Wife By Contract, Loved By Accident

The rain hammered against the glass roof of the Vance Gallery, a rhythmic drumming that matched the sinking feeling in Elara’s chest. She stood in the center of the showroom, surrounded by breathtaking canvases. But the room was empty. No buyers. Just the smell of turpentine and the musty scent of a dying dream. Elara dragged a paint-stained hand through her hair, leaving a smudge of yellow on her temple. Her eyes were fixed on the envelope on her desk. Stamped in angry red letters: FINAL NOTICE. Her father was dying in a hospital bed, and his medical bills were a mountain she couldn't climb. The bank was circling the gallery like vultures. She had sold her jewelry, her car, and her own paintings. It wasn't enough. She was drowning. A sharp knock made her jump. Through the glass, she saw a man in a tailored black suit holding an umbrella. He didn’t look like a customer. He looked like a grim reaper. "Elara Vance?" he asked as she opened the door. "I'm Mr. Harrison, head of legal affairs for Sterling Industries. Mr. Sterling requests your presence at his office immediately." Elara frowned. Damian Sterling. The ruthless billionaire CEO who bought failing companies and left them in the dust. Why would he want to see her? She looked back at the final notice. She had no pride left to lose. Three days earlier, Elara had met the devil for the first time at a high-society charity gala. She had snuck in, holding a portfolio of her father’s art, hoping to find a wealthy buyer. She was hovering near the VIP balcony when a waiter tripped, spilling red wine all over a socialite’s white silk dress. The woman shrieked, humiliating the terrified young waiter. Elara couldn't stand it. "Hey, it was an accident," Elara stepped in, her voice firm. "A dress is just fabric. A human being is worth more than your ego." The socialite gasped. The crowd chuckled. But the laughter died when Damian Sterling stepped out of the shadows. He was devastatingly handsome, wearing a suit that cost more than her rent. He didn't look at the socialite. He looked straight at Elara, his storm-gray eyes piercing and cold, evaluating her like a puzzle. He wrote a check, dismissed the socialite, and then turned his intense gaze back to Elara. "You have a strong sense of justice," Damian murmured, his eyes flickering to the leather portfolio in her arms. "The Vance Collection. Your father was a brilliant man. A shame what happened to him." "You know nothing about my tragedy," Elara had whispered, before turning and walking away, his eyes burning into her back. Now, three days later, Elara was standing in Damian’s penthouse office. It was a cathedral of dark marble and floor-to-ceiling windows. Damian stood by the desk, a silhouette against the lightning flashing over the city. "I have a proposition for you," he said, his voice a low baritone. "I am in the middle of a critical business merger. The board wants a family man. I need a wife." Elara blinked. "I'm sorry, what?" "A wife on paper. For one year," he said, stepping closer. "You will play the devoted spouse in public. In private, you will stay out of my way." "You're insane," Elara breathed. "Am I?" Damian tossed a manila folder onto the desk. She opened it. Her breath caught. It was the exact amount of her father's medical debt and the gallery's mortgage. Enough money to save everything she loved. "What's the catch?" she whispered. "No emotional attachments," Damian said, his eyes darkening. "The moment you develop feelings for me, the contract is void. You get nothing." Elara felt a flush of anger. He was arrogant and colder than a winter grave. "I would sooner fall in love with a rattlesnake," she hissed. "Good," Damian smirked, sliding a heavy fountain pen toward her. "Then sign the contract, Miss Vance." Elara picked up the pen. It felt like a weapon. She thought of her father. She had no choice. She lowered the pen to the paper. But before the tip could touch the page, a sharp buzz echoed from the desk. "Mr. Sterling," Harrison's voice crackled through the intercom. "I am so sorry to interrupt, but... she's here." Damian froze. The ice in his eyes shattered into something that looked like panic. "Who is here?" Elara asked. Damian ignored her, pressing the button. "Do not let her past the lobby, Harrison." "I tried, sir. She has a key card. She's already in the elevator." Damian cursed under his breath, his posture shifting from a businessman to a man preparing for war. "Sign the paper. Now," he ordered. The elevator doors at the end of the hall dinged. Elara turned. The steel doors slid open. Standing in the doorway was a stunning woman with glossy black hair and a diamond ring the size of a quail egg. But it wasn't the woman who made Elara’s blood run cold. It was the little blonde boy holding her hand—a child who couldn't have been more than four years old. The woman’s eyes locked onto Elara, a venomous smile curling on her lips. "Hello, darling," the woman purred, looking at Damian. "I'm back. And I see you're already replacing me." Damian didn't look at the woman. His eyes were locked on the little boy, his jaw tight. "Elara. Sign. The. Paper." Elara looked from the mysterious woman, to the innocent child, to the terrifying, frozen mask of the billionaire in front of her. What kind of mess am I about to step into?