Emma Carter clutched the eviction notice in her trembling hands, the paper crumpling as her grip tightened. The landlord's footsteps faded down the hallway, but his words echoed louder than ever. "You have seven days, Emma. No rent, no roof."
Seven days. That was all the time she had left before she'd be sleeping on the streets. Her savings were gone, spent on hospital bills for her mother, who now lay unconscious in a private care center she couldn't afford. The world had been cruel lately, and she was running out of miracles.
She stared down at her phone. One unread message. A contact she didn't recognize.
From: A. Blackwood
Come to Blackwood Tower. 10 a.m. Don't be late.
That was it. No explanation. No greeting. But she knew the name.
Alexander Blackwood. The enigmatic billionaire who owned half the city. Ruthless in business, reclusive in the public eye, and rumored to have a heart carved from stone. She had only met him once — briefly — at a fundraising gala where she served drinks. He hadn't even looked at her. So why was he contacting her now?
She had no time for questions. Just answers. Just hope.
---
Blackwood Tower rose like a black dagger into the clouds, thirty stories of cold steel and darker secrets. Emma entered the lobby, trying to ignore how out of place she looked in her worn-out blazer and scuffed heels. The receptionist didn't ask her name. Just gave her a curt nod and pointed to the private elevator.
When the doors opened on the top floor, she stepped into a silent office. All glass and shadows.
He was there.
Alexander Blackwood stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, hands clasped behind his back. The skyline painted him in silver and shadow.
"Miss Carter," he said without turning.
"Mr. Blackwood," she replied, her voice steady despite the whirlwind inside her.
He turned. His face was sharp, sculpted. Eyes like winter—gray and unreadable. "I'll be brief. I need a wife. For one year. You'll be compensated. Generously."
Emma blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
He walked toward her with slow, measured steps. "A business arrangement. I require a spouse to secure an international deal. The details are confidential. You're... suitable. Unattached, discreet, and you need the money."
She swallowed. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough."
"This is insane."
"No. It's simple. You sign a contract, we get married in two weeks, you play the devoted wife when needed, and after a year, we divorce. You walk away with five million dollars."
Emma staggered back slightly, stunned. "Five... million?"
He nodded. "Paid in installments. Conditions apply. Of course."
"Why me?"
A pause. "Because you have no one. And nothing to lose."
The words cut sharper than they should have. But they were true.
She thought of her mother. Of the eviction notice. Of the hollow ache in her stomach from skipping meals.
"What are the conditions?"
His eyes locked onto hers. "No emotional entanglements. No real intimacy unless mutually agreed. Absolute discretion. And you follow my lead in public."
Emma drew a shaky breath. "And what do I get now? To help my mom?"
He reached into his jacket and handed her a black credit card. "This will cover her care. It activates the moment you sign."
She stared at it. Everything about this was wrong. But walking away meant letting her mother die.
"Where's the contract?"
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "I knew you were smart."
He gestured to the sleek black desk, where a stack of papers waited. Emma walked over, each step heavy with uncertainty. The contract was thick, professionally bound, with pages of legal jargon. But the bottom line was clear: one year, no strings, five million.
Her hand trembled as she picked up the pen. She signed.
Not for herself. For the woman who gave her everything.
But deep inside, a whisper warned her:
You just sold your soul to the coldest man alive.
As she slid the signed contract back across the desk, Alexander's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, his expression tightening.
"What is it?" she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.
He hesitated, then stood, his jaw hardening. "There's been a leak. Someone knows about the contract."
Emma's heart dropped. "What does that mean?"
He looked at her, his eyes stormy now. "It means if you thought this was going to be simple... you're wrong. Very wrong."
He stepped around the desk and walked to the window again, staring out as though weighing something heavy.
"I need to contain this," he said quietly. "The media cannot get wind of this arrangement. If they do, the deal I'm working on falls apart. You'll be in headlines within days."
Emma's stomach twisted. "Are you saying I could be exposed?"
He turned slowly. "I'm saying if you step outside now, there's a chance a camera is already waiting."
A sharp knock broke the tension. His assistant opened the door just a crack.
"Sir, it's urgent. The board is asking questions. They want to meet her—today."
Alexander's eyes narrowed. Then he glanced at Emma.
"Change of plans. We get married tomorrow. Publicly."
Her breath caught. "What?! I thought it was two weeks—"
"That was before. Now it's damage control. You wanted five million? Earn it."
Emma took a shaky step back, but the room felt like it was closing in.
Tomorrow. A wedding. With a man she barely knew.
And just before the door closed again, the assistant added one final detail:
"And sir... someone sent flowers to your private residence. No card. But there was a note."
Alexander's eyes flickered.
"What note?" he asked darkly.
She hesitated. "It said: You can marry her, but you'll never be free of me."
Emma turned to him, fear prickling down her spine. "Who's it from?"
He didn't answer. His silence was colder than ice.