If someone had told me a week ago that I’d be sitting across from the most powerful man in the city, clutching a marriage contract like it was a lifeline, I would’ve laughed in their face.

But here I was—Eva Carter, coffee-stained blouse, five days late on rent, and officially out of options.

Noah Blackwood didn’t bother to look up when I stepped into his glass-walled office. He was exactly as the news articles described him: tall, razor-sharp in a custom black suit, and exuding the kind of confidence that came from owning half of downtown.

"You’re late," he said without looking up from his tablet.

"I’m not here to impress you with punctuality," I shot back before I could stop myself.

He looked up then. Dark eyes, unreadable. A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "Good. I don’t need a wife who simpers."

Wife.

The word made my throat tighten.

I sat down, my fingers digging into the strap of my purse. “Let’s skip the small talk. You said you had a deal?”

Noah tapped the screen and slid a thin folder across the table. “One year. Public appearances, cohabitation, a wedding ceremony for the press. At the end, you walk away with five hundred thousand dollars. No strings. No expectations.”

Except for pretending to be married to him.

“Why me?” I asked, flipping through the contract.

“You’re clean. No scandals. You work hard. You don’t care about my money—which is ironic, considering what you’re here for.”

I bristled. “I’m here because my brother got involved with people he shouldn’t have. I’m trying to fix that.”

“And I’m trying to secure a position on my board that requires me to be a ‘family man.’” He leaned forward, voice cool and precise. “This is mutually beneficial, Miss Carter. You get money. I get an image. No emotions, no complications.”

I looked down at the dotted line. My hand trembled slightly.

A fake marriage. One year. That was all.

“Do I get to say no?” I asked.

Noah stood, buttoning his jacket. “Of course. You’re free to walk away. But your brother’s debt won’t disappear on its own.”

My heart twisted. He knew everything. He had done his research. Probably more than I had.

I took a deep breath, picked up the pen, and signed.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat. Just reached over, took the contract, and said, “Welcome to the family, Mrs. Blackwood.”

And just like that, I sold my future to a man I barely knew.

Next I got an invitation from my would-be contract husband for a fake date

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered as Noah held the restaurant door open.

“Smile. Cameras,” he said without looking at me.

Of course. Our “spontaneous” date was anything but. I was dressed in a gown picked by his assistant, heels I could barely walk in, and a fake diamond ring that glittered under too many flashing lights.

Inside, the table was perfectly staged—city view, candles, and far too many rose petals.

“You’re laying it on thick,” I whispered.

“That’s the point,” Noah replied, smirking.

He ordered for both of us—correctly. No seafood, medium steak, no olives. He knew my file. My preferences. My life.

“What do fake couples talk about on first dates?” I asked.

“Secrets,” he said. “Tell me something no one else knows.”

I hesitated, then said, “I wanted to go to pastry school in Paris.”

He blinked. “Why didn’t you?”

“Money. Life.”

“What about you?” I asked.

“I used to want to disappear.”

The way he said it—quiet, almost broken—made my chest ache. But I didn’t press.

We clinked glasses.

“To dreams,” I offered.

“To pretend,” he replied.

And we drank, two strangers tangled in a lie that was starting to feel a little too real.