All Chapters of THE CEO'S CONTRACT WIFE: I didn't fall for him...Until I did: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The receptionist at Thorne Holdings didn’t even look up when I walked in. “Do you have an appointment?” “I do. Palesa Mokhosi. 9AM. Architecture internship.” She finally glanced at me. At my second-hand blazer. At my shoes that I’d polished three times last night. “Sit. Mr. Thorne is running late.” Late. Right. I clutched my portfolio to my chest like it could protect me. Inside was every project I’d done at National University of Lesotho. Every late night. Every “you’re so talented, girl” from my lecturers. It also held the hospital bill folded in four. R347,892. Due in 7 days. Or they pull the plug on my mom’s dialysis. The glass doors opened and the whole floor went silent. He was taller than his pictures. And colder. Black suit, no tie, jaw sharp enough to cut glass. Michael Thorne. 32. CEO rumored to have fired 3 people before lunch last Tuesday. “Miss Mokhosi,” his voice was low. No smile. “My office. Now.” I followed him. The office was all glass and steel and

8:00 AM. My phone buzzed. Unknown number. **M: My office. 8:30. You’re my PA for the next 2 weeks. Don’t be late.**I stared at the text. Punishment. That’s what this was. When I walked into Thorne Holdings, the receptionist whispered. “Mr. Thorne asked for you specifically.” His office door was open. Michael was on a call, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loose. He looked... human. He hung up when he saw me. “Sit.” He pointed to the desk outside his office. My desk. “From now on you handle my schedule, my coffee, and my emails. You will be here 7AM to 7PM. You will not leave early. You will not talk back.” “That’s not in the contract.” His eyes lifted. Cold. “Clause 7b. ‘Attend company functions as required.’ This is required. Problem?” I sat. “No, Mr. Thorne.” “Good.” **Hour 1-6: Hell** He called me in every 15 minutes. “Coffee. Black. No sugar.” “Reschedule the 2PM meeting.” “Why is this report late?” “Stand up straight.” By lunch I was exhausted. He

“You were. Shut up.” **The Fight** That night the tension broke. I was in the bathroom. When I came out, he was on his side of the bed, shirt off, on a call. “No,” he snapped into the phone. “I don’t care if the factory burns. Fix it or you’re fired.” He hung up. Saw me. “What.” “Nothing.” I got into bed. “You sighed.” “I’m allowed to breathe.” He turned on his side. Staring at me. “You’re a terrible liar. At dinner. On the phone. Here.” “And you’re a terrible husband.” The word hung there. His eyes went dark. “I’m not your husband. I’m the man paying R5 million to keep you out of debt. Don’t forget it.” Tears burned my eyes. I hated that. “Then why did you touch me today? Why did you lie and say I cook?” “Because the board is watching,” he said. “Because you’re an asset. Because if I lose this company I lose everything.” “And what about me? Do I lose everything if you decide you’re done?” He sat up. “You knew the rules when you signed. No feelin

Cape Town in South Africa for 6 months. New apartment. New job at Voss Architects. New me. I didn’t check the news. Didn’t check his Instagram. Didn’t check anything. Until my boss called me into his office. “Palesa. You have a visitor. He says it’s urgent.” My blood ran cold. Michael Thorne. But not the Michael I knew. This Michael had 3-day stubble. A cheap suit. No watch. No driver. And eyes that looked like he hadn’t slept in months. Thorne Holdings had filed for bankruptcy 2 weeks ago. “Can we talk?” he asked. Voice rough. “5 minutes.” **The Coffee Shop** He didn’t order anything. “I need your help,” he said. No pride. No ice. “The board voted me out. Amara left. The company is R800M in debt.” He looked at me. “I’m asking you to come back. As a consultant. To save it.” I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “You broke me. You threw me away. And now you want me to save you?” “Yes.” “Why me?” “Because you’re the only person I trust.” The words hit me. “I

9 months. Or we lose everything. In the car, Michael was silent. Finally: “We can fake it.” I stared at him. “What?” “A fake pregnancy. Bump. Doctor’s note. Ultrasound. By month 8 we ‘miscarry’ and say we’ll try again.” My stomach turned. “That’s fraud.” “So was our first marriage,” he snapped. “Don’t get moral now.” He was right. And I hated it. Week 1: The Plan We hired the best PR team. Best fake doctor. I started wearing loose dresses. Michael posted photos of “nursery shopping.” The board ate it up. Khabo sent flowers. *“Can’t wait to meet the heir.”* At night we practiced. “Rub your stomach like this,” he said, hand over mine. His touch lingered. “Stop,” I whispered. “Sorry.” He pulled back. But his eyes said something else. Week 3: It’s Getting Real The lies were working. Too well. Reporters outside the house. Gifts for the baby's arriving daily. One night I found him in the nursery. Just standing there. Staring at the crib. “You okay?” “Wh