The suite's bathroom was larger than my entire bedroom. Italian marble covered every surface, a soaking tub took up an entire corner, and the shower stall had jets that looked like something from a luxury spa. I leaned against the sink, staring at my reflection in the imposing mirror.
I looked exactly like what I was: a woman who had slept handcuffed to a stranger after a night of bad decisions.
My brown hair was disheveled, my makeup smeared around my puffy brown eyes, and red marks on my wrist where the handcuffs had pressed against me. The red dress Melissa had insisted I wear to the party was wrinkled, with a wine stain on the side.
"Who are you?" I whispered to my reflection.
Because the Isabella Torres I knew didn't do things like this. She didn't drink herself into oblivion. She didn't drag strangers into hotel rooms. She didn't wake up handcuffed. And I definitely didn't consider crazy marriage proposals from billionaires I barely knew.
But the Isabella Torres I knew didn't discover her fiancé in bed with her best friend either. That Isabella lived in a world where people were honest, where love meant something, where following the rules guaranteed happiness.
That Isabella was an idiot.
I washed my face with cold water, trying to regain some composure. I didn't have a brush, but I managed to tame my hair into a messy bun. I removed as much smeared makeup as I could. The dress would have to fit—there were no other options.
When I came out of the bathroom, Dante was sitting in an armchair near the picture window, typing something on a laptop. He was dressed in a full suit now—dark gray, perfectly tailored, probably costing more than three months' rent. He looked completely in control, as if waking up in handcuffs was just another day at the office.
"Better?" he asked without looking up from the screen.
"Hardly," I replied, crossing my arms. "But we need to talk. Seriously."
"I agree." He closed his laptop and stood, walking to a sleek bar in the corner of the room. "Coffee? You look like you need it."
"What I need are answers."
"You'll get both." He brewed two cups of espresso with the efficiency of someone who'd done this a thousand times. He offered one to me. "Sit down. This will take a while."
I hesitated, but took the cup. The coffee was perfect—strong, hot, exactly what I needed. I sat in the chair opposite him, keeping a safe distance.
"So," I began, trying to sound more confident than I felt, "you proposed. To a complete stranger. This isn't normal."
"Nothing about this situation is normal," he replied, taking a sip of his own coffee. "But we're not complete strangers, Isabella."
"We literally met yesterday."
"We met two years ago." He set the cup on the side table, those green eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my stomach tighten. "At the Hope Foundation benefit." You were wearing a navy blue dress. You had your hair up in a bun. elaborate. And he spent the whole night talking to old people about gardening because no one else bothered to pay them any attention.
I froze. That party. I remembered. It had been shortly after I started dating Ricardo. He had spent the whole night networking, leaving me alone.
"You... you were there?"
"I was." There was something in his voice now, something softer. "I watched you all night. You were... different. Genuine. In a world full of fake people, you shone."
My heart raced, but I forced myself to maintain my composure. "That's creepy, not romantic."
"I'm not trying to be romantic. I'm being honest." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You almost passed out that night. Hypoglycemia. I took you to a quiet room, got you orange juice, stayed with you until you recovered."
Fragments of memory began to surface. Dizziness. Strong hands supporting me. A calm voice telling me to breathe. Worried green eyes.
"You," I whispered. "It was you."
"It was me." He nodded. "We talked for hours. You told me about your dreams, your fears, about how you felt trapped in a life other people planned for you. And then your fiancé showed up, dragged you away, and I never saw you again. Until last night."
I remembered now. That feeling of inexplicable connection with a stranger. Of feeling seen for the first time in years. Of wishing that moment would never end.
And then Ricardo had found me, angry because I'd "disappeared" during his party. I never thought about that green-eyed man again.
Until now.
"Why didn't you say anything yesterday?" I asked, my voice hoarse. "When I showed up at the bar, why didn't you mention we already knew each other?"
"Because you were devastated. Betrayed. Vulnerable." He ran a hand through his hair, the first sign of frustration he'd shown. "I thought about taking you home, making sure you were safe, disappearing. But you... you begged me to stay. Said you didn't want to be alone. That you couldn't face reality yet."
"And you decided it was a good idea to handcuff me?" I couldn't help but sound accusatory.
"That was your whole idea, believe it or not." He smiled humorlessly. "You were determined to 'make a statement.' Your words. You insisted on taking pictures to 'show Ricardo what he lost.' I tried to convince you to just sleep, but you were... persistent."
I covered my face with my hands. "Oh God. I'm the worst person in the world."
"You're human." His voice softened. "And you were heartbroken. People make questionable choices when they're hurt."
"But marriage?" I lowered my hands, looking at him directly. "That's extreme even by the standards of 'questionable choices.'"
Dante stood and walked to the picture window. From above, the city stretched out like an urban carpet—gleaming buildings, tiny cars, even tinier people. From where we stood, everything seemed small and manageable.
"You asked me why I'm doing this," he said, his back to me. "The truth is... complicated."
"I have time." I put my coffee cup aside and stood up, approaching him. "Explain."
He was silent for so long I thought he wouldn't answer. Then, finally:
"You know my company. Moretti Enterprises. An empire built from scratch." His voice was controlled, but there was something underlying it. Pain, perhaps. "What you don't know is that this empire was built on the ashes of what my father destroyed."
I waited. He needed to tell me at his own pace.
"My father was a brilliant businessman and a terrible human being," Dante continued. "A compulsive gambler. An alcoholic. He had three families at the same time, none of whom knew of the others' existence." When he died, he left astronomical debts and a legacy of shame.
"Dante..."
"I was nineteen when I took over." He finally turned to face me. There was vulnerability in his eyes now, carefully controlled, but present. "I've spent the last thirteen years cleaning up his mess. Building something legitimate. Proving that the Moretti name can mean more than betrayal and scandal."
