The CEO's 30-Day Contract Wife

The Gala

Olivia Carter had survived being fired, being hired as a fake wife for one hundred thousand dollars, moving into a penthouse with a toothbrush that had her name on it, brunch with a grandmother who loved her blue dress, dinner with a father who hated her, and a full day as the most hated woman on the fifty eighth floor.

Now she had to survive her first public appearance as Mrs Ethan Blackwood at a charity gala where five hundred of the richest people in Manhattan would be staring at her and one reporter would ask if her marriage was a contract.

No pressure.

The red dress was hanging on her closet door at six in the evening. Rosa had laid it out with a note.

Rosa note: Mister Ethan chose this for you. He said do not argue. Wear it. Rosa.

The dress was red, long, silk, with a slit up one leg and shoulders bare. It was beautiful and terrifying. Next to it was a small black velvet box. Inside was a diamond necklace that caught the light and threw it across the room. A note from Ethan underneath.

Ethan note: My grandmother's. She said you should wear it. Do not lose it. It costs more than your apartment building. E.

Olivia stared at the necklace. More than her apartment building. She picked it up with shaking hands and put it back down quickly.

At seven, Ethan knocked on her bedroom door.

"Olivia? Are you ready? Car is downstairs at seven thirty."

"I am not ready," she called, still in her robe, hair half done, makeup half done, panicking. "I do not know how to wear this dress. It has no back. And the necklace is too expensive. I will lose it."

The door opened a little.

"Can I come in?" Ethan asked.

"No, I am in a robe."

"I have seen you in my white shirt at two in the morning. A robe is more coverage."

"That was different. That was an emergency. Thirst emergency."

He opened the door anyway and walked in. He stopped when he saw her.

She was sitting at her vanity, robe slipping off one shoulder, hair in curlers, eyes wide, holding the diamond necklace like it might explode.

He was in a black tuxedo, bow tie perfect, hair perfect, looking like he had walked out of a magazine. Handsome in a way that made her forget how to breathe.

"You look... panicked," he said.

"I am panicked. I have never been to a gala. I have been to a diner opening in Queens where they gave free fries. This is not free fries. This is diamonds that cost more than my building."

He walked closer and took the necklace from her hands.

"Turn around," he said quietly.

"What?"

"Turn around. I will put it on for you."

She turned around on her stool, her back to him, robe still slipping. Her neck was bare and long and pale. He stepped close behind her, so close she could smell his cologne, clean and expensive and warm.

He fastened the diamond necklace around her neck. His fingers brushed her skin, soft and warm, sending a shiver down her spine.

"There," he said, his voice low near her ear. "Perfect."

She looked in the mirror. The diamonds sparkled against her skin, catching light, making her eyes look bigger.

"It is too much," she whispered.

"No. It is exactly enough. Now the dress."

He picked up the red dress and handed it to her.

"Put it on. I will wait outside."

He walked out and closed the door.

Olivia put on the red dress. It fit like it was made for her, which it was. It hugged her waist, showed her legs through the slit, made her shoulders look elegant. She had never felt beautiful before, not really, not like this. She felt like a different person. A Manhattan person.

She opened the door.

Ethan was leaning against the hallway wall, looking at his phone. He looked up.

And froze.

His eyes went from her face to her shoulders to the red silk hugging her body to the slit showing her leg to the diamonds sparkling on her neck, and his jaw tightened and his hand clenched around his phone.

"Olivia," he said, his voice rough.

"Is it too much?" she asked, nervous, twisting her hands.

"No. It is... you look beautiful. You look like my wife."

"Fake wife," she corrected quickly, because her heart was beating too fast.

"Right. Fake wife who looks real tonight."

He offered his arm. "Shall we, Mrs Blackwood?"

She took his arm. Her hand shook on his sleeve.

The charity gala was at the Metropolitan Museum, huge white building with steps covered in red carpet and photographers with flashing cameras everywhere. When their black car stopped, the cameras turned like wolves smelling blood.

"Mister Blackwood, over here. Mister Blackwood, who is this? Mister Blackwood, is this your girlfriend?"

Ethan got out first, perfect and cold, then turned and held out his hand for Olivia. She took it and stepped out, red dress flowing, diamonds flashing, and the cameras went insane.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

She had never had her photo taken by so many people. She smiled, her waitress smile, and held onto Ethan's arm like it was a lifeline.

Inside, the museum was transformed into a ballroom, tables with white flowers, orchestra playing, five hundred people in tuxedos and gowns, all turning to stare at the billionaire who had never brought a date and now brought a wife no one knew he had.

