The pen hovered just inches from the thick stack of paper.
Ariana Blake sat at the polished walnut conference table in the center of Leonardo Maddox Cross's law office—twelve floors above the city, the kind of office with glass walls, minimalist art, and assistants who looked like Vogue models. She was painfully aware of how out of place she seemed in her plain slacks and modest blue blouse. Even though she'd been styled the day before for fittings, this morning she had insisted on dressing herself.
One last moment of control before she gave it away—on paper.
Leo sat across from her, his posture impeccable as always, the dark navy suit he wore tailored to perfection. His cufflinks gleamed. His expression was unreadable.
"I need to hear you say it again," Ariana said, looking him dead in the eye.
Leo's voice was calm, steady. "One year. No renewal. Full compensation upon completion. You have autonomy, legal support, private living quarters, creative freedom. No romantic obligations. No physical expectations."
"And if I break a clause?"
"You forfeit the remainder of the payout. But if I breach anything—" he gestured toward the contract, "—you walk with everything. No questions."
Ariana swallowed hard. "Right."
A quiet, older man in a grey three-piece suit stood at the head of the table. "If you're ready, Miss Blake," he said. "Please sign the bottom page of each section. Initial the margin boxes."
Her hand trembled slightly as she picked up the pen.
"Is this insane?" she asked under her breath.
Leo leaned forward, his voice so low only she could hear it. "Absolutely."
There was a flicker of a smile in his eyes. The first real one she'd seen. It disarmed her more than the penthouse ever could.
She signed.
Each stroke of ink felt like cutting a tie with the version of herself who lived paycheck to paycheck, who made do, who feared eviction notices and late fees.
By the time she reached the last page, her hand was steady. She dotted the final signature with a quiet exhale.
"That's it," the lawyer said. "Congratulations."
Leo stood and offered his hand.
Ariana hesitated.
Then she stood, shook it—his grip warm, firm.
"From this moment on," he said, "you are no longer Ariana Blake, freelance designer."
She raised a brow. "What am I, then?"
He looked at her, expression unreadable. "A story. And people love stories."
---
They drove straight from the law office to the penthouse.
Ariana stared out the tinted car windows as they glided through traffic. Manhattan buzzed beyond the glass, but in the quiet of Leo's luxury car, the world felt too still.
Leo sat beside her, scrolling through emails like he hadn't just rewritten her life.
"Do you always compartmentalize like that?" she asked.
He didn't look up. "Like what?"
"Like this whole fake marriage isn't bizarre. Like it's just another Tuesday."
"It is another Tuesday."
She shook her head. "You're a machine."
"Machines don't make emotional decisions. That's why they don't crash."
"Maybe," she muttered. "But they also don't feel anything."
He glanced at her then. "Is that what you want? Feeling?"
Ariana turned back to the window. "No. Not anymore."
---
The penthouse was everything she'd feared and more.
Forty-second floor. Floor-to-ceiling glass on all sides. Marble floors, sleek gray furniture, soft gold lighting. Everything smelled like expensive wood polish and understated wealth.
"This place is a magazine," she whispered as they stepped inside.
Leo walked ahead, speaking to a woman with an iPad. "All her things go in the north guest suite. Have her clothes steamed. Order the rest of the list. I want the sketch studio prepped by tonight."
Ariana caught only fragments.
"My things?"
He turned. "Your wardrobe, yes. They've already been delivered."
"I have my own clothes."
"You had clothes. Now you have options."
Ariana rolled her eyes. "I don't need to be dressed like a doll."
"You're not a doll," he said without pause. "You're my wife."
The words hit her in the chest—even though they were fake. Even though this wasn't real.
Ariana followed him through the penthouse. He moved like he owned gravity, like every step had purpose.
He showed her to her wing—yes, her wing—with a large bedroom, en suite bathroom, walk-in closet, and a sunlit room off the corner with a drafting table and shelves for her work.
She was speechless.
"You can change the decor," he said. "I had it made neutral in case your style was... loud."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're not funny."
"I wasn't joking."
She glared, but secretly she liked that he assumed she had style.
After a short silence, he added, "This is where you stay. I'm at the opposite end. You'll have a separate entry and full access to the private elevator. Security will know your credentials by this evening."
"Okay."
They stood there, facing each other in the elegant room, the distance between them sharp and charged.
He looked at his watch. "The photographer will be here at seven."
"For what?"
"Our first official engagement photo."
Ariana blinked. "Today?"
"People are already asking questions. We need to move quickly."
She swallowed. "Right."
He studied her face for a long moment. "You're overwhelmed."
She crossed her arms. "What gave it away? The internal screaming or the fact that I haven't blinked since the elevator?"
"You'll adjust."
"Not all of us are machines, Mr. Cross."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Then I suggest you pretend to be one. Just long enough for the world to believe us."
She met his gaze. "What about when I stop pretending?"
His jaw tightened. "Then we both lose."
---
By seven p.m., Ariana stood on the terrace outside the penthouse in a pale cream wrap dress and soft makeup. The city sparkled below her, the sky streaked with the last hints of sunset.
She felt like someone else.
She wasn't sure she liked her.
The photographer snapped photos as Leo stood beside her, hand resting lightly on her lower back.
"Closer," the woman instructed. "Smile like you just said yes."
Ariana forced a soft smile. Leo leaned in slightly, his breath brushing her ear.
"Relax," he said. "You'll make the tabloids think you're being held hostage."
"Technically, I kind of am."
He gave a low chuckle. "Try not to look like it."
"Do you ever smile for real?"
"I don't do fake ones."
"And this isn't fake?"
"It's strategic."
She turned to face him. "You don't think there's a difference?"
He didn't answer.
The camera clicked. The flash went off.
To the world, they looked flawless.
Perfect.
Untouchable.
---
Later that night, Ariana peeled off her heels and walked barefoot through the penthouse, still in her engagement photo dress. She found her way to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine.
It was eerily quiet.
Leo was nowhere to be seen.
She sat at the long marble island and sipped slowly, her thoughts tangled.
What had she done?
What was she doing?
She didn't notice Leo until he walked in, sleeves rolled, tie undone, barefoot and looking more human than she'd ever seen him.
"You drink red," he said.
She glanced up. "Apparently, I do."
"Good choice."
He poured his own glass and joined her at the counter, sitting across from her in silence.
They drank for a minute without speaking.
Then she asked, "Do you always get your way?"
He looked at her. "Usually."
"And what happens when you don't?"
He took another sip. "I adjust."
"You make it sound so simple."
"It is. Until people get involved."
She studied him. "And now you've involved me."
"You involved yourself, Ariana. You signed."
She leaned back. "Because I needed to. Not because I wanted to."
Leo's voice was quiet. "Is there a difference?"
"Yes."
He met her gaze. "Then I hope, eventually, you forget it."
Ariana stood slowly, her wine glass still in hand. "I won't."
She left the room without looking back.
---
In the silence that followed, Leo sat alone.
He hadn't lied.
This arrangement was about leverage.
But somehow, sitting there in the glow of the kitchen lights, he felt something he hadn't felt in years.
Uncertainty.
He didn't like it.
Not one bit.
---