There are moments in life you can prepare for.
Then there are moments that walk in uninvited, sit at your table, and rearrange the entire shape of your future.
This was the second kind.
And it began with a contract.
A white folder.
And Rhys Sterling sitting across from me like a ghost I once loved and a storm I didn't know how to weather.
The conference room in Sterling Tower was too cold. Too quiet. Too polished. Even the windows seemed to watch me.
I sat with my hands clasped in my lap, fingers tangling with each other like they were trying to hold me together.
Rhys stood at the head of the table.
Suit jacket off. Sleeves rolled. Shirt unbuttoned at the collar, like he didn't even bother pretending this wasn't personal.
Because it was.
On levels deeper than any contract.
He was reading through the pages again, not because he needed to, he definitely didn't, but because I think he was delaying the moment our lives would officially collide again.
Finally, he looked at me.
"Reece," he said, voice low, impossible to read, "before we sign anything, you need to understand the terms."
"I said I'm ready."
He raised a brow, the faintest curve of doubt.
"There's ready," he murmured, "and then there's understanding."
The words were gentle, but they pushed. They always did.
His gaze flicked to the chair beside me, where his lawyer sat earlier but had stepped out to take a call. It left just us. A dangerous kind of intimacy my body wasn't prepared for.
He pulled out a chair across from me and sank into it slowly, like he was lowering himself into something he wasn't sure wouldn't swallow us both.
The folder went between us.
He placed his hand on top of it.
Steel ring glinting on his middle finger. A sharp contrast to the softness in his eyes. Or what used to be softness.
"Reece… This agreement isn't a suggestion. It's binding. Every term. Every limit."
I nodded even though my stomach was tight enough to hurt.
"Then tell me," I said.
He inhaled softly through his nose. Then he turned the contract toward me and tapped the first clause.
CLAUSE ONE: ONE YEAR
"One year," he said. "No extensions. No early termination, unless both parties sign an amendment."
One year.
Three hundred sixty-five days with the man who broke me so completely that even breathing sometimes felt like remembering.
But I said nothing.
I only nodded.
He searched my face like he could read the words I'd never say.
"This year isn't just for you," he said quietly. "Or your family. It impacts my board, my holdings, and a public reputation I've spent years building."
"Then why agree?" I asked before I could stop the words. "Why me? Why this?"
A shadow passed through his expression, fast, sharp, unguarded.
"Because there is no one else," he said.
The answer knocked something loose in my chest, something I didn't want to feel again.
Not hope.
Not anything close to it.
CLAUSE TWO: SEPARATE BEDROOMS
He turned the page.
"Separate bedrooms," he said. "Non-negotiable."
I swallowed.
He must've seen it, because his eyes softened a fraction.
"It's for you as much as me," he added.
"No one asked for protection."
"I know," he murmured. "But it's still something you'll get."
The words settled like heat under my skin, unwelcome, unsteady.
I tried to break eye contact, but he stopped me with a simple tilt of his head.
"Reece… our past is complicated."
Too simple a word.
Our past was an earthquake.
"Sharing a house is enough pressure," he continued. "Sharing a bed, "
"Wasn't on the table," I finished for him. "I'm aware."
He watched me carefully.
Too carefully.
"Are you?" he asked.
His voice was quiet.
Dangerously close to something honest.
I forced my chin up.
"Yes."
A tense silence stretched between us, thin as a thread, sharp as a blade.
Then he looked away.
CLAUSE THREE: NO INTIMACY
He turned another page.
And I already knew what was next.
"No physical intimacy," he said. "None. Not for appearance, not for comfort, not by accident."
A pulse of embarrassment rushed across my skin at the bluntness of it.
He held my gaze as he said it, like he needed me to hear every word.
"This is not a relationship," he continued. "It's a contractual partnership with very real consequences."
My throat tightened.
"I know that."
He leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing the way they did when he was trying to figure out whether I was lying to him or myself.
"Do you?" he asked again.
Heat prickled up my neck.
"Rhys, I don't need protecting from you."
But I did.
Just not in the way he thought.
He exhaled slowly.
"Reece… I'm not setting these terms because I think you'll want something from me."
His eyes lowered for a second, like he was choosing his next words carefully.
"I'm setting them because I don't trust myself."
The air left my lungs.
Completely.
"What?" I whispered.
He didn't look away.
"You think this is simple?" he asked gently. Too gently. "You think I can see you every day, after everything, and pretend the past isn't there? Pretend you didn't matter? Pretend I didn't, "
He stopped himself.
