Elena had never been inside a penthouse before—much less one that overlooked all of Manhattan like a throne above the world.
The elevator ride alone made her feel out of place, her thrift-store coat clashing with the sleek steel and glass interior of the Hart Enterprises building. She clutched the card Jonathan Hart had given her like it was a lifeline.
One year. One decision. One impossible future.
The doors slid open to reveal marble floors, walls dressed in modern art, and floor-to-ceiling windows that bathed the space in golden afternoon light.
"Elena Carter?" a polished assistant asked.
She nodded, heart hammering in her chest.
"This way."
She was led through a long hallway to a private lounge that looked like it belonged in a luxury hotel. There, standing by the window with a phone pressed to his ear, was the man she had only seen in headlines.
Nathaniel Hart.
Sharp suit. Sharp jawline. Even sharper eyes.
He was the living embodiment of control—cool, calculated, and every inch the billionaire heir his father had described. His dark hair was slightly tousled, like he hadn't bothered to care, and the way he held himself told her this man didn't bend for anyone.
He ended the call and turned.
Their eyes met.
Elena tried not to flinch under the intensity of his gaze. There was no smile. No warmth. Just measured curiosity, and maybe a flicker of annoyance.
"So," he said, voice low and smooth, "you're the teacher my father is trying to marry me off to."
Her chin lifted instinctively. "And you must be the arrogant son who thinks he can scare me off with one look."
That startled him. His brows rose a fraction. Then, surprisingly, a dry smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Point to you."
She crossed her arms. "Let's get something straight. I didn't come here to beg for a favor. Your father came to me."
"Oh, I know," he said, walking toward the bar. "My father has a habit of playing chess with people's lives. Drink?"
"No, thank you."
He poured himself something dark and expensive-looking. "He wants me married. I want to keep control of the company. You want out of a life that's suffocating you."
Elena flinched. He knew too.
He took a slow sip and looked at her. "So, what do you think? Can we fake the fairytale?"
"I don't do fake," she said calmly. "But I do survival. And if this marriage is going to help me survive, then I'll play my part. But I'm not going to pretend to like you."
Nathaniel set the glass down. "Good. Because I don't do romance. No expectations, no attachments, no messy complications."
"Then we're on the same page."
There was silence—tense, but not hostile. They were two strangers standing at the edge of something absurd, both unwilling but forced to jump.
He extended a hand. "To the strangest deal we'll ever make."
She hesitated, then took it.
His hand was warm. Firm. Cold.
Just like the man himself.