Risk Contract: The CEO's Fake Wife

Chapter 4: The Golden Cage

Livia swallowed hard. This was the hardest part. "For you, Mama, it means the best clinic in the country. The Santa Clara Institute. Mr. Ferraz has already arranged the transfer. You’re going to have private nurses, the best doctors, a room with a garden view..."

"And you?" Elena squeezed her hand with surprising strength. "Where will you be?"

"I have to live in the company penthouse for the duration of the project," Livia said, the words rushing out. "To be available 24/7. It’s... it’s part of the contract. I’ll be close, I’ll visit every weekend, but I can’t... I can’t live at the clinic."

It was a half-truth, stitched together with desperation. She couldn't tell her devout Catholic mother that she had agreed to a fake marriage with a man she barely knew. It would kill her faster than the fibrosis.

"Oh, Livia," Elena’s eyes filled with tears. "God heard our prayers. I told you, didn't I? I told you He wouldn't abandon us."

Livia buried her face in her mother’s lap to hide her own tears. "Yes, Mama. He heard us."

Or maybe the other guy down below heard us, Livia thought bitterly. Because this feels a lot more like a deal with the Devil.

Packