MARRIED FOR TIME

Chapter 5

**Bastien’s POV**

The heavy glass doors of the Onyx Lounge had barely swung shut behind Valerie before I saw him.

A young guy stood up from the curb the exact moment she left, his eyes tracking her movements like a predator targeting prey. Valerie was visibly tipsy, swaying slightly in her emerald silk dress, and there was no car waiting to pick her up. I told myself I was just making sure she got home safely. Maybe I could give her a ride and settle the debt of last night. That was all. So, keeping my distance, I followed.

Then I saw his hand close aggressively around her shoulder.

He backed her toward her car, his posture predatory as her slurred voice cut through the damp night air, trying to push him off.

My fist hit his jaw before my brain could even process the command. Bone cracked sharply against bone. The stranger dropped straight to the asphalt with a heavy, breathless grunt.

"On your knees," I snarled, wrenching him up by his collar just enough to pin him with a lethal glare. My voice was pure ice. "The police are on their way. Move even an inch, and you'll deeply regret it."

He stayed down, whimpering and clutching his bleeding face.

That’s when Valerie’s balance completely failed. She stumbled, her knees buckling as she began to fall. I caught her before she hit the cold pavement. She went completely limp in my arms—pure dead weight and soft, silk-clad skin. Lifting her securely, I carried her over to my sedan and laid her gently across the leather backseat.

The i***t on the concrete saw his chance. Spotting my back turned, he scrambled to his feet and bolted down the street.

*You have got to be kidding me.*

I chased him down before he even reached the edge of the block. My shoulder drove hard into his spine, pinning him face-first into the pavement. Keeping him immobilized under my knee, I pulled out my phone and dialed the local precinct's direct line. "Assault. Onyx Lounge parking lot. Suspect detained."

The squad car arrived ten minutes later to arrest him. I gave a precise, anonymous citizen's report to the officers; Sterling Enterprises didn't need my name dragged into another public tabloid headline.

When I finally slid back into the driver's seat, Valerie was out cold. Her head rested heavily against the window, the slit of her emerald dress riding high up on her thigh.

I let out a long, exhausted breath, looking at her through the rearview mirror. "You really love passing out in my car, don't you?" I murmured to the empty vehicle. A sudden, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of my mouth before I forcefully killed it.

She was a risk. A beautiful, reckless, sharp-tongued risk.

Reaching into my jacket, I called my mother's private line at the clinic. Her voice sounded weak when she answered, but she was awake, and that alone tightened the familiar ache in my chest.

"Mom. It’s me," I said, keeping my tone perfectly grounded. "I’m bringing my girlfriend home to meet you next week. You’ll finally get to meet her. I promise."

Hearing her soft, breathless giggling on the other end of the line made the pressure in my chest ease slightly. Even in a hospital bed, she was still the same dramatic, lively mother she had always been.

I ended the call and drove straight back to the penthouse. I carried Valerie up the private elevator and into the guest room, laying her down onto the mattress. I turned to leave, but my boots froze at the threshold.

The guest room was too massive. She looked entirely too small in it—too exposed, buried under the neutral sheets. I ruffled my hair in sharp frustration, silently cursing myself. *Why do I suddenly care where she sleeps? It's not like she's my family. She's a stranger I barely know.*

To hell with it.

Marching back to the bed, I picked her up a second time and carried her down the hall to my master bedroom. *My bed.* I heaved a rough sigh, laid her gently against the dark silk pillows, and pulled the heavy duvet securely over her body.

Leaving her sleeping soundly, I walked down to the kitchen, grabbed a glass of ice water, and sat down at my desk to draft the framework of our arrangement.

My fingers flew across the keyboard, typing out the strict parameters:

> ### **MARRIAGE CONTRACT: VALERIE VALE & BASTIEN KADE**

>

>

> **1. Duration:** The legal marriage shall last for a strict period of 6 to 12 months. The contract will terminate automatically on the specified date unless both parties mutually agree in writing to an extension.

> **2. No Emotional Involvement:** There shall be no dating of external parties, no s****l intimacy between the signatories, and no expressions of affection. The phrase “I love you” is strictly prohibited. This is strictly business.

> **3. Public vs. Private Persona:** Both parties agree to maintain the absolute illusion of a devoted marriage in public, at corporate events, and with family. In private, the relationship reverts to independent roommates.

> **4. Living Space:** Cohabitation shall occur within the primary penthouse. However, separate bedrooms are mandatory. Neither party shall enter the private space of the other without explicit permission.

