IRA'S POV

I wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in this office, not in this building, and certainly not sitting across from Aarav Blackwood—the man who made headlines with every breath he took. He was every inch the tycoon the media painted him to be. Cold, sharp and impossibly composed, the kind of man who didn’t have time to blink, let alone entertain small talk .

I was here because I was desperate.

The contract lay in front of me like a loaded weapon. Legal jargon blurred in my vision as I scanned it for the hundredth time. Marriage, One year, no strings, no expectations, and absolutely no room for emotion.

He needed a wife to fulfill a clause in his late grandfather’s will while I needed money to keep my father breathing and our lives intact.

"You’ll be well compensated," he said with a stiff voice "£75,000 will be paid every month and a clean break at the end of the year. No obligations beyond appearances."

His stiff cold words made me tremble. "Why me?"

He didn’t look up from his tablet. "Because you're not in love with me. That makes this... safe."

That stung. Not because I wanted to be in love with him—God, no. But because he said it with such dismissive certainty. As if love was a virus and I was immune.

Maybe I was. Life had hardened me too much to entertain fantasies.

Still, the absurdity of it clawed at me. "And if I say no?"

"You walk out. We never speak again. And I find someone else." He finally met my eyes, there was something unreadable flickering in those deep eyes of his.

" I think you’re smarter than that."

Smart or trapped.

I thought of my father, of the hospital bills piling up, the way his breath rattled at night when the medicine ran too low. I thought of my two waitressing jobs, the constant exhaustion, the weight of the world pressing harder each day.

I picked up the pen.

My signature felt like a betrayal of love.....of dreams.....Of every version of myself that once believed in fairytales. But survival didn’t leave space for softness.

He stood as soon as I did, already dismissing the moment like a business transaction. "We'll move into the penthouse next week. There'll be media coverage. Stay discreet. You'll be briefed by my PR team."

"You make it sound so romantic," I muttered before I could stop myself.

His lips twitched. Not a smile—God forbid—but something close. "Romance isn’t part of the deal."

As I stepped into the elevator, with the damn contract in hand, my heart thundered. Not with excitement......Not even fear. Just a strange, hollow acceptance.

This was it.

My wedding would come with no white dress, no flowers, no vows whispered under candlelight.

Just ink on paper.

And a man whose heart was made of stone.

Aarav’s Point of View

He hadn’t even looked at her properly that day. Not when she entered the conference room with her small, hesitant steps. Not when she sat opposite him, eyes cast down as if already anticipating something she wouldn’t like. And yet… he had noticed everything.

She wore a plain navy blouse, one that hung just right off her shoulders, with modest jeans and worn-out flats. Her hair was tied in a loose bun, wisps falling over her temple, and she kept fidgeting with her fingers. She didn’t smile. Not even once.

But her eyes—God, her eyes—held something that hit him harder than he expected. They were not pleading, not even desperate. They were… quiet. And something about that silence spoke to the chaos in his head.

Aarav needed a solution.

His father’s will was clear: marry within three months or lose everything. Everything he had worked for, fought for, built from the ashes of his father’s cold legacy. He had no time for love, no space for emotions, and definitely no patience for drama. He didn’t want a wife. He wanted a name on a paper. A presence. A placeholder.

He had candidates. Several, actually—women who would happily play his “wife” for a price, or even for the thrill of carrying his last name. But they were all too loud. Too fake. Too eager. Too dangerous.

And then came Ira Dawson, with her quiet desperation and folded resume.

She wasn’t looking for a husband. She was looking for a lifeline.

She needed money. Not for designer bags or a lavish life—but for her father’s surgery. She didn’t know he’d checked. She didn’t know he’d seen the hospital receipts, the unpaid bills tucked into her purse. She didn’t ask for pity. She didn’t ask for anything.

That’s what sealed it.

She had nothing to gain, and everything to lose. She’d play by the rules, sign the contract, and leave when it was time.

Clean. Simple.

Except… it hadn’t been.

He didn’t expect the sound of her humming to linger in his ears at night. He didn’t expect her to leave breakfast out for him when she thought he’d be too busy to notice. He didn’t expect her to care when he had a migraine or lose sleep when he didn’t come home until midnight.

He didn’t expect that one evening—when she fell asleep on the couch waiting for him—he’d just stand there in the doorway for ten whole minutes, not knowing what the hell he was feeling in his chest.

He told himself it was convenience.

He convinced himself that she was just the right kind of ordinary.

But every time she turned away from him with that soft, uncertain hurt in her eyes—like she was preparing to be forgotten—he felt a piece of his certainty crack.

He chose her because she was temporary.

And now she was starting to feel like the only thing he couldn't let go of.

Ira’s Point of View

The mansion felt colder than usual that morning.

Ira had just finished tidying the breakfast dishes—though Aarav hadn’t even touched the toast she left. He probably didn’t even notice it. The clatter of cutlery echoed too loud in the emptiness of the kitchen, and she sighed, wiping her damp hands on her apron before walking into the guest room-turned-office that she now occupied.

She missed her father’s voice.

Even in his illness, he always had something kind to say. “One day, someone will love you just because you smiled,” he used to tell her. But smiles were harder to fake these days.

Her mother had passed away when Ira was just ten. Since then, her father had raised her single-handedly, sacrificing career opportunities and social ties. A quiet man, yet fiercely loving. The illness came suddenly—a failing heart, the doctor said. And the bills came even faster. Her extended family offered little beyond sympathy. Her relatives had long labeled her a “soft burden”—too emotional, too naïve, too devoted to a man who wouldn’t live long.

She wasn’t desperate when she walked into Aarav’s building. She was drowning.

And he... was the last raft.

Aarav. He was a storm inside a well-cut suit. Cold, unreadable, meticulous. But something about the way he looked at the world told her he had stories too.

She hadn’t learned much about his family—except what the tabloids said. That his father, Richard Knight, was a ruthless business mogul who built an empire and broke everyone in the process—including his own son. Aarav rarely mentioned him, and when he did, his jaw would clench ever so slightly.

He spoke once, just once, about his mother.

“She left when I was twelve,” he said, eyes fixed on the glass in his hand. “Said she wanted peace.”

Ira didn’t push. But she understood. Everyone left eventually.

His sister, Olivia, called occasionally. Sweet on the surface, but Ira could sense the sharpness underneath. She was polite to Ira, overly so. Like someone too aware of the lines not to cross. No one in his family had welcomed her, not even out of formality. It was clear they thought she didn’t belong.

Maybe she didn’t.

Still, Ira tried. She made tea when Aarav worked late. Left lights on in rooms he often forgot he’d need. Picked up his dry cleaning. And sometimes, when he returned from work with tired eyes and the knot in his shoulders too tight, she’d watch him silently from the hallway and wish she could ease his day.

Once, she found a photo in a drawer. Aarav, much younger, smiling—really smiling—with a girl beside him. Blonde, with bright blue eyes.

Rhea.

The name etched in the corner.

Ira had touched the edge of the photo with trembling fingers, then quietly put it back.

That was the day she began to wonder: Was she just a shadow in someone else’s story?

Was she here to help him forget—or simply to fill in the gaps until she was no longer needed?

And if so… why did it hurt this much?