"And now you're in the middle of a scandal," I added, beginning to understand.
"Exactly." He gave a bitter smile. "My investors, my business partners, they're all already skeptical of the Moretti name. One A drunken sex scandal? This reinforces every negative stereotype about me.
"But if you marry me..." I started connecting the dots.
"If I marry you, it's not a scandal. It's a love story." He stepped closer to me, and again I was struck by his height, his presence. "Dante Moretti, finally finding true love. So in love he couldn't wait another day. It's exactly the kind of redemption story the media loves."
"This is... incredibly calculated," I murmured.
"It's survival," he corrected. "For both of us. You save your reputation and protect your family. I save my empire and prove I'm not my father. We both win."
"And when the year is over?"
"Amicable divorce. Separation due to irreconcilable differences. We remain friends. No one comes out as the villain." He made it all sound so simple. "You're free to live your life as you wish. And I go back to being just the single, workaholic billionaire." I walked back to the armchair, needing distance to think clearly. My phone vibrated again—more notifications, more messages, more people wanting a piece of the scandal.
"You said we could discuss terms," I finally said. "Then let's discuss. If I accept this, and that's still a big "if," I need to know exactly what I'm getting into."
Dante picked up his laptop again and opened a document. "I've already prepared a draft contract."
"Of course you have." I couldn't keep the irony from his tone.
He ignored me. "We'll go through each clause. You can suggest changes. Nothing is final until we both agree."
I sat down again, this time closer. He turned the laptop screen so we could both see.
TEMPORARY MARRIAGE CONTRACT Between: Dante Moretti and Isabella Torres
"First clause," he began, his voice returning to its professional tone. "Duration of twelve months from the date of marriage. Non-renewable."
"I agree." That, at least, was clear.
"Clause Two: Public Appearances. We expect to attend social and business events together at least twice a week. We expect to maintain a loving couple's appearance in public."
"Define 'loving couple's appearance,'" I demanded.
"Appropriate physical contact. Holding hands, kissing on the cheeks, hugging. Nothing excessive. Nothing that makes you uncomfortable." He looked at me. "We can establish signals. If you want me to back off, just touch your necklace. Or use a safe word."
"Safe word?" My voice sharpened. "That seems..."
"Sensible," he interrupted. "Respect is paramount in this agreement, Isabella. I will never force you into anything you don't want to do."
I studied his face, looking for signs of dishonesty. I found none.
"Continue," I murmured.
"Clause Three: Accommodations. You will live in my penthouse. You will have your own room, with a lock if you wish. Staff will be discreet and professional."
"What if I want to keep my apartment?" "You can keep it. But for appearances' sake, we need to live together." He paused. "You can decorate your spaces however you like. Change whatever you need. I'll consider the house ours for the duration of the contract."
"Generous," I commented, unable to hide my sarcasm.
"Practical," he corrected again.
"Clause four..." I hesitated, reading the next line. "'No romantic or sexual involvement outside of marriage will be tolerated.' Is that serious?"
"Completely." His eyes hardened. "If we're going to convince the world this is real, we can't have either of us photographed with other people. A betrayal, even a fake one, would defeat the whole purpose."
"And between us?" The question came out before I could stop it. "The contract mentions involvement outside of marriage. And within?"
Dante was very quiet. When he spoke, his voice was lower, huskier.
"What happens between us is... our choice." He held my gaze. "I won't force you into anything. But if you decide... if we both decide... the contract doesn't prohibit it."
The air between us seemed to charge with electricity. I forced myself to look away, focusing back on the screen.
"Fifth clause: Financial compensation." My eyes widened at the number. "That... that's a million dollars." "Paid at the end of the year, regardless of the circumstances," he said as if it were a trivial amount. "Plus a monthly allowance of fifty thousand for your personal expenses."
"That's absurd."
"It's fair." He closed his laptop. "You're sacrificing a year of your life. You deserve compensation."
"I don't want your money."
"Then donate it to charity. Use it to start your own business. Save for the future." He leaned forward. "But it's in the contract. Non-negotiable."
I looked at him, trying to understand who this man really was. Calculated and cold one moment, surprisingly generous the next.
"Last clause," he continued. "At the end of the twelve months, we both agree to an amicable divorce. No property disputes, no public defamation, no drama. We end as we began: free."
"It seems too simple."
"The best solutions usually are." He held out his hand. "So? Do you accept?"
I looked at his hand. Steady, strong, secure. An anchor in the chaos my life had become.
My phone rang again. This time it was a message from my mother:
"Your father is in the hospital. His blood pressure is skyrocketing. PLEASE come home and explain this madness."
The world tilted beneath my feet. My father. In the hospital. Because of me.
"Isabella?" Dante's voice was worried now.
"My father," I whispered, showing him the message. "He's in the hospital."
Dante didn't hesitate. "Come on. I'll take you."
"No, you don't have to—"
"You're my fiancée now." He was already reaching for his car keys. "That's where I should be."
"I haven't accepted yet," I protested weakly.
He stopped at the door and turned to face me.
"Yes, you have." There wasn't arrogance in his tone, just certainty. "The moment you saw your father was in the hospital, you decided." Because that's who you are, Isabella. You sacrifice your happiness for others. And this time, I'll make sure you don't lose out.
And damn it, he was right.
"One year," I finally said, my voice steady despite the chaos within. "Twelve months. And then it's over."
"Twelve months," he agreed.
"And no lies between us. If we're going to do this, I need to be able to trust you."
Something flashed in his eyes. Regret? Guilt? It passed too quickly to identify.
"No lies," he repeated.
I held out my hand. He took it, and the grip was firm, warm, compromising.
I had just made a deal with the devil.
I just hoped I'd live to tell the tale.