I printed out two identical copies and signed them both, leaving the folders neatly on the table at the center of the spacious main floor. Then, I stretched out on the living room couch. I couldn't sleep in the master bedroom next to her; with her sharp mouth and defensive attitude, she would undoubtedly call me a pervert the second she woke up.

A jagged, lingering nightmare about my past woke me at five in the morning, my chest heaving.

Needing a distraction, I walked up the stairs to check on Valerie. She was still deep asleep, her blonde hair fanned beautifully across my pillow, her lips slightly parted. For a singular, quiet second, I forgot about the contract. I forgot about the empire, the lies, and the chaos.

Then, the sharp ring of the front doorbell shattered the silence.

My expression hardened. I descended the stairs, walked to the foyer, and threw the heavy double doors open.

Mireya stood on the doormat, her hand tightly clutching the fingers of the quiet little girl beside her.

A cold, mocking scoff escaped my lips as my gaze turned to absolute ice. "What do you want, Mireya?"

"Bastien, please," she sobbed, her voice sounding entirely fabricated. "We need to talk about—"

"Let me guess," I cut in, my voice dangerously flat. "You’re trying to use a child to buy your way back into my life. Wait right here."

I took the stairs two at a time, grabbed the original, verified paternity test from my study safe, and marched back down to the foyer. I shoved the clinical documents directly into her face.

"Read it. Zero percent probability," I growled, stepping into her personal space. "Now you want to pin another man’s son on me? After you walked out because you decided I wasn’t rich enough for your taste? Get out of my house."

Just then, the soft sound of bare footsteps hitting the hardwood stairs echoed through the foyer.

Valerie was coming down the steps. She was wearing nothing but one of my crisp, white button-down shirts. The hem hit her mid-thigh, her blonde hair was beautifully messy, her legs were completely bare, and her gray eyes were still heavy with residual sleep.

Mireya’s face twisted into an ugly mask of shock and jealousy.

The defensive words left my mouth before I could even think to stop them. "She’s my girlfriend," I announced, looking Mireya dead in the eye. "And my wife-to-be."

Valerie instantly froze on the bottom step. Her sharp gaze snapped to mine, utter shock written across her features.

Mireya completely snapped. Infuriated by the sight of another woman in my home, she shoved past me, lunging forward to grab a fistful of the white shirt Valerie was wearing. *My shirt.*

"Touch her again and I will personally break your wrist," I snarled. I violently ripped Mireya’s hand away from the fabric, stepping between them to shield Valerie entirely. "Leave. Right now. And do not ever come back."

Terrified by the absolute malice in my voice, Mireya fled into the morning rain, crying bitterly as she dragged the child down the corridor. The heavy front door slammed shut behind them.

Valerie stared at the door for a long moment, then huffed a sharp, breathless laugh. "Wow. You’re incredibly good at acting, Bastien. You even called me your girlfriend. A complete stranger would think we’re actually dating."

I turned around to face her, my jaw tight. My expression must have been visibly rigid, because her amused smile quickly faded.

"But you agreed to sign the contract," I said, my voice completely deadpan.

She blinked, confused. "Which contract?"

A hard muscle ticked in my jaw as a frown deepened across my features. "Are you messing with me right now, Valerie? Last night at the restaurant, you distinctly said you accepted the terms."

Realization slowly crossed her face, her eyes widening as the alcohol-blurred memories began to click into place. I didn't wait for her to formulate an excuse. I walked over to the central table, picked up the folders, and stretched them out toward her.

She took the papers from my hand. Without reading a single line of the terms and conditions, she picked up the pen I'd left on the table and rapidly signed her name at the bottom of both copies. She handed them right back to me, turned on her heel, and walked straight toward the kitchen like she owned the entire place.

I watched her retreating figure, a mixture of disbelief and dark amusement twisting in my chest. "You walk into my kitchen like you’re the one paying the mortgage."

She rolled her eyes, navigating toward the counter without turning around to look at me. "You're the one who told her we’re married, Bastien. That means we both own the kitchen."

The sheer defiance of her statement pulled a rare, genuine smile out of me before I forced my features back into a stern frown. "You haven’t actually read the rules yet."

"I just signed them," she said smoothly, spinning around to face me.

She walked closer, her bare feet silent against the floor, until there were only inches left between us. Her striking gray eyes locked directly onto mine, sharp, fully awake, and entirely done playing games.

"Pack a suit, Bastien," she whispered, her tone dropping to a challenging, businesslike register. "You’re following me to my ex's wedding."