Risk Contract: The CEO's Fake Wife

Chapter 2: The Devil's Proposal

"Livia Torres," he said, tasting her name. "Twenty-six years old. Junior Assistant in the Logistics Department for eleven months. Performance reviews: Above average. Attendance: Perfect, until today."

Livia blinked. "You... you memorized my file?"

"I know everything about everyone who works on this floor. It’s how I stay alive in a tank full of sharks." His dark eyes narrowed. "But your file has some interesting footnotes recently. Specifically, the calls from Banco do Brasil that come to the reception desk because you stopped answering your cell phone."

Livia’s face burned. Shame, hot and prickly, crawled up her neck. "That is private."

"Nothing is private when creditors start harassing my receptionists," he shot back, his voice hardening. "You are drowning, Livia. Your ex-boyfriend, Ricardo, took out three loans in your name. He leased a car. He maxed out two credit cards. Total debt: R$ 85,000. And that’s before we talk about your mother."

Livia took a step forward, her hands balled into fists at her sides. "Don't you dare talk about my mother."

Stefano didn't flinch. "Dona Elena. Stage 3 pulmonary fibrosis. The treatment isn't covered by the basic company insurance plan. You’ve been paying for her oxygen tanks and private specialists out of pocket. Or trying to. But you missed the last two payments."

The air left Livia’s lungs. It was one thing to be fired. It was another to be dissected. To have her darkest, most painful secrets laid out on this polished mahogany desk like autopsy photos.

"Are you enjoying this?" she whispered, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Do you get off on humiliating your employees before you kick them to the curb? Yes, I’m in debt. Yes, my life is a mess. Is that what you wanted to hear? You win. You're rich, I'm poor. Congratulations."

She turned toward the door, tears stinging her eyes. "I'll clean out my desk."

"Stop."

The command cracked through the room like a whip.

Livia froze, her hand hovering over the door handle.

"I didn't bring you here to fire you, Livia," Stefano said. His voice had changed. The mockery was gone, replaced by a cold, transactional seriousness. "I brought you here to offer you a job."

Livia turned back slowly. "I... I have a job. A job you just listed the reasons I’m failing at."

" not that job. I need something else. Something more specific."

Stefano pushed off the desk and walked around to sit in his massive leather chair. He opened a drawer and pulled out a blue folder, tossing it onto the reflective surface of the desk. It slid across and stopped right in front of her.

"Sit down," he ordered.

Livia hesitated, then walked back and sank into the guest chair. She felt small, wet, and incredibly confused. She didn't open the folder.

"My uncle, Ricardo—ironic that he shares a name with the man who ruined you—is making a move for the CEO position," Stefano began, steepling his fingers. "He’s telling the Board of Directors that I am too 'volatile.' Too focused on expansion, too solitary. He claims the company needs a 'family man' at the helm to stabilize our stock prices after the merger."

Livia frowned. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I need to prove him wrong. Fast. The annual shareholders' meeting is in two weeks. I cannot show up alone. I need to show up with a stabilizer. A partner. A wife."

The word hung in the air for a second before dropping like an anvil.

Livia let out a short, incredulous laugh. "A wife? You want to hire a... a matchmaker?"

"No," Stefano looked her dead in the eye. "I want to hire the wife."

He nodded at the blue folder. "Open it."

Livia’s trembling fingers flipped the cover. It was a contract. A legal document, dense with text, stamped with the Ferraz seal. Her eyes scanned the first page, catching words like Cohabitation, Asset Protection, and Fixed Term.

"You're insane," she breathed.

"I am pragmatic," he corrected. "I don't have time for dating. I don't have the patience for romance. And I certainly don't trust the women in my social circle, who are more interested in my net worth than my company's stability. I need someone who is desperate enough to agree to my terms, but proud enough not to sell me out to the tabloids."

He leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

"I need you, Livia."

"Me?" She pointed at her wet chest. "I just spilled coffee on you. I live in a one-bedroom apartment with mold in the bathroom. I take the bus."

"Exactly. You are invisible. You are clean—no scandals, no paparazzi history. And most importantly, you hate me."

Livia blinked. "I... I don't hate you."

"Please. You look at me every morning like you want to poison my coffee, not serve it. That's perfect. It means you won't fall in love with me. It means this stays business."

He stood up again, pacing behind his desk. "Here is the offer: One year. You marry me. We live together in this penthouse. You attend galas, smile for the cameras, and play the role of the devoted wife. In exchange, I pay off your R$ 85,000 debt today. I pay off your mother’s apartment. And I transfer her to the best private pulmonary clinic in Brazil, all expenses paid."

Livia’s heart hammered against her ribs. The debt gone. Her mom safe. It was a lifeline thrown to a drowning woman.

"And at the end of the year?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.