The Contract and...

Thomas Anderson paced the length of his study, steps uneven, stopping only to check his phone for the fifth time in a minute.

Nothing.

The silence pressed in on him, loud enough to clench his jaw. His teeth grounded, hating how each second dragged, heavy and suffocating, settling in his chest until breathing felt forced.

His shoulders stayed tense, as though he were bracing for bad news, hope and dread tangling like enemy ropes in his gut.

When he stopped pacing, the room fell quiet again, and it only deepened the ache of waiting, leaving him restless, helpless, and painfully aware of how much this call mattered.

Thomas needed a wife. Today.

He wasn’t crazy—he knew how it sounded. Remarrying wasn’t something he had ever imagined for himself, not after Claire, his late wife. Her absence still lingered in the spaces he moved through, like cold wind, brushing against him on quiet nights when the world slowed enough to remember.

All he'd wanted was a spotless home, a place where the air felt clean in his lungs, and a quiet that didn’t demand anything from him.

But now… he needed a wife.

Before the court hearing in sixty days. Before Claire’s family—the Stonebridges—tried to take his sons from him. They had waited patiently, sharpening their sword and watching. Measuring his grief, and hovering just close enough, like vultures waiting for the right time to pluck his heart out.

His private line lit up.

Beverly Hills Private Domestic Solutions Agency.

His breathing betrayed him, a jolt of hope collided again with doubt, and his hand trembled slightly as he snatched the phone before the second ring.

“Thomas Anderson here," he said quickly. "Have you found me a wife?” The words came out sharper than he intended.

A slight pause, then Maria’s calm, professional voice came through the reciever. “Yes, Mr. Anderson. We have.”

His heart jumped. Once. Twice.

“Is she willing to sign?” His voice dipped, suspicion lacing through it. “To follow through?”

The last three applicants had outrightly rejected the contract the moment they flipped through the rules. They'd called it absurd. One even said that he needed a mental evaluation.

They didn’t understand what he was going through.

“Yes,” Maria said. “She’s ready to sign immediately. Her name is Piper. Piper McDowell.”

Thomas closed his eyes.

Relief rushed through him so sharply it almost hurt.

“The children?” he asked, forcing the words out, his voice softening despite himself. “She understands what’s required of her?”

“Yes. She understands that her primary responsibility is your sons. Give them full care and affection.” Maria didn’t hesitate. “You need a temporary mother for them. She’s prepared for that.”

He sank into a chair, exhaling slowly.

Finally.

“And the non-contact rule between us?” He continued, his voice dropping to a low, pleading tone. “She understands that she is never to touch me. We'll have no proximity whatsoever. This is legal. Not intimate.”

“We were explicitly clear,” Maria replied. “But you understand the remaining terms, sir?”

“I understand,” he said quietly.

He hated the terms.

Appear married. Perform closeness in public. Feed the blogs just enough illusion to keep them satisfied.

He could already see the headlines forming:

BILLIONAIRE CEO THOMAS ANDERSON MOVES ON?

“She’ll arrive in twenty minutes,” Maria concluded. “Reach out if there’s anything further.”

“Alright.”

The line went dead.

Thomas stared at the phone, unease creeping into his chest. unused to this kind of anticipation—this mix of urgency and intrusion.

He valued solitudel. His home was a sanctuary, and he guarded it fiercely. He detested the idea of unwanted proximity with any female, except of course, with Paige, his girlfriend.

And she hadn’t called back since after their argument last night.

She would have been perfect by his side—beautiful, polished—but three months together and she still refused to step into this part of his life. Choosing the runway over him again. France, this time. A fashion show more important than his crisis.

The abandonment still stung.

Not because he loved her—he wasn’t sure he loved anyone besides his children—but because he had needed her to stay, at least for him.

And she had chosen herself.

If Claire were alive, none of this would be happening.

Fourteen months she'd been gone—complications after childbirth, after giving him Leo. Fourteen months since his world had split open.

And her family had wasted no time.

Claire's mother, Mildred Stonebridge, had turned his fear of contamination into a weapon, dragging him to court, and painting him as a broken, unfit father. 'Emotionally incapable of raising a child' she'd said.

Sixty days.

To prove to Los Angeles, the courts, and the Stonebridge vultures watching that he was still a capable husband. A capable father.

The blogs were relentless. His business partners watched closely, waiting for weakness—an excuse to pull deals, after the fortune he’d spent trying to save Claire.

Everything depended on this.

So here he was, proving himself.

Buying a wife.

In twenty minutes, a stranger would bear his name, live in his home, hold his children.

Thomas moved into the master bedroom. The room opened wide around him—floor-to-ceiling windows, the city stretched beneath fading dusk, washing the spacious bedroom in muted light, outlining the king-sized bed, the low nightstands, and the neatly arranged seating area by the window. He straightened a pillow. Smoothed the bedspread. Nudged a chair into place.

He stopped on his side of the room, fingers brushing the edge of the nightstand, then glanced toward the empty space where her presence would soon settle. His chest tightened, a quiet reminder that this room, like his life, would no longer belong to him alone.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

He frowned, tension flickering in his eyes. She hadn’t used the access code.

Unpredictable.

He hated unpredictable people. They never followed rules.

“Access granted,” he said sharply. Exhaled loudly, and descended the stairs, in stiff calculated steps, palms brushing against the railing.

The door opened.

And with it came something unexpected.

She walked in, and the entire house immediately felt smaller.

She stood around five'five, in a flash of colorful mess, wearing a cream colored short-sleeved shirt on a metalic grey combat trousers marked with flecks of paint. Not artistic splashes, but accidental ones. Old paint stains that reminded Thomas of haste and untidiness.

Her hair pinned in a ponytail, and she wore no make-ups. Her face carried a simple prettiness that wouldn't allow Thomas take a second glance if he walked past her on the way. She wasn’t polished, far too simple for his taste.

No effort. No awareness of how she was being perceived. That alone irritated him more than it should have.

His face folded into a disappointed frown.

She carried two bags. A bulky canvas bag that balanced awkwardly on her shoulder, and a smaller one that slipped from her and hit the floor with a startling thump, making Thomas instinctively retreated a few steps.