighting only a recent, messy breakup—a detail he already knew.

She was a refreshing shock to his system, a vibrant splash of color against the gray monotony of his corporate agenda. Beyond the initial, primal attraction to her delectable body, there was her doll-like perfection.

Flawless porcelain skin brushed with a natural rose on her cheeks, light brown eyes that held flecks of gold, and tiny, captivating dimples that punctuated her smile. With a slender figure and legs that seemed to go on forever, she was a living Barbie doll, but one with a surprising, sharp tongue.

Ten million dollars had felt like a pittance for the pleasure and possession she represented. She was the first spark of genuine interest since Ellen had walked out, a flame he was eager to fan.

Given his net worth, he had expected her to negotiate, to demand more, but she had accepted the terms with a quiet finality that only deepened the mystery.

The memory of their first night hung in the air between them. A long silence had stretched until he broke it, his voice cutting through her thoughts.

"How do you feel?" he asked, his gaze analytical.

She turned to him, her expression momentarily unguarded and questioning, before understanding dawned. A faint blush crept up her neck.

"Still tender..." she admitted, her honesty disarming.

"Do you need some pills?"

"No, I'm fine."

"I want you later," he announced, the statement casual, devoid of request. He might as well have been commenting on the weather.

She stared, aghast. Yes, she had signed the contract, but she had expected some semblance of decorum, the slightest social inhibition. But then, this was Lucien Wright, the cunning CEO whose word was law to thousands and held sway over markets.

"You're my wife, remember?" he added, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips as he noted her incredulous look.

"But it doesn't mean you have to ravage me all the time," she retorted, rolling her eyes in a display of defiance that intrigued him more than submission ever could.

"I want you later. You can take a pill if you still feel tender," he dismissed, his tone leaving no room for argument. It was a declaration, not a conversation.

She rolled her eyes again in silent protest, meeting his glare with a stubborn set to her jaw.

"You're insatiable. You almost got me crippled last night with your... huge appetite," she sneered, pushing back.

"You were able to stand," he countered, a arrogant smirk finally breaking through.

"In that case, I still haven't done that much."

His arrogance was infuriating, a brand of confidence that was both repellent and magnetic. And though exasperated, when night fell, she allowed him to ravish her.

The room was once again filled with the symphony of their encounter—the slap of wet skin, ragged breaths, and muffled moans.

"So this is the honeymoon now?" she panted, her back pressed against the cool tiles of the shower as he held her aloft, water sluicing over them.

"Yes," he replied raggedly, his voice a deep, breathy rumble against her ear.

"And the rest of the nights we will be together."

Emboldened by the intimacy and the steam, she decided to poke the bear.

"You might have a surprise waiting. Miss Ellen might be on your doorstep in the morning," she teased, her fingers digging into the muscular arms that held her secure.

Her long, slender legs were wrapped tightly around his narrow hips, moving in a primal rhythm. Her teasing was met not with words, but with a sudden, fierce tightening of his grip.

"She might be scurrying back right now, knowing you've married someone else," she added, a playful smile on her lips.

The smile was instantly captured by his mouth in a searing, punishing kiss. It was not a kiss of passion but of possession, a deliberate silencing. He consumed her, sucking and devouring until she was lightheaded, drowning in the sensation.

"Hahh...!" she gasped for air when he finally released her, only to cry out loudly,

"Arghhh..." as his warm mouth descended to engulf one sensitized peak.

"You talk too much..." he grumbled against her skin, his voice thick with frustration and desire. He showered her breasts with tiny, grazing bites, teasing the hardened buds with his teeth.

"Arghhh..." she gasped again, the sound lewd and involuntary.

The thought, fueled by a dangerous curiosity, slipped out before she could stop it.

"I can't imagine how Miss Ellen endured your appetite. Can she still do her ballet after you've had your way with her?" Ellen Johnson was a petite woman, a delicate 5'3" to his towering six-foot-plus frame. The image was a stark contrast to her own.

The effect was instantaneous. He froze. The rhythm stopped dead.

"I told you to shut up," he snapped, his voice no longer deep with desire but hard and sharp as a shard of ice.

She opened her eyes and met his gaze. The heat of moments before was gone, replaced by a cold, chilling void that made her blood run cold.

"I don't want you to speak of Ellen," he bit out, each word precise and glacial. "Whatever existed between Ellen and me is none of your concern. She is a subject that is off-limits. Do you understand?"

The unspoken threat in the silence that followed was louder than any shout. The honeymoon was over, and the true terms of their agreement had just been laid bare.

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