"One year. No love. No complications."
Those were the three rules spelled out on the thick cream-colored paper in front of Emma Holt. Her hand trembled slightly as she tried to hold the fountain pen steady. The gilded letters of "Montclair & Associates" stared back at her like cold, unsympathetic eyes.
Across the table, Adrian Blackwood sat with the confidence of a man who had never once been denied anything. His tailored charcoal suit molded perfectly to his broad shoulders. Dark hair swept back from a face too sculpted, too harsh—like he'd been cut from marble and then taught to sneer.
"Do you have any questions before you sign?" His voice was low, precise. It raked over her nerves.
Emma glanced at the final clause again, heart hammering.
> In exchange for the sum of two hundred thousand dollars to be paid to the Holt Family Bakery within 48 hours of signing, Emma Holt agrees to enter into a legal marriage with Adrian Blackwood for a period of twelve months. After which, a clean divorce will be executed, with no claim to assets beyond agreed compensation.
It might as well have said: you are selling your life for twelve months.
She swallowed. "Just… why me?" she asked, trying not to sound too small.
A flicker of something—impatience? amusement?—crossed his eyes. "You were recommended. I trust my associates. Your bakery is dying, yes? Your father's debts… quite extensive. This solves both our problems."
She bristled at the casual cruelty in his tone. As if her entire world was just a business transaction. But then again—wasn't she treating it the same way? Trading her freedom to save her family.
She thought of her father's lined face, the sorrow when the bank threatened foreclosure last month. The bakery was all they had left of her mother.
She pressed the pen to paper. Her signature curved shakily beneath his elegant, razor-sharp one.
When she looked up, Adrian was already watching her with that unreadable expression. His eyes were so dark they almost looked black.
"It's done," he murmured, taking the contract and sliding it into his leather folder. He stood, towering over her. "My driver will pick you up tomorrow morning. You'll move into my penthouse immediately. We have appearances to make."
Her stomach lurched. "Tomorrow? That soon?"
He arched an eyebrow. "We are getting married next Saturday, Miss Holt. Or rather—Mrs. Blackwood."
The ride back to her tiny apartment in the lower east side felt like crossing an invisible line. She clutched her phone, re-reading the transfer confirmation from his lawyer—two hundred thousand dollars, deposited straight into the bakery's account. Enough to pay off the loan sharks. Enough to buy her father's peace of mind.
But what had she just sold in return?
She didn't sleep. She lay awake replaying every cold look, every clipped word Adrian had given her. This wasn't just a business arrangement. Something darker lurked under the surface—she felt it in the way he sometimes paused, as if choosing his words with surgical care.
The next morning, a sleek black Bentley arrived precisely at 9 AM. The driver, an older man with kind eyes named Ellis, helped her load two suitcases.
"Miss Holt—Mrs. Blackwood, soon enough—if you need anything, I'll be around," he said gently.
It was the first warmth she'd felt since signing the contract. She thanked him and tried to keep her composure.
The car whisked through Manhattan, climbing from cracked sidewalks and crowded tenements to sleek glass towers and gated luxury high-rises. Finally, they stopped before a steel-and-glass monolith that seemed to stretch forever into the sky.
> Welcome to your cage, she thought.
A doorman ushered her inside. Everything gleamed—polished marble floors, massive chandeliers dripping crystals like tears. Up in the private elevator, her reflection wavered in mirrored panels. She looked pale, her red hair a messy halo around wide eyes.
When the doors opened, Adrian stood waiting in the foyer of his penthouse. Hands in pockets, posture relaxed—yet the tension simmered beneath, like a panther poised to spring.
"Emma," he greeted coolly. "You'll find your room down the hall. We have an engagement dinner tonight at the Rutherford Hotel. Wear something black."
"Not—together?" she blurted. "As in, we won't be in the same bedroom?"
Something flickered across his face, gone in an instant. "This is a contractual arrangement, not a fairy tale. You'll play your role in public. Otherwise, stay out of my personal affairs."
She nodded, throat tight. So that was how it would be.
She spent the afternoon exploring the penthouse, trying to ignore the oppressive silence. Everything was minimalist—steel, glass, black leather. Not a single personal photo or memento. It was like living inside an art gallery owned by a ghost.
Late afternoon, while wandering down a side hall, she found a door that was slightly ajar. Curiosity nudged her. Inside, the room was dim, lined with dark shelves. At first she thought it was just a private study. But as her eyes adjusted, she realized the shelves held dozens of heavy boxes, all labeled with dates—going back years.
Before she could step further inside, a shadow fell across the doorway.
"Emma."
She jumped, nearly dropping her phone. Adrian stood there, silent as death, watching her with eyes that made her blood run cold.
"You're not to enter this room." His voice was soft—dangerously so. "Ever."
Her mouth went dry. "I—I was just exploring. I didn't mean to pry."
His gaze pinned her like an insect on a board. Then, as quickly as it came, the intensity vanished. He stepped back, sweeping his arm toward the hall. "Go get ready for dinner."
She fled, heart pounding.
> What the hell was in those boxes?
That evening, dressed in a borrowed black silk dress that hugged her too closely, Emma descended the staircase to find Adrian waiting. His expression softened fractionally—just enough to unsettle her.
"You clean up well," he said.
She tried to muster a smile. "Thanks, I think."
They rode in silence to the Rutherford. The ballroom glittered with Manhattan's elite—diamonds, whispered gossip, cold laughter. Adrian played his part flawlessly, one hand possessively on her lower back, introducing her as his fiancée.
She sipped champagne, nodding and smiling, feeling more like a puppet than a person.
Halfway through the evening, she excused herself to find a moment of air. The balcony overlooked the city—cold wind whipping her hair, making her eyes water.
That's when she heard it.
Adrian's voice, low and tight, drifting through the half-open French doors. He was on his phone, turned away from her.
> "I said handle it. If this leaks, everything falls apart—including her. Do you understand me?"
Her heart slammed into her ribs. Who was he talking about? Her? And what could possibly destroy them both?
She stepped back, accidentally knocking into a waiter. Glass shattered on the marble. Adrian turned immediately—eyes locking on her, narrowing.
"Emma." His tone was deceptively calm. "What exactly did you overhear?"
She forced a shaky smile. "Nothing… I just needed some air."
He studied her so long she thought he might see straight through her skull. Then he smiled, slow and sharp. "Good. Let's keep it that way."