The penthouse office was exactly what I'd expected—all floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city that would never belong to people like me, minimalist furniture that probably cost more than I'd earn in a lifetime, and Adrian Kross sitting behind a desk like he'd been carved from marble and left to harden into something beautiful and immovable.

He'd summoned me here with the same casual authority he probably used to summon board members and senators. I'd arrived in the same dress I'd worn to the letter delivery—because I owned exactly three dresses and two of them were actively falling apart—and tried not to think about how underdressed I was in a room this expensive.

"So," I said, dropping into the chair across from him without waiting for an invitation. "You want to marry me. That's either the most romantic proposal I've ever heard or the beginning of a very dark psychological thriller. I'm betting on the latter."

Adrian's expression didn't change. Not a flicker. Just those dark eyes tracking me like I was a problem he needed to solve, which, I supposed, I was.

"Your brother's medical debt," he said instead of answering. "Eight hundred and forty-three thousand dollars. Your mother's ongoing treatment, which insurance won't cover. Your job situation, which is precarious at best. You're currently working three jobs and still falling behind."

I felt my jaw clench. He'd done his research. Of course he had. Men like Adrian Kross didn't operate on instinct—they operated on information, leverage, and the kind of power that came from knowing exactly how much you had to offer to make someone desperate enough to say yes.

"Are we doing the part where you remind me how fucked I am?" I leaned back in the chair, crossing my legs like I had all the time in the world. "Because I'm already intimately familiar with my own desperation, thanks. I live it daily. I've got the 3 a.m. panic attacks to prove it."

"I need a wife."

There it was. Direct. No sugar-coating, no pretense. I had to respect that, even as something in my chest twisted at the transactional nature of it.

"A wife," I repeated. "Not a girlfriend. Not a companion. Not a—I don't know—emotional support human. A wife. That's a very specific need for a man who looks like you could probably snap your fingers and have people lining up around the block."

"A wife carries more weight," Adrian said, and there was something almost clinical in his tone. "It suggests stability. Commitment. The kind of man who settles down isn't the kind of man who's reckless with company finances or prone to poor judgment."

I laughed. Actually laughed. It came out a little bitter, a little broken around the edges.

"You need a wife to convince people you're not a psychopath," I said. "That's what you're telling me. You've built a billion-dollar empire on the back of ruthlessness, and now you need a pretty ornament on your arm to convince the board that you have a heart. How delightfully Machiavellian."

Adrian stood up. He was the kind of tall that made you recalibrate your understanding of space—the way he moved from behind the desk seemed to take up all the oxygen in the room. He walked to the windows, his tailored suit catching the light in a way that made him look like something expensive and dangerous.

"Dominic Ashford," he said quietly. "You know the name?"

"Vaguely." I didn't, actually. I'd been too busy keeping my family from drowning to follow billionaire drama, but I wasn't about to admit that.

"He's mounting a hostile takeover of Kross Industries. He has the capital, the connections, and the board members in his pocket. He's been working on this for two years." Adrian turned to face me, and his expression was carved from stone. "A married man signals stability. Signals that I'm not the ruthless bastard he's claiming I am. Signals that I have something to lose beyond money."

"And do you?" I asked. "Have something to lose?"

His eyes met mine, and for a second—just a second—I saw something raw in them. Something that looked almost like hunger.

Then it was gone.

"I need the appearance of it," he said. "That's what matters."

Of course it was. I was an idiot for even asking.

"So what exactly are we talking about here?" I pulled myself up from the chair, needing to move, needing to burn off some of the nervous energy that was making my hands shake. "How long? What are the parameters? Do I have to pretend to like you in public, or can I just look miserable and let people assume it's a loveless marriage of convenience?"

"Six months minimum," Adrian said. "Long enough for the takeover threat to pass, for the board to solidify behind me, for major contracts to be signed. After that, we divorce. Clean break."

Six months. I could do six months. I could do anything for six months if it meant my mother got her medication, if it meant Marcus could go to a real rehab program instead of the county clinic, if it meant I could finally stop pretending I wasn't slowly fracturing under the weight of it all.

"And in exchange?"

"Complete financial responsibility for your family's debts. Housing. Medical care. All of it."

The number he named was casual, like he was discussing the weather. It was enough to make my vision blur slightly at the edges.

"That's too much," I heard myself say.

Adrian's expression shifted. Confusion, maybe. Or something closer to irritation.

"It's not negotiable."

"No, I mean—" I turned away from him, pressing my palms against the cool glass of the window. The city stretched out below us, indifferent and vast. "That's too much money. That's more than enough. You'd be paying for the privilege of using me as a human shield against a hostile takeover. That's insane."

"You're not thinking clearly," Adrian said, and there was something in his voice that sounded almost like patience. "You're in survival mode. You've been in survival mode so long you can't process generosity. You assume there's a trick because there always has been."

I laughed again, that same bitter sound.

