The CEO's 30-Day Contract Wife

The Ex With A Key

The night before, Ethan paid her mother's hospital bill without telling her. He held her mother's hand and said call me Mama.

Now Olivia was back in the penthouse, wearing his shirt to make coffee, thinking maybe a contract could become real.

Then the front door opened with a key she did not have.

Olivia was in the kitchen at seven in the morning, barefoot, wearing an oversized white shirt that belonged to Ethan, her hair messy, making scrambled eggs the way Rosa taught her. Ethan was in the shower, singing off key, something he only did when he thought no one could hear. For the first time since she signed the paper, the penthouse felt warm, not cold glass.

She heard a click at the front door. She thought it was Rosa with groceries.

Then a voice, sweet and cold and familiar from television.

"Ethan darling, I brought your favorite croissants from Paris, they flew them in this morning, just like old times."

A woman walked in. Tall, blonde, legs that never ended, wearing a white dress that cost more than Olivia's entire Queens apartment building. Her hair perfect, her makeup perfect, her smile perfect and cruel. In her hand she held a silver key.

Olivia froze, spatula in hand, eggs burning.

The woman froze too, then smiled wider, eyes moving from Olivia's bare feet to Ethan's shirt to the messy hair.

"Oh," she said softly, like she found a cockroach in the kitchen. "You must be the little intern from Queens. I am Vanessa Hart. Ethan's fiancee. Well ex fiancee technically but we never really broke up, did we. Who gave you his shirt, sweetheart. Did he pay you extra for that."

Olivia could not speak. Her throat closed.

Before she could answer, the bathroom door opened and Ethan came out, towel around his waist, water still on his chest, hair wet, looking for coffee.

"Olivia, did you burn the eggs again, you always burn —"

He stopped when he saw Vanessa. His face changed completely, from soft to stone in one second.

"Vanessa," he said, his voice low and hard. "What are you doing here."

Vanessa walked straight to him, ignoring Olivia, her white dress swaying, and placed both hands on his wet chest like she owned him.

"I told you I kept the spare key, darling. You never changed the locks. That means you wanted me to come back. I saw the tabloid, such a silly story, everyone knows that girl is just a contract, you and I both know who you really love."

Olivia stood there, spatula still in hand, wearing his shirt, watching the woman who belonged in this penthouse touch the man who was supposed to be her fake husband.

Ethan grabbed Vanessa's wrists and removed her hands from his chest, stepping back.

"Do not touch me," he said quietly, but his voice shook with anger. "Give me the key."

"Make me," Vanessa whispered, smiling, and then she stood on her toes and kissed him hard on the mouth, right there in front of Olivia, in the kitchen where Olivia was making breakfast.

Olivia gasped. The spatula fell from her hand and hit the floor with a dull thud.

Ethan pushed Vanessa away immediately, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, disgusted.

"Get out," he said, his voice louder now. "Get out of my house right now."

"Your house," Vanessa laughed, turning to Olivia, eyes full of poison. "Sweetheart, did he tell you this penthouse was mine first. I picked the curtains. I picked the art. I picked the bed you slept in. Did he tell you we were engaged for two years. Did he tell you he bought me a ring that cost more than your mother's whole life. And now he marries a waitress from Queens for a tabloid stunt. Tell me, how much did he pay you. Fifty thousand. One hundred thousand. I will double it if you leave today."

Olivia felt her face burn, tears coming fast. She pulled Ethan's shirt tighter around her body, suddenly ashamed of her bare legs, her messy hair, her burning eggs.

"I did not take his money for —" she started, her voice shaking.

"Oh but you did," Vanessa said sweetly, pulling out her phone, showing a photo. It was a photo of Olivia signing the paper in Ethan's office, taken through the glass by someone. "Fifty thousand dollars before, fifty thousand after. One hundred thousand dollar fake wife. Everyone at King Holdings has seen this. The whole board has seen this. You are not a wife, you are a rental."

Ethan stepped between them, his towel still low, his body blocking Olivia from Vanessa's view.

"Enough," he said, his voice shaking with rage now. "Vanessa, if you do not leave in ten seconds I will call security and have you removed and I will have your modeling contract cancelled in New York."

Vanessa looked at him, then at Olivia hiding behind him in his shirt, and smiled one more time, that perfect cruel smile.

"You will come back to me, Ethan. You always do. When you get bored of playing house with the help, you will remember who really belongs in this world. And you, little girl," she looked at Olivia over his shoulder, "enjoy the shirt. He gave me one just like it on our first night. It never meant anything."

She placed the silver key on the kitchen counter, slowly, deliberately, the metal clicking loud in the quiet room.

"Keep the key, darling. You will need it when she leaves. Which she will. They always leave when they realize you do not know how to love."