Pulled back sharply.
Like the words had gotten too close to something he kept locked in a room with no windows.
The silence that followed was thick.
Dangerous.
Charged.
He tapped the clause with one finger, forcing the conversation back to the contract.
"No intimacy," he said again. "No crossing lines. Not even once."
I nodded, even though my chest felt tight enough to fracture.
CLAUSE FOUR: PUBLIC APPEARANCES
"Public appearances," he continued. "Minimum twice a month. Board events. Charity galas. Media nights. You'll have a schedule."
"A schedule?" I repeated.
"You'll be part of the Sterling image. That comes with rules."
His words were precise.
Businesslike.
But the way he watched me wasn't.
"And in public," he added quietly, "we act married."
The room felt too small.
Too warm.
Too dangerous.
"So in private we're strangers," I said. "And in public we're, "
"Exactly what they need us to be."
A perfect lie.
Together.
Hand in hand.
He cleared his throat, as if pushing the thought away himself.
"And for the record," he said, voice softening, "you won't be thrown into anything blind. I'll walk you through every event. I'll make sure you're protected."
"Protected from what?" I asked.
He hesitated.
"People who like to dig," he said. "People who like to twist stories."
"And what story would they twist?"
His jaw tightened.
"Ours."
CLAUSE FIVE: FINANCIAL TRANSPARENCY
He flipped to the next page.
"You'll have access to everything relevant to your role. But we don't merge accounts. You'll receive a monthly stipend for appearances and responsibilities. Enough to support your family and keep the boutique afloat."
"And after the year ends?" I asked.
"You keep everything you've earned."
"And the boutique?"
His voice gentled.
"It'll be stable. You'll come out of this whole."
Not us, I thought.
Not both of us.
Just me.
Somehow, that hurt more.
CLAUSE SIX: CONFIDENTIALITY
"No discussing our arrangement with anyone," he said. "Not your friends. Not the press. Not even your family."
"My family, ?"
He shook his head.
"My board will inform them of the engagement formally. After that, the details stay sealed."
The words were sharp.
But necessary.
I understood.
I hated it, but I understood.
THE FINAL PAGE
He slid the contract toward me.
"This is the agreement."
His voice had changed.
Lower.
Rougher.
As if saying the terms out loud drained something from him.
I wasn't sure what.
I wasn't sure I wanted to know.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely.
"Reece," he murmured, "if you sign this, there is no going back."
"I know."
"You'll live with me."
"I know."
"There will be scrutiny."
"I know."
"There will be rules."
"I know."
"And there will be consequences if we break them."
I held his gaze.
"I know."
Something flickered in his eyes.
Something like pain.
Or guilt.
Or both.
He exhaled slowly, then pushed a pen across the table until it stopped in front of me.
"Read it again," he said quietly. "Every word. Every line. Don't let desperation push you into a life you don't want."
I stared at him.
"You think I don't know what I'm doing?" I asked.
He shook his head.
"I think you're choosing survival," he said. "Not a future."
"And you?" I asked. "What are you choosing?"
His jaw flexed.
He didn't answer.
Not right away.
Not with words.
He reached up and loosened his tie, as if it suddenly felt too tight.
Then he said, with a softness that hit like a bruise,
"I'm choosing to fix something I broke."
The silence cracked through me.
Slow.
Painful.
Unavoidable.
Before I could respond, the door opened.
His lawyer stepped back inside carrying two coffees.
"Are we ready to sign?" he asked brightly.
Rhys didn't look at him.
He looked at me.
Only at me.
"Reece?" he asked.
My heart pounded like a fist against my ribs.
"Yes," I said, barely above a whisper.
"I'm ready."
But I wasn't.
Not really.
Because the second I put pen to paper…
I wasn't just signing a contract.
I was signing away the version of my life I thought I'd have.
Signing into a year of proximity to the man who once shattered me and now offered me stability at the cost of something I wasn't sure I could name.
Signing into a life of boundaries with a man who once knew every inch of my soul.
Signing into a new beginning built on old wounds.
My hand trembled as I picked up the pen.
I could feel Rhys watching.
Not judging.
Not forcing.
Just… waiting.
Like he needed to see which version of me would show up.
The girl who once begged him to stay.
Or the woman who survived him.
I pressed the tip of the pen to the paper.
My breath shook.
My pulse screamed.
My past and future collided behind my ribs.
