Talia Rivers sat on the edge of the velvet chair, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap like a girl trying not to look broken.
The room was soaked in elegance — low golden lights, expensive oak shelves, and curtains thick enough to muffle secrets. But none of it impressed her. Not after a lifetime of being treated like a mistake in her own home.
Her stepmother used to say, "Art is for dreamers, and you were born for reality — just look at yourself."
And her stepsister Bianca? Bianca was the golden girl. The perfect daughter. The one who got praise, affection, and opportunities. Talia got locked rooms, cruel comparisons, and silence.
So no — opulence didn't scare her. And neither did Liam Westwood.
He stood across from her now, a living contradiction — breathtaking in a tailored black suit, yet cold enough to freeze the air between them. His expression was unreadable as he stared at her, fingers lightly tapping the edge of a crystal glass.
"You understand the terms," he said smoothly. "This marriage is a contract. Appearances. Status. Events. Nothing emotional."
Talia met his eyes, hiding the tremble in her chest. "And if I say no?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Then your brother's medical debt continues to rise. And your scholarship to Florence? Consider it gone. I make things happen, Talia — but only when I'm invested."
There it was — the reminder. She wasn't here because he loved her. She was a tool. A pawn.
Just like she'd been at home.
Except here… she had a choice. A price to weigh.
Her voice was quiet, firm. "No touching. No trying to control my work."
Liam tilted his head, almost amused. "Touching is negotiable. But I won't force. I never do. Persuasion is more… effective."
Talia swallowed hard. It wasn't just his words — it was the way he looked at her. Not like a man trying to own her, but like one trying to unravel her.
And that was more dangerous.
"Why me?" she asked, not breaking eye contact. "You could've paid an actress. A model. Hell, someone who doesn't come with a heap of family trauma and art supplies."
His lips quirked slightly, but not into a smile. "Because actresses pretend. You don't. You wear your pain like armor. It makes you real."
That hit harder than she expected. No one had ever seen her — not like that. They saw her scars, her flaws, her failures. Not the girl who fought to survive them.
"I want six months," she said. "Not a year. You get your perfect wife, I get out with some dignity."
He nodded once, slowly. "Six months. Signed, sealed, and coldly executed."
She snorted softly, surprised by her own laugh. "You're not as charming as people say."
"I don't try to be," Liam said, stepping closer. "Charm is for liars. I prefer results."
There was barely a breath between them now. Talia's heartbeat roared in her ears, but she didn't step back. She wouldn't let any man — not even one like Liam — intimidate her again.
"I'll sign the contract tomorrow," she said, lifting her chin. "But don't expect a smile for the cameras. I don't fake well."
"Good," he replied, eyes burning into hers. "Neither do I."
She turned to leave, her heels echoing on the marble floor. But his voice followed her, smooth and low.
"You'll move into my penthouse next week. Don't pack too much… but bring your paints."
Talia hesitated.
"Why?"
"Because a woman who's been silenced deserves to color the walls however she wants."
For a second, her breath caught. Then she left — walking out of the room like a storm in heels.
She had no illusions about what this contract meant.
But if she was going to sell her heart, it would be on her own terms.
And maybe, just maybe… Liam Westwood wasn't as heartless as he claimed.
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