The skyline glittered like diamonds crushed into black velvet. From the top floor of CrossTower—the sixty-third story of glass, steel, and silent power—Leonardo Maddox Cross stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, staring down at the city that had once bent to his will. Tonight, it resisted.
Leo, thirty-four, was the kind of man who rarely blinked first. Six-foot-two, broad-shouldered and sharp-jawed, he wore power like a second skin. His tailored charcoal suit clung to his lean frame with precision, hand-stitched in Milan. His short dark hair was neatly slicked back, not a strand out of place, and his storm-gray eyes—cool, unreadable—were locked on a silent war waging in the dark.
He didn't fidget. He didn't sigh. But the tightness in his jaw was a dead giveaway to those who knew him well. Which was, precisely, no one.
A soft chime broke the silence, and the frosted glass doors of his office slid open.
"Legal just confirmed it," said Cassandra Hale, his chief counsel, entering with a digital tablet and nerves steelier than most. Her heels clicked across the polished concrete floor. "You'll need to be legally married for the Virexion deal to proceed."
Leo didn't turn. He simply narrowed his eyes on the Empire State Building in the distance, as though the city might offer him a loophole he hadn't yet considered.
"I own sixty-two percent of Virexion shares," he said calmly. "And they want to talk about my personal life?"
"It's not personal, it's contractual," Cassandra replied, setting the tablet on his matte-black desk. "The founder inserted a stipulation two years ago. For succession, the incoming majority owner must demonstrate 'long-term domestic stability.' Apparently, the board is hell-bent on upholding it."
Leo finally turned. "In English, Cassandra."
"You need a wife, Leo. Not a girlfriend. Not a press stunt. A legally binding marriage. Or the deal collapses."
A long silence stretched.
Leo moved to his desk, each step measured and quiet. He didn't slam the tablet or flip chairs. That wasn't his style. His fury was colder than that—silent, surgical.
"And I assume they won't accept 'not interested in fairy tales' as a counteroffer."
"No, sir."
He sat down slowly in the leather chair behind his desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The office was sleek, almost monastic. Concrete, steel, and matte textures with no signs of clutter. No framed photos. No unnecessary warmth. It suited him.
Married. The word echoed like a bad joke.
Leonardo Cross had built his trillion-dollar empire through relentless logic. Born to nothing but grit and scarcity in the Bronx, he clawed his way to the top by seventeen, founded his first startup by twenty-one, and crushed his competition by twenty-five. Relationships? Irrelevant. Emotions? Distracting.
Trust? Suicidal.
He didn't do attachments. He did control.
"I want the full clause reviewed by end of day," he said flatly. "There has to be an angle."
"I've read it six times. We've got five days, Leo. The board vote is scheduled for next Tuesday. No wife, no merger."
"Then I'll find one."
Cassandra blinked. "You're serious?"
Leo's expression didn't change. "I don't have the luxury of being anything else."
He stood and crossed the room to a side console, pouring himself a glass of Glenfiddich—neat. The liquor caught the city's lights as he raised the tumbler, but he didn't drink it. Just stared at the amber, calculating.
"There must be someone in our network we can trust," Cassandra said, tapping notes into her tablet. "Discreet. Compliant. Preferably attractive."
He shot her a look.
"I mean, public perception matters."
Leo took a sip of his scotch, then returned to his desk. "No one in our inner circle. No models. No actresses. No scandals. I want someone with nothing to hide."
"You want a ghost?" she asked dryly.
"I want a solution," he said. "Someone clean. Private. Simple. Someone who'll sign the papers, play the part, and keep their mouth shut when it ends."
"Ends?"
"One year," Leo said firmly. "After the merger's finalized, we annul."
Cassandra exhaled slowly. "And if this blows up in the press?"
"It won't. That's why she has to be outside the spotlight. Unknown. Low risk. No baggage."
She raised a brow. "Like ordering a car on an app."
He gave a tight smile. "If only it were that easy."
A beat passed.
"I'll draft a profile," Cassandra said. "Anonymous background checks, clean personal history, no current attachments. I'll run the search through private channels only."
"And Cassandra—" His voice lowered a notch. "No one else can know."
She nodded once. "Of course."
He watched her leave, then turned back to the window, eyes narrowing on the glittering skyline.
Marriage. A word built on illusion. People used it to manipulate, trap, control. He'd seen it firsthand—how affection could be weaponized. How promises could rot from the inside out.
He would not be caught in that trap.
This wasn't love. This was leverage.
And Leonardo Cross knew how to use leverage better than anyone.
---
Across the city, in a tiny Brooklyn apartment that buzzed from a dying refrigerator and smelled faintly of burnt toast and paint thinner, Ariana Blake stared at the red envelope in her hand like it might detonate.
Final Notice: Rent Due
Her name was printed in block letters across the top, along with the amount she owed—too much. Far too much for a twenty-eight-year-old freelance interior designer whose last paycheck had been swallowed by overdue bills and groceries.
She slumped onto her battered gray sofa, the springs groaning beneath her.
Ariana was average height—five-five, if she didn't slouch—and wore practicality like armor. Loose jeans, an old NYU hoodie, and hair scraped into a bun that defied gravity and trend. Her chestnut curls fought daily wars with the humid apartment, and her hazel eyes—tired, sharp, unflinching—refused to water despite the sickening knot twisting in her stomach.
"You've got to be kidding me," she muttered.
The apartment was small but hers. Two rooms, one of which doubled as her workspace. The walls were lined with books, fabric samples, design sketches, and coffee-stained contracts. It wasn't luxury—but it was freedom.
Now it was slipping away.
She pulled out her phone and dialed. "Maya? Hey. I got the final notice."
"Oh, sweetie," her best friend sighed on the other end. "I told you. Come stay with me and Elijah until you figure things out."
"I can't keep crashing with you guys. You just had a baby."
"He sleeps like the dead. You won't bother anyone."
Ariana pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'll figure it out. I'm just… tired. You ever feel like you're doing everything right and still losing?"
"All the time. It's called being a woman in your twenties."
A laugh escaped Ariana despite herself.
"You're brilliant, Ari. You'll land something. Some client will see your work and—boom—skyrocket."
Ariana looked toward her sketchpad, where her latest design for a small boutique hotel sat unfinished.
"I had a second interview today," she said. "They went with someone else. Again."
Maya cursed softly. "Jerks."
"Honestly," Ariana added, "I think they Googled me. Found the thing with Darren."
A pause.
"Do you think that's still following you?" Maya asked carefully.
Ariana's voice went cold. "I know it is."
Darren Hale—her ex-fiancé, narcissist, gaslighter, and expert manipulator. He'd nearly wrecked her career two years ago when he leaked her designs under his name. She'd fought tooth and nail to reclaim her portfolio. She won—but not without a stain.
"It's not fair," Maya said.
"Doesn't matter," Ariana replied. "Life isn't fair. I just need… something. A reset."
Outside, a car horn blared. She glanced toward the window just as a man in a suit stepped out of a black SUV below. Her eyes lingered for a moment—tall, expensive coat, power in his stride.
She looked away.
"Maybe I should move," Ariana said. "Start fresh somewhere quiet."
"You'd hate quiet," Maya laughed. "You'd end up drawing murals on farmhouse walls just to create drama."
Another laugh escaped Ariana, but her stomach clenched again.
She needed a miracle. Or at least a reprieve.
Somewhere in the city, the man from the SUV stepped into an elevator and pressed the top floor. Leonardo Cross wasn't looking for miracles.
He was engineering one.
And within five days, his fake wife would have to be found.
Even if she had no idea what she was about to sign up for.
---