The city skyline stretched behind Brooklyn like a painting — rich oranges melting into deep purples as the sun dipped behind the glass towers of downtown Los Angeles. She stood still, gripping the bouquet of silk ivory roses, her heart a wild drumbeat in her chest.
This wasn't how she imagined her wedding day.
There was no dress fitting. No bridal shower. No smiling mother to zip her up. No father to walk her down an aisle. Just her, standing in the rooftop lounge of a private courthouse building — wearing a simple white dress Damien's assistant had picked out that morning.
The silk hugged her body gently, modest and sleeveless, with a thin satin ribbon tied around her waist. She didn't even have earrings on. Her curly hair was pulled back into a low bun, clean and plain.
Still, when Damien Carter turned to look at her as she walked into the room, his gaze faltered for half a second.
"You clean up well," he said, voice smooth as ever.
Brooklyn raised an eyebrow. "You say that like I usually don't."
He smirked slightly but said nothing.
The officiant — a middle-aged woman with stern eyes and silver glasses — cleared her throat and motioned for them to take their places. Damien stood tall in a dark navy suit, his black hair slicked back neatly, and a Rolex peeking from beneath his cuff. He looked like a man who made deals for a living. And right now, she was the deal.
They stood side by side in front of a sleek marble counter serving as the altar.
"Ready?" he murmured under his breath.
Brooklyn didn't answer. Her fingers curled tightly around the bouquet.
The officiant began to speak. The words blurred in Brooklyn's mind — something about unity, contracts, responsibility. Funny how even love could be spoken like a transaction. But this wasn't love. Not even close.
"Do you, Damien Alexander Carter, take Brooklyn Elise James to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, for better or worse—"
"I do," he said crisply, cutting her off.
Brooklyn blinked.
"Do you, Brooklyn Elise James, take Damien Alexander Carter—"
She hesitated. Her mouth felt dry. Her heart screamed no, but her brain whispered yes.
Her mother's face flashed in her mind, fragile and pale in that hospital bed.
"I do," she said quietly.
The officiant nodded. "By the power vested in me by the state of California, I now pronounce you husband and wife."
Brooklyn stiffened as the woman added, "You may now kiss the bride."
Her eyes widened slightly. She glanced up at Damien.
He leaned forward, just a fraction. She flinched — not because she didn't want the kiss, but because this was supposed to be fake. He paused inches from her lips, his breath warm on her skin.
Then he whispered, "Relax. We're selling the illusion."
And then — soft, barely-there — his lips brushed hers.
It was brief. Professional.
So why did her stomach twist like it was anything but?
---
After the Ceremony
They stepped out of the building into the fading twilight. Damien's black Bentley was parked at the curb, and his driver, a clean-shaven man in a charcoal suit, opened the door.
Brooklyn hesitated before getting in.
"This is actually happening," she whispered.
Damien didn't respond until they were both seated in the backseat, the city lights flickering against the tinted windows.
"I had the marriage license filed before we arrived," he said. "It's legal. You're now Mrs. Carter."
Brooklyn turned her head toward him slowly. "That's wild."
He gave a short nod. "You'll receive your official documents tomorrow. Your new ID, your health insurance upgrade, and your bank account."
She frowned. "Bank account?"
"I've opened a private account in your name," he explained. "It'll hold your payments, and anything else I deposit during the year."
Brooklyn stared at him. "So I'm... on your payroll?"
"If that makes it easier for you to understand."
She swallowed a retort. Her pride was already hanging by a thread.
The rest of the ride was quiet.
---
The Penthouse
When they arrived at Damien's penthouse — a stunning multi-level glass structure perched above the city — Brooklyn was speechless. The elevator opened directly into his living room. It was all sleek marble floors, gold accents, and wall-length windows that overlooked Los Angeles like a throne.
"This is where I'll be staying?" she asked, stepping onto a rug that probably cost more than her tuition.
"For the duration of our agreement, yes," Damien replied.
Brooklyn glanced around. A grand piano stood in the corner, untouched. A spiral staircase wound upward to a shadowy loft. Everything looked pristine. Cold.
"Do you... actually live here?"
"Sometimes," he said simply. "My main home is in Palo Alto, but for business, I stay in L.A."
She folded her arms. "So what happens now? Do we sleep in the same bed? Separate rooms?"
He didn't even blink. "Separate bedrooms. This isn't that kind of arrangement."
Brooklyn nodded quickly, a strange mix of relief and disappointment in her chest.
Damien led her down the hallway. "This is your room. You'll find everything you need — clothes, toiletries, whatever. My assistant stocked it already."
She stepped into the guest suite and froze.
It was the most beautiful room she had ever seen.
A queen-sized bed covered in velvet bedding. A walk-in closet already filled with designer clothes. A vanity. A smart TV. A private balcony.
Brooklyn turned slowly. "This looks like a hotel."
He shrugged. "I like comfort. And you'll be photographed soon — you'll need to look the part."
She didn't ask if he meant his wife or his puppet. The line was already blurry.
As he turned to leave, Brooklyn spoke. "What if I break a rule?"
Damien paused.
"If you embarrass me in public, reveal the contract to anyone, or disappear before the year is over — the deal is off. No second half of the money. And I'll ensure your name doesn't survive a Google search."
Her stomach clenched. "Got it."
He nodded. "Goodnight, Mrs. Carter."
Then he disappeared down the hallway, leaving her standing alone in her brand-new life.
---
Midnight Thoughts
Brooklyn lay in the massive bed, the sheets soft as clouds, but sleep felt impossible.
Her mind ran wild.
She was married. To a billionaire.
On paper, she was the wife of Damien Carter. But emotionally? She was still just Brooklyn. Broke. Tired. Pregnant.
She rolled over and pulled out the envelope from under her pillow — the ultrasound photo from two weeks ago. Her baby. The one secret she couldn't risk exposing yet.
Not to Damien. Not to anyone.
Her fingers brushed the corner of the photo as tears pricked her eyes.
She had sold her future for survival. But what about her heart?
Could she really live in this penthouse for a year, pretending, smiling, lying?
And what if... what if she started to want more?