And I signed.
One stroke.
Then another.
Then my full name.
REECE KAY.
When I finished, the air left my lungs.
A slow exhale.
A quiet surrender.
A new beginning.
Rhys took the contract.
He didn't smile.
He didn't celebrate.
He didn't do anything except run his thumb slowly over my signature.
Then he signed his name beneath mine.
RHYS STERLING LAWSON.
His handwriting was sharp.
Controlled.
Cold.
But his eyes weren't.
When he looked at me, something shifted between us.
Something neither of us was ready for.
He closed the folder gently and said:
"Welcome to the agreement, Reece."
His voice was soft.
But his eyes?
His eyes told a very different story.
They said:
This isn't going to be simple.
This isn't going to be safe.
And this isn't going to stay just business.
And deep down, I knew he was right.
Because some contracts bind more than futures.
They bind the pieces of two people who never really let go.
Even when they wanted to.
Especially when they shouldn't
Reece," Rhys said softly, pulling me back into the present. "We can talk through the move-in details tomorrow. You don't have to do anything tonight."
But he was wrong.
I already had to do everything.
Because the moment I walked out of Sterling Tower, the weight of the boutique's debt, my family's debt, was waiting like a shadow behind me. A reminder that desperation wasn't abstract. It had teeth. And if I didn't act, it would swallow us whole.
"I'll manage," I said.
He opened his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to offer something I didn't want to need, but I stood before he could speak.
I couldn't sit in that room a second longer.
Not with the contract lying between us like a freshly dug grave.
Not with his signature inked beneath mine, proof that we were now legally tied together in a year-long arrangement that didn't resemble anything we once dreamed of.
He watched me stand.
He always watched.
And it made my skin feel too small.
"Reece," he tried again.
I shook my head.
"I need air."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't stop me.
He never stopped me.
Not even the night he should have.
The elevator felt like a moving glass cage.
My reflection stared back, eyes too bright, throat tight, shoulders carrying a weight no one else could see.
I wasn't the same girl who once loved Rhys.
I wasn't even the same woman I was an hour ago.
My pulse thudded in my ears, too loud, too fast.
Because now everything was real.
Not theoretical.
Not negotiable.
Real.
I was going to marry him.
Live with him.
Pretend in public.
Avoid in private.
Sleep in separate rooms.
Perform a lie so convincing the world would accept it as truth.
A year.
Twelve months.
Fifty-two weeks.
Three hundred sixty-five days with the man who walked away from me in the rain and left an entire version of myself dying on the pavement.
I closed my eyes and exhaled shakily.
"Just breathe," I whispered to the empty elevator car. "Just… breathe."
But breathing felt like remembering.
And remembering felt like drowning.
The moment I stepped outside, the cold slapped me awake.
A year ago, my worries were simple,rent, boutique inventory, managing my mother's stress.
Now I had a corporate marriage contract, a billionaire fiancé with a past that haunted me, and a countdown to a future I couldn't predict.
I hugged my arms around myself and started walking with no destination.
I needed space.
I needed silence.
I needed to remember who I was before Rhys Sterling came back into my life and turned everything upside down again.
But the problem with trying to forget a history like ours?
It didn't let go.
It followed.
I reached the small park across from the Tower, quiet, mostly empty, the city noise fading into background hum.
I sat on a bench, pressing my palms against the cold metal, grounding myself.
This wasn't the life I pictured.
I didn't picture signing a contract to save my family from financial ruin.
I didn't picture agreeing to share a home with the man who broke my heart.
I didn't picture pretending to be married while tiptoeing through a minefield of old wounds.
But here I was.
And beneath all of it, the desperation, the fear, the obligations, another truth quietly pulsed:
Rhys and I had unfinished history.
Unspoken history.
A history that lived in the cracks of everything we said and didn't say.
A history that felt like a wound and a warning at the same time.
Because the night he left me wasn't the end.
Not really.
The end came later.
Months later.
The night I learned the one thing he should have told me.
And still hadn't.
Even now.
Even after asking me to sign away a year of my life.
A secret that lived between us like an invisible wall.
I swallowed hard.
The memory tugged at me, sharp and unwanted.
But before I could sink too far into it,
A shadow fell across me.
I didn't need to look up to know who it was.
His presence hit my senses before his voice did, quiet gravity, familiar tension, the scent of something clean and sharp that stirred too many buried things inside me.
"Reece."
My breath hitched.
Slowly, I looked up.
I'm