"Everyone is staring," Olivia whispered, leaning close to Ethan, her lips near his ear so he could hear over music.

"Let them stare. You are the most beautiful woman in this room," he whispered back, his hand on her lower back, warm through silk.

"Fake wife, remember? You do not have to say that when cameras are not looking."

"I say it when cameras are looking and when they are not looking. Because it is true."

Her cheeks turned as red as her dress.

They walked to their table. Eleanor was there, waving, wearing diamonds bigger than Olivia's.

"Olivia darling, you look stunning. That red dress. I told Ethan red was your color. Did he tell you? He picked it himself."

Olivia looked at Ethan, shocked. "You picked it?"

"Rosa helped," he said quickly, ears red.

Eleanor laughed and patted Olivia's hand. "He has good taste when he tries."

Dinner was served, small plates of food that looked like art. Olivia tried to eat gracefully, but she was too nervous.

Then a man with a press badge walked up to their table, holding a microphone, with a cameraman behind him.

"Mister Blackwood, quick question for Page Six. Who is this lovely lady? Is this your girlfriend? Your fiancée? No one has seen her before."

Ethan stood up smoothly, pulling Olivia up with him, arm around her waist, possessive.

"This is my wife, Olivia Blackwood," he said, loud and clear, so the whole table and nearby tables could hear. "We married privately last Saturday."

"Wife?" The reporter looked shocked, then delighted, like a shark smelling blood. "Mister Blackwood, you married secretly? Can you tell us how long you have been dating? And Miss Carter, is it true you were an intern at Blackwood Holdings last week and now you are Mrs Blackwood? That is quite a promotion."

Olivia felt her smile freeze. Intern to wife in one week. It did sound like a contract.

"We have been friends for a long time," she said, her voice shaking a little. "Love happened... quickly."

"Quickly," the reporter repeated, writing down. "And Miss Carter, is it true your mother is in Queens General Hospital and you have eighty seven thousand dollars of debt? Did you marry for money? Is this marriage a contract?"

Silence fell over the entire ballroom. Everyone turned to stare. The orchestra kept playing but softer.

Olivia's face went white. Her hand in Ethan's went cold. How did he know about her mother? How did he know about the eighty seven thousand dollars?

Ethan's arm around her waist turned to steel. His gray eyes turned to ice so cold Olivia shivered.

"Who told you that?" Ethan asked, his voice so quiet and dangerous that the reporter took a step back.

"Sources, Mister Blackwood. Sources close to the family say -"

"My wife's mother is none of your business," Ethan said, his voice rising, loud enough for the whole ballroom to hear. "My wife is not a contract. My wife is my wife. And if you ever mention her mother again, I will make sure you never work in this city again. Do you understand?"

The reporter swallowed hard. "Yes, Mister Blackwood."

"Good. Now get out of my sight."

The reporter ran away, cameraman following.

Olivia stood there, shaking, tears in her eyes, her beautiful red dress and diamond necklace suddenly feeling like a costume.

Ethan turned to her, his face softening instantly, his hands on her shoulders.

"Are you okay?" he whispered, low, so only she could hear.

"No," she whispered back. "Everyone heard. Everyone thinks I married you for money. Which I did. They are right."

"They are not right," he said fiercely. "You married me because I asked you and you needed help. That is not gold digging. That is brave."

"It feels like gold digging."

"Then let them think what they want. I know the truth. You are my wife tonight, real or fake, and no one insults my wife."

He pulled her closer, his hand on her back, his forehead almost touching hers, right there in the middle of the ballroom, in front of five hundred people and photographers who were now taking photos like crazy.

Olivia looked up at him, at his gray eyes full of anger for her, protection for her, something more than contract, and for a second she forgot it was fake. For a second she wanted it to be real.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Always," he said.

From across the ballroom, standing by the bar in a white dress that looked like a wedding dress, a beautiful blonde woman with cold blue eyes watched them, holding a glass of champagne, smiling a smile that did not reach her eyes.

Vanessa Hart. Ethan's ex fiancée. The supermodel who had a key to his penthouse.

She raised her glass to Olivia in a mock toast and mouthed one word that Olivia could read across the room.

"Fake."

Olivia's blood ran cold.

Ethan did not see Vanessa. He was still looking at Olivia, his hand still on her back, his eyes still soft.

But Olivia saw her. And she knew, with a sinking feeling in her stomach, that her thirty days as Mrs Blackwood had just gotten much more dangerous.

Because the ex fiancée with a key was here. And she knew it was a contract.