Then she walked out, her white dress perfect, her heels clicking, the front door closing softly behind her.

Silence in the penthouse. The eggs burned black in the pan, smoke starting to rise. The smell of burnt butter filled the expensive kitchen.

Olivia stood frozen, tears running down her face now, fast and silent. She was shaking all over, not from cold but from shame. She could still see Vanessa's hands on Ethan's wet chest, her mouth on his mouth, the way she belonged here and Olivia did not.

Ethan turned around slowly. He looked at Olivia, in his shirt, barefoot, crying, eggs burning.

"Olivia —" he started, stepping toward her.

"Do not," she said, holding up a hand, stepping back, her back hitting the counter. "Do not come near me."

"She is lying," he said quickly, his hands up like he was surrendering. "Everything she said is a lie. I changed the locks after she left, she must have stolen Rosa's spare. I did not give her a key. I swear."

"Did you give her this shirt," Olivia whispered, tears falling on the white fabric.

"What?"

"Did you give her this shirt," she repeated louder, her voice breaking. "On your first night. Did you give her a shirt just like this. Because if you did, I am wearing another woman's costume in your kitchen, making your eggs, pretending to be your wife, while you have a towel around your waist and she kisses you like she still owns you."

He stared at her, his eyes dark and hurt and angry at once.

"No," he said firmly. "I never gave her a shirt. I never let her make eggs in my kitchen. I never let any woman stay the night in this penthouse until you. You are the first woman who ever slept here, Olivia. The first."

"Then why does she have a key," Olivia shouted now, crying hard, wiping her face with her hands, flour and egg on her cheeks. "Why does everyone have a photo of me signing that paper. Why does your ex fiancee get to walk in at seven in the morning and kiss my fake husband in front of me and tell me I am a rental."

"Because my father gave her the key," Ethan shouted back, his voice loud in the glass penthouse. "Because my father wants me to marry her and not you. Because my board wants to fire me and use you to do it. Because this whole city thinks a girl from Queens cannot be a Blackwood wife. But I do not care what they think."

"You should care," Olivia sobbed, sliding down to the floor, sitting against the cabinets, her knees to her chest, his big shirt covering her like a tent. "You should care because she is right. I am a rental. One hundred thousand dollars. Fifty thousand before, fifty thousand after. I signed a paper. I took your money. I am wearing your shirt because my room flooded last night and I had no clothes. I am not your wife."

Ethan stared at her on the floor, small and crying, flour on her face, eggs burning behind her, and something in his chest broke completely. He walked to the stove and turned off the gas, the smoke clearing. Then he knelt on the floor in his towel, water still dripping from his hair onto the marble, and knelt in front of her, not touching her yet.

"Listen to me," he said quietly, his voice low and shaking. "You are not a rental. You are not a contract. You are the woman who held my grandmother's hand when she could not breathe. You are the woman who told my board that their marketing is boring. You are the woman who burns my eggs every morning and fixes my tie even though I tell you not to. You are my wife. Even if it started as a paper, you are my wife."

Olivia looked up at him through tears, her eyes red, her lips trembling.

"Then why did you not tell me you had an ex fiancee who has a key to our house," she whispered.

"Our house," he repeated softly, his eyes lighting up at the word our. "You said our house."

She realized what she said and blushed, wiping her nose with his shirt sleeve.

"I meant your house," she mumbled.

"No," he said, reaching out slowly, gently, giving her time to pull away, and tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, his fingers brushing her wet cheek. "You said our house. And it is our house. And I will change every lock in this building today. And I will fire anyone who took that photo. And I will never let anyone kiss me again, unless it is you."

Olivia's breath caught. His face was very close, his towel low, his chest bare and wet, his eyes on her lips.

"Rule number two," she whispered, her voice small. "No intimacy. No kissing."

"I know the rules," he whispered back, his thumb brushing a tear from her cheek, his hand lingering. "I wrote them."

"Then why are you looking at me like that," she whispered.

"Because you are sitting on my kitchen floor in my shirt, crying over burnt eggs, and I have never wanted to kiss anyone more in my life," he said, his voice rough.

Silence, only their breathing, fast and close, his hand on her cheek, her hand on his wrist, the burnt eggs smoking behind them, the silver key still on the counter catching the morning light.

Then his phone buzzed loud on the counter, breaking the moment. He looked at it, his face going pale.

Olivia looked too. The screen showed a text from the board group chat.

The text said: BOARD MEETING NINE AM TODAY. BRING YOUR CONTRACT WIFE. WE HAVE THE ORIGINAL COPY. AND VANESSA WILL TESTIFY SHE IS FAKE.

Olivia stared at the phone, then at the key on the counter, then at Ethan's face, and whispered one question that would change everything.

What does Vanessa know that we do not know about that contract?