Marla’s POV
I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling like it was going to blink back at me. The envelope was still on my table, right where I had dropped it after getting home. I had opened it five times and closed it six. I hated how heavy it felt in my hands. Like I was holding something radioactive, or worse, permanent.
Be someone’s fiancée? His fiancée? I couldn’t even finish my laundry, and now I was supposed to finish a fake relationship contract with the coldest man alive? Nope! Nope, nope, nope.
And yet, at 8:42 a.m. the next morning, I was back on floor thirty-seven, envelope in hand, heart doing gymnastics under my blazer. I walked into his office without knocking. He didn’t look up, just gestured to the chair across from him like it was a dentist appointment and not… whatever the hell this was.
I slammed the envelope on his desk. “I want answers before I even think about touching a pen.” Now he looked up, his expression blank. I hated that face.
“This isn’t about love, obviously,” I said. “So what was it about?”
He leaned back in his chair. “You need a reason to be paid to sit next to me and smile?”
I rolled my eyes. “No, I need a reason why the CEO of Mercer House was asking a total stranger to play house for three months.”
He tapped his pen once against the desk. “Fine. A book I ghost wrote under a pseudonym went viral last month. It leaked, now the board thinks I’ve gone soft. Emotional.”
“You… wrote a romance novel?”
His jaw twitched. “That’s not the point.”
“Actually, it kinda was.”
He ignored that. “The board wanted to see stability. A personal life, balance, they thought I’ve lost perspective. Bringing on a fake fiancée killed two birds: fixed my image and gave them something to talk about besides my manuscript.”
I squinted at him. “So you’re telling me this whole thing was to prove to a bunch of old men that you’re not having a breakdown because of a viral love story?”
“Yes.”
“You wanted me to be your emotional support girlfriend?”
“Technically fiancée.”
“Same crap. Different tax brackets.”
He sighed. “I’m offering you a clean deal. Three months, appearances only. You get a paycheck, I get peace of mind.”
I narrowed my eyes. “If it was really that clean, prove it.”
He slid a copy of the contract across the desk. “It’s all in there. Timeline, payment, and terms. You’ll be listed on my calendar, my travel, my press schedule. You’ll stay at my townhouse during high-visibility periods. No real physical contact unless staged. Your NDA protects you. And me.” I flipped through the pages and saw the amount again. That’s how much he was offering to fake being in love with me.
“I should say no,” I murmured.
“You’re free to,” he said without blinking.
I glanced at the door. I could walk out, I should walk out. But then I remember it, the panic I felt when I was told that grandma’s insurance wouldn’t cover her move. I heard the silence of my fridge at home, and the stack of bills I hadn’t opened because opening them felt like a form of violence. I picked up the pen.
“Last chance to back out,” he said quietly.
I didn’t look at him when I said it. “Shut up before I change my mind.” And I signed it quickly. When I pushed the contract back toward him, he nodded once.
“Welcome to the job,” he said. I stood.
“Don’t congratulate yourself too hard. I still don’t like you.”
“That’ll help sell it.”
I turned to leave. But before I stepped out, I tossed over my shoulder, “I want a new chair. Mine squeaks.” Just testing him. He didn’t answer. But the next morning? A brand-new chair, no squeak, just war.