Liam Westwood had faced boardrooms full of cutthroat executives, negotiated billion-dollar deals with cold precision, and rebuilt empires from ashes. But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared him for the ultimatum delivered by his grandmother.
"You will marry her, Liam," Grandma Eleanor had said, her voice firm despite the oxygen tubes in her nose. "Or I'll die knowing you've broken your promise."
He hadn't spoken. He couldn't. The hospital room had been too quiet, save for the faint beeping of machines keeping his grandmother's fragile body alive. She had always been his anchor, the one who stood by him when his world collapsed after his mother's death.
"You made a vow to me when you were eighteen," she reminded him. "You said if I ever asked something of you—really asked—you'd do it, no questions."
And this—marrying a stranger—was the one thing she'd chosen to cash it in on?
Liam swallowed back the resentment, burying it behind the calm, calculated expression that had become second nature to him.
"Talia Rivers?" he'd asked finally, biting out the name. "She's just twenty. I don't even know her."
Grandma Eleanor smiled weakly. "You knew her mother. Ella Rivers was like a daughter to me. And Talia… she's lost more than anyone should. She needs a lifeline, Liam. Someone steady. Someone powerful enough to shield her."
"I'm not a savior, Grandma," he said tightly. "I'm not a damn fairytale prince."
"No," she agreed, reaching for his hand. "But you're my grandson. And you've always honored your word."
He couldn't say no to her—not when she was fighting to breathe. Not when she'd raised him after the wreckage of his childhood.
So he said yes.
And now, weeks later, Liam stood by the tall windows of his penthouse, New York's skyline stretching out before him in cold defiance. He held a glass of untouched whiskey, the ice long melted, as he replayed that conversation in his mind for the hundredth time.
The girl—Talia—was more of a mystery than he cared to admit. He had done his research, of course. Her name was tied to the Rivers family, though barely. No headlines. No scandals. No high society sightings.
She was the shadow behind her glamorous stepsister, Bianca. A struggling art student. An orphan, technically. Unremarkable—until she caught Eleanor Westwood's attention.
Why?
What was Grandma not telling him?
Liam turned from the window and sat at the edge of the leather sofa, leaning forward as he reached for the folder his assistant had left for him. Inside were pictures of Talia. Not the kind plastered across magazines. These were surveillance photos. A girl walking with her head bowed, a tote bag of worn sketchbooks clutched to her chest. Another of her sitting in a café, sketching absentmindedly while the world passed her by.
She didn't look like someone chasing status or wealth. If anything, she looked… lost.
Just like he had been, once.
He was fifteen when he lost his mother.
The accident had shattered him. But it wasn't just the loss—it was the betrayal. His father's mistress had been the one driving that night, high and reckless. She'd walked away with a few bruises. His mother had died on impact.
Liam's world shifted after that. He stopped being a boy and became a weapon. Calculated. Cold. Ruthless. The boy who once sketched blueprints beside his mother's desk became a man who bought construction empires just to dismantle them and build them better.
The Westwood name meant power now. And Talia Rivers—whoever she truly was—was about to bear it beside him.
Liam stood and moved to his office, tapping his fingers on the sleek mahogany desk before dialing his lawyer.
"Draft the marriage contract," he said, his tone clipped. "Standard NDA. No interviews, no leaks, no emotional entanglements. One year term. Full discretion."
There was a pause on the other end. "Does Miss Rivers know about the conditions?"
"She will," Liam replied, not missing a beat. "This is business. Nothing more."
But deep down, something in his gut said this was different. That girl's eyes haunted him—not in photos, but in memory. He remembered seeing her once, years ago, at a party Eleanor hosted. Talia had been four or five, clinging shyly to Ella's side. Her eyes had been too serious for someone so young. A quiet watcher.
Now, that quiet girl would be his wife.
Temporarily.
He told himself it wouldn't change anything. That this wouldn't disrupt the walls he'd built so carefully over the years.
Yet even as he thought it, Liam knew his grandmother never did anything without reason. She'd never force him into a marriage just to keep a promise to a dead friend.
This was bigger. And he needed to know why.
He picked up his phone again.
"Get me everything we have on Daniel Rivers," he instructed. "And dig into Ella Rivers' death. Quietly."
If Talia was the key, he would find out what she was unlocking.
And when the time came—when the truth unraveled—he would be ready.
Eleanor Westwood's POV
The tea in Eleanor's delicate porcelain cup had long gone cold, but she didn't move. Her eyes were fixed on the garden beyond the tall windows—where her late friend Ella once stood, laughing in the sunlight, cradling little Talia in her arms.
Ella Rivers.
The name still brought a pang to her chest.
Eleanor had made a promise—one that now anchored every decision she made. She had sworn, standing at Ella's hospital bedside fifteen years ago, that if anything happened to her, she would protect her daughter. No matter what. No matter the cost.
Even if it meant sacrificing her grandson's trust.
She could still remember the way Ella had looked that day—pale, trembling, but strong. Stronger than anyone Eleanor had ever known.
"She's innocent, Eleanor," Ella had whispered, a weak smile on her lips. "Please don't let them twist her. Don't let them bury her under their lies."
At the time, Eleanor didn't understand the depth of what Ella meant. But over the years, as secrets piled behind the Rivers family's glittering facade, it became clear. Claudia Rivers—Talia's stepmother—was no mere socialite. She was a viper in silk.
Eleanor hadn't expected to become entangled this deeply. At first, she simply sent quiet donations to the art program Talia clung to for escape. Later, she pulled strings to secure her an internship. But when Claudia began restricting the girl's movements and isolating her further, Eleanor knew it was time.
Liam had to step in.
She didn't expect him to agree easily—his pride was too fierce, his bitterness too deeply rooted. The loss of his mother, shattered by betrayal, had made him see the world in black and white. He couldn't recognize the shades of protection Eleanor had learned to live by.
But she couldn't let him walk away this time. Not when Talia was barely holding on. Not when Ella's legacy depended on it.
"She needs someone steady," Eleanor murmured now, her voice lost in the silence of the Westwood estate. "Someone who won't turn away just because she doesn't know who she truly is."
Liam had always been good at fixing things—companies, broken systems, even people, in his own sharp-edged way. And Talia, for all her strength, was fraying at the edges.
A knock came at her door, but Eleanor didn't look up.
"Let him hate me," she whispered to herself. "Let him resent the marriage. But one day, he'll understand."
She clutched the locket around her neck, one Ella had given her years ago. Inside was a picture—Ella, Talia, and a boy Eleanor had never met. Jade. The brother no one spoke of anymore. The boy who had once tried to speak the truth… and ended up in a coma.
So many secrets buried.
But Eleanor was tired of silence. And if marrying Liam to Talia was the only way to shield her until the truth came out—then so be it.
"Hold on, Ella," she murmured. "Your daughter is not alone. Not while I breathe."