Rain tapped steadily against the windows of Vale Tower, a rhythm too calm for the storm that raged inside Arielle Monroe's chest.
She sat across from him—Grayson Vale, the infamous billionaire CEO, the man who controlled half of Manhattan and whose signature could either save her family or bury them in bankruptcy. He looked exactly how the media portrayed him: flawless suit, sharper cheekbones, even sharper gaze, and a heart—if rumors were true—made entirely of ice.
Arielle refused to be intimidated.
"You're late," Grayson said coldly, not bothering to look up from the document in front of him.
"I had to walk through a protest of your laid-off employees," she replied, crossing her legs. "You should consider a less… dramatic entrance to the building."
His gaze slowly lifted to meet hers, like a glacier shifting—controlled, dangerous. "I see sarcasm is your coping mechanism."
"No, survival is."
He leaned back in his leather chair, finally observing her as more than a transaction. Arielle was stunning, but not in the polished, designer way he was used to. There was fire in her posture, edge in her voice. She was not here to play the part of a meek beggar.
"I assume you've read the contract," he said, sliding a sleek folder across the table.
Arielle didn't touch it. "I read it. Memorized it. Hated every word."
"Then why are you here?"
Her jaw tightened. "Because my father's company is drowning. And you're the only shark who can keep it afloat."
There it was—the bite. Grayson smiled faintly, the kind of smile that made you wish he hadn't. "Romantic."
"This isn't romantic. This is survival."
"Good." He folded his hands. "I prefer my brides pragmatic."
That word—bride—felt foreign on her tongue. She'd once dreamed of love, of a real proposal, of falling for someone who would fight the world for her. But those dreams had been swallowed whole the day her father collapsed and the debt collectors began circling.
"You're really doing this?" she asked. "Marrying a woman you don't even like just to seal a merger?"
Grayson's eyes narrowed. "Don't flatter yourself. I don't need to like you. I need to own you. On paper, in headlines, and on the arm of a man the investors trust."
She flinched. "And you think pretending to love me is enough?"
"No," he said, voice low. "I don't pretend. You'll smile at the cameras, wear the ring, attend charity galas and black-tie events. In return, your father's company becomes solvent, and you get ten million dollars at the end of the contract—if you follow every term."
Arielle felt like she was selling her soul. "And if I don't?"
"Then the contract is void. You leave with nothing."
Ten million dollars. One year. A fake marriage.
Arielle's gaze fell to the folder.
Grayson leaned forward. "What's it going to be, Miss Monroe? Pride or survival?"
She thought of her father, still recovering from heart surgery, unaware that his company was days from ruin. She thought of the house they were about to lose, of the employees who'd worked for them since she was a child.
She picked up the pen.
"I have conditions," she said.
A flicker of surprise passed through his eyes. "I'm listening."
"One: no controlling what I wear, say, or do in private."
"Fine."
"Two: no intimacy unless I agree. And I mean consent, not just contract clauses."
His expression didn't change, but his voice dipped an octave. "I'm not in the habit of forcing women, Arielle. You won't be touched unless you want to be."
"And three: you give my father peace. You don't tell him this marriage is fake. He believes in love stories. Let him think we're one."
For the first time, something shifted in Grayson's gaze—something almost human. "Deal."
Arielle signed her name with a trembling hand.
"Effective immediately," Grayson said, rising from his chair. "You'll move into my penthouse tomorrow. Your schedule will be managed by my assistant, and you'll be fitted for an engagement ring this afternoon."
"Engagement ring?"
"You're a CEO's fiancée now, Miss Monroe. Appearances matter. We announce the engagement Friday, wedding next Saturday."
Arielle stood too, matching his cool tone. "You move fast."
"I don't waste time."
As he moved to escort her out, she paused at the door. "Do you even believe in marriage?"
His lips twitched humorlessly. "Marriage is a transaction. Love is a myth."
"Then I pity you."
He looked over his shoulder, one brow raised. "You'll be the one wearing my ring, darling."
---
The elevator ride down felt like falling.
Arielle stood in the center of the mirrored space, heart thudding. She had just signed away a year of her life to a man she barely knew—a man the world feared and admired in equal measure. A man who wore secrets like armor and had eyes like winter.
But she hadn't come here to fall in love.
She came here to survive.
And she would—no matter how dangerous the road became.
---
Meanwhile, from his office, Grayson watched her departure on the security feed. His expression unreadable.
"Is it wise?" asked his assistant, Ezra, entering quietly.
Grayson didn't respond.
"She's different," Ezra added. "Not like the others."
"She's not meant to be like the others," Grayson said. "She's meant to look like a wife. Nothing more."
"Liar," Ezra muttered.
Grayson's eyes narrowed at the screen.
There was something about her.
Something that made him feel the edges of his armor cracking.
And that—that—was dangerous.