The CEO’s Contract Fiancée

Rrrring! Rrrring! The landline phone—clunky, outdated, and about as welcome as a T-Rex at a corporate meeting—shrieked from the corner of the redheaded receptionist intern’s desk. It looked like a fossil dragged in from the last century, yet somehow, inexplicably, the cosmetics company aWESTruck still used it for internal communication. Anastasia squinted at the tiny black-and-white screen, barely larger than a matchbox. Four blinking digits glared at her like alarm lights: 1111 — the Boss’s extension. Mr. Alex West. The arrogant, disgustingly handsome CEO who’d only been in the top chair for three months and already strutted around like he owned the goddamn solar system. By the seventh ring, she gave up hope he’d hang up and snatched the receiver, the coiled blue cord dangling like a noose. “Hello?” she deadpanned, already bracing for impact. This phone never brought good news. And today was no exception. “Miss Smith. My office. Now.” His voice—low, rough, like whiskey poured over broken glass—slithered down her spine. Not the nice kind of shiver, like from chocolate or a rare compliment. This was the you’re-not-getting-out-alive kind. The kind that creeps in during nightmares. Right before something with claws grabs you. “B-but… Mr. West? Did I… do something?” Her voice cracked. Everyone knew he hated dealing with people in person. A direct summons like this? Never casual. Silence. Then the same voice, sharper now. Icy. Final. “Immediately.” The word landed like the last chord in a horror movie score. Her stomach twisted. “…Coming,” she whispered, like someone being marched to the guillotine.