His Salvation

CHAPTER TWO

Chapter 2: Playing the Part

Cynthia woke to the buzz of her phone on a cheap motel mattress, the neon sign outside flickering through threadbare curtains. Her head throbbed—not from booze, but from the memory of signing Ethan Cross’s contract. Six months as his fake wife. A million dollars. Her family’s bakery was saved. And Camille’s furious lunge, diamond bracelet flashing like a knife. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

The phone buzzed again: a text from an unknown number. 7:30 AM sharp. My driver’s outside. Don’t test me, Cynthia. – E.C. Her stomach flipped. Ethan’s warning from last night echoed: “You’ll regret this.” She glanced at the clock—7:15 AM. No time to panic.

She scrambled into the only decent outfit she’d packed—a fitted navy blazer and pencil skirt from her interview days—ignoring the ache of last night’s heels. Her apartment was a war zone, thanks to her landlady’s latest eviction threat: “Pay up by tomorrow, or your stuff’s on the curb.” Cynthia shoved the thought down. One crisis at a time.

Outside, a sleek black Bentley idled, the driver tipping his cap. “Miss Anderson, Mr. Cross is expecting you.” She slid into the leather seat, heart pounding like she was headed to her execution. The city blurred past, Manhattan’s skyscrapers mocking her smallness. She checked her reflection in her phone—messy bun, minimal makeup, eyes wide with dread. Not exactly billionaire-wife material.

The Bentley pulled up to Microfinance Unlimited’s glass tower. Ethan waited in the lobby, all sharp suit and sharper gaze, his dark hair catching the morning light. He was stupidly gorgeous, like a Renaissance statue with a temper. But his steel-gray eyes held no warmth, only calculation.

“You’re late,” he said, checking his watch. “Seven-thirty-two.”

“Traffic,” Cynthia shot back, chin up. “Unless your driver can bend time, I’m here.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “Careful, Miss Anderson. My fiancée doesn’t get to mouth off.” He stepped closer, voice low. “From now on, you’re mine in public. Smile, nod, and sell it. Privately, you’re invisible. Clear?”

Her skin prickled at mine. “Crystal,” she said, matching his tone. “But if I’m playing your trophy wife, I need details. Why the charade? What’s in it for you?”

Ethan’s jaw tightened. “You don’t ask questions. You follow the contract.” He handed her a velvet box. “Put this on. Now.”

Inside was a diamond ring, heavy and cold, the size of a small planet. Cynthia’s breath caught—it was worth more than her life. She slid it on, the metal biting her finger. “This screams ‘bought bride,’” she muttered.

“Good,” Ethan said. “That’s the point.” He grabbed her elbow, steering her toward the elevator. “We’ve got a board meeting in ten. You’re my plus-one.”

The elevator ride was suffocating, his cologne—woodsy, dizzying—filling the space. Cynthia’s mind raced. A board meeting? She’d expected paparazzi stunts, not corporate power plays. “What am I supposed to do there?” she hissed.

“Look pretty and don’t speak,” Ethan said, eyes forward.“The board needs to believe we’re engaged. One wrong move, and your bakery’s dust.”

The doors opened to a mahogany-paneled boardroom, where a dozen suits—mostly older men—turned to stare. Cynthia’s knees wobbled, but she forced a smile, channeling Kourtney’s advice: Own the room. Ethan’s hand grazed her back, a public gesture that felt too real, sending heat up her spine.

“Gentlemen,” Ethan said, his voice commanding the room. “Meet Cynthia Anderson, my fiancée.”

Murmurs rippled. A gray-haired man, face like a bulldog, leaned forward. “Fiancée? Convenient timing, Cross. Your grandfather’s trust clause kicks in next month.”

Cynthia’s ears pricked. Trust clause? Ethan’s grip on her tightened a silent warning. “Cynthia’s not a clause,” he said smoothly. “She’s the woman I chose.”

The bulldog snorted. “We’ll see. The board expects stability, not a rushed engagement.” His eyes raked over Cynthia, dismissive. “She doesn’t exactly scream ‘Cross family.’”

Anger flared. Cynthia opened her mouth, but Ethan cut in. “She’s more than enough,” he said, his tone daring anyone to argue. Her chest warmed, despite herself. Was he defending her, or just the deal?

The meeting dragged, all the jargon about acquisitions and profits. Cynthia played her part—smiling, nodding, ignoring the board’s side eyes. But Ethan’s presence beside her was a distraction, his thigh brushing hers under the table. Focus, Cyn. This isn’t real.

Afterward, Ethan led her to his office, shutting the door. “Not bad,” he said, loosening his tie. “You almost looked like you belonged.”

“Gee, thanks,” Cynthia said, rolling her eyes. “Care to explain the ‘trust clause’ bombshell? Or is that above my pay grade?”

His face darkened. “You heard nothing. Drop it.”

“No way,” she pushed, stepping closer. “I’m risking everything for this. If I’m your fake wife, I deserve to know why you need one.”

Ethan’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t snap. Instead, he leaned against his desk, studying her. “You’ve got the nerve,” he said, almost impressed. “Fine. My grandfather’s trust requires me to be married by thirty to inherit full control of Microfinance. I will turn thirty in six months.”

Cynthia blinked. “So this is about money?”

“Power,” he corrected.“The board’s circling like vultures. A wife—you—prove I’m stable. Without it, I lose everything I’ve built.”

She saw it then—a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, gone as fast as it came. Ethan Cross, an untouchable billionaire, was human after all. Her heart softened, just a fraction before she caught herself. He’s using you, Cyn. Stay sharp.

“Got it,” she said, voice cool. “I’ll play my part. But don’t expect me to swoon.”

He smirked, stepping into her space. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” His fingers brushed her ring, sending a jolt through her. “Just don’t fall for me, Cynthia. It’s not in the contract.”

Her cheeks burned, but she held his gaze. “Trust me, I won’t.”

A knock interrupted. Ethan’s assistant poked her head in. “Sir, your ex-fiancée’s here. She’s… insistent.”

Cynthia froze. Ex-fiancée? Ethan’s face turned to stone. “Tell Camille to leave,” he said, but the door swung open.

Camille stormed in, her red dress as sharp as her glare. “You think you can replace me with her?” she spat, pointing at Cynthia. “I know your secret, Ethan. And I’m not afraid to use it.”

Cynthia’s pulse spiked. Secret? She glanced at Ethan, whose calm mask cracked, just for a second. Before he could respond, her phone buzzed in her pocket—a text from Sam, her cheating ex: Cyn, I’m sorry. I need to see you. It’s about your bakery.

The room spun. Camille’s threat hung in the air, Ethan’s eyes burned into her, and Sam’s message lit a fuse she didn’t understand. What did her ex know about the bakery—and how was it tied to Ethan’s deal?