"There is a trick," I said. "There's always a trick. With men like you, there's always a trick. What's the catch? What do you actually want?"

When he didn't answer immediately, I turned to look at him. He was watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

"I want you to be convincing," he said finally. "I want you to look at me like you might actually care. I want you to wear my ring and my name and sell the world on the idea that I'm capable of something other than ruthlessness."

"That's a lot of acting," I said.

"You're good at it," he replied. "I've watched you. The way you smile at customers while working three jobs. The way you pretend everything's fine when it's not. The way you make jokes when you're terrified. You're an excellent actress."

Something about that stung more than it should have. Being seen that clearly, that completely—it felt like a violation. Like he'd looked past all my careful constructions and found the broken thing underneath.

"And what about the physical side?" I asked, because I needed to establish boundaries before I lost them entirely. "Are we talking about—"

"That won't be necessary," Adrian interrupted. "This is a business arrangement. We can maintain separate bedrooms. No one needs to know the details of our private life."

Relief flooded through me, followed immediately by something that felt uncomfortably like disappointment. Which was stupid. Which was the exact kind of thinking that got people like me destroyed.

"Separate bedrooms," I repeated. "So you want me to sell the world on the idea that you're capable of love and commitment, but you don't actually want to touch me. That's—"

"I didn't say I didn't want to," Adrian said quietly.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop about twenty degrees.

I turned to face him fully, and he was standing close enough that I could smell him—that cedar and smoke scent that seemed to cling to everything in his orbit. Close enough that I could see the slight tension in his jaw, the way his eyes had darkened to something that looked almost black.

"But you're willing to abstain," I said carefully, "for the sake of the arrangement."

"I'm willing to do whatever it takes to make this work," he corrected. "Within reason."

I took a step backward. Then another. Because standing near Adrian Kross was like standing near an open flame, and I was made of accelerant.

"I need to think about this," I said.

"You don't have time to think," Adrian replied, moving back toward his desk like he hadn't just made my entire nervous system short-circuit. "The board meeting is in four days. I need an answer by tomorrow."

"That's not a lot of time to decide to marry a stranger."

"No," he agreed. "But it's enough time to save your family. That's what matters, isn't it?"

He was right. Of course he was right. That was the entire point of this conversation—I didn't have the luxury of time or choice or the ability to be picky about my salvation.

"I want a contract," I said. "Detailed terms. An exit clause. Something that protects me if you decide to be a psychopath about this."

Adrian smiled, and it was the first genuine smile I'd seen from him. It transformed his face from beautiful to devastating.

"I'll have my lawyers draw something up," he said. "You can review it tonight. Bring it back signed tomorrow."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

He returned to his desk and pressed a button on his phone. A woman's voice answered immediately. He rattled off instructions—a contract, standard terms, separate legal counsel for me. He was efficient and decisive, treating my impending marriage like just another business deal to be executed.

Which, I supposed, it was.

---

The contract arrived at my apartment two hours later via courier. It was thick and intimidating, printed on expensive paper with more legal language than I could parse. I called Marcus into the living room—he'd been in his bedroom, probably scrolling through his phone or staring at the ceiling the way he did when the cravings got bad.

"Sit," I told him. "I need you to read something."

He settled onto the couch, his thin frame looking even more fragile against the worn fabric. He'd lost weight again. I'd have to start watching him more carefully, making sure he was eating. The thought made something in my chest tighten.

"What is this?" he asked, scanning the first page.

"A marriage contract," I said. "For Adrian Kross."

Marcus's head snapped up. "What the fuck, Isla?"

"Language," I said automatically, even though I'd probably used more profanity in the last hour than he had.

"You can't be serious." He flipped through the pages, his eyes widening with each one. "Isla, this is—this is insane. You don't even know this guy."

"I know he's paying off all our debts," I said. "I know he's covering your rehab, your medical bills, and Mom's treatment. I know he's offering us a way out that doesn't involve me working myself into an early grave."

"At what cost?" Marcus demanded. "What does he want in return?"

"Six months," I said. "Six months of being his wife. Then we divorce, and I'm financially set for the rest of my life. Well, not set, but comfortable. Stable."

Marcus stood up, pacing the small living room like a caged animal.

"This is prostitution," he said. "You know that, right? This is literally selling yourself."

"No," I replied, keeping my voice steady. "Prostitution is what I'm doing now, just spread out over eighty hours a week instead of concentrated into a transaction. At least this way, I get something out of it besides a paycheck that doesn't cover the bills."

"You don't even like him."

"I don't have to like him," I said. "I have to convince people that I like him. There's a difference."

Marcus threw himself back onto the couch, running his hands through his hair. He looked so young suddenly. Too young to be dealing with this, too young to have the kind of guilt in his eyes that came from knowing his medical crisis had triggered this entire cascade of financial ruin.

"Don't do this for me," he said quietly. "Please. I can't—I can't be the reason you destroy your life."

I sat down next to him and took his hand. His fingers were cold.

"You're not the reason," I said. "You're just the catalyst. The reason is that I'm tired, Marcus. I'm so tired. And this is the first time in eight years that someone's offered me a way to stop running. I'm not going to pass that up because of pride or because it's unconventional."

"It's not unconventional, it's—"

"I know what it is," I interrupted. "And I'm doing it anyway."

I spent the rest of the night reading through the contract, skipping the legal jargon and focusing on the terms. Separate bedrooms—explicitly stated. No requirement for physical intimacy. A generous divorce settlement that would set me up for years. A confidentiality clause that would keep the arrangement private. An exit clause that allowed me to leave with full payment if Adrian violated the terms.

It was, as far as marriage contracts went, remarkably protective of my interests.

Which meant he was either genuinely trying to be fair, or he was so confident in his ability to get what he wanted that he didn't care about the terms.

I was betting on the latter.

---

I signed the contract in Adrian's office the next morning. He'd arranged for separate legal counsel to review it with me—a sharp woman named Patricia who'd asked me point-blank if I understood what I was doing.

"I understand," I'd told her. "I'm trading six months of my life for financial security. It's the best deal I've ever been offered."

Patricia had given me a look that suggested she thought I was insane, but she'd countersigned the document anyway.

Now Adrian was signing his name in that precise, controlled handwriting of his, and I was watching the way his hand moved across the page. He had nice hands. Strong hands. The kind of hands that looked like they could break things or hold things with equal competence.

I needed to stop thinking about his hands.

"Congratulations," Adrian said, setting down the pen. "You're now my fiancée."

"That's the part we're starting with?" I asked. "Shouldn't we, I don't know, date first? Go to dinner? Have some kind of public courtship?"

"We did," Adrian said. "Last month. You were working at the hotel when I stayed in the penthouse suite. We had drinks at the bar. You were rude to me, I found it refreshing, and I asked you out. This will be the third date."

I stared at him.

"That didn't happen."

"No," he agreed. "But that's the story we're telling. It's plausible. It explains why we moved quickly—I'm decisive when I want something, and you'll corroborate it because you were there, even if you don't remember being there."

"That's gaslighting," I said.

"That's narrative control," Adrian corrected. "There's a difference."

He stood and walked around the desk, and I watched him move with the kind of fluid grace that made me think about predators. About things that were beautiful and dangerous in equal measure.

"We have an engagement party on Saturday," he said. "You'll need a dress. I'll have my assistant arrange for a stylist."

"I can buy my own dress."

"Not at the level we need," Adrian said, and there was no cruelty in it, just fact. "You'll be photographed. Analyzed. Every detail will matter. Let me handle this part."

He stopped a few feet away from me, and even at that distance, I could feel the pull of him. Like gravity. Like something in my body recognized something in his and was trying to rearrange itself to match.

"One more thing," he said. "My ring."

He pulled a small box from his desk drawer. Inside was a diamond that could probably feed a small nation. It was the kind of ring that screamed old money and serious commitment. It was exactly the kind of ring that would convince people I wasn't just some desperate woman who'd married a billionaire for financial security.

Which, of course, I was.

Adrian took the ring and reached for my left hand. I let him, because refusing would be petty, and because I was apparently incapable of maintaining personal boundaries when it came to this man.

His fingers were warm as they wrapped around mine. His thumb brushed across my knuckles—probably not intentional, probably just the way his hand naturally moved—and it took everything I had not to shiver.

The ring slid onto my finger like it had been made for me. Which, I supposed, it had been. Made for me, or at least for the version of me that existed in Adrian's carefully constructed narrative.

"It's beautiful," I said, because it was.

"You're beautiful," Adrian replied, and there was something in his voice that made my breath catch.

He was still holding my hand. His thumb was still moving across my knuckles in that gentle, infuriating way.

"This is the part where we're supposed to be convincing," I said quietly. "We should probably work on our chemistry."

"We don't have chemistry," Adrian said. "We have attraction. That's different."

"How is that different?"

"Chemistry is what people have when they're compatible," he said. "When they fit together naturally. Attraction is what people have when they want each other despite knowing better. Attraction is dangerous."

He released my hand, stepping back, and I felt the loss of him like a physical thing.

"We'll work on the appearance of chemistry," he continued. "But we'll keep the actual attraction in check. That's the only way this works."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Because the truth was that I'd already lost control of the attraction part. Already felt it pulling at me like a riptide. Already knew that six months of proximity to Adrian Kross was going to be the most difficult thing I'd ever survived, and I'd survived a lot.

"Saturday," Adrian said. "The engagement party. Be ready at seven."

I left his office feeling like I'd just made a deal with the devil. Which, technically, I had.

The only question now was whether I'd be able to keep my end of the bargain without losing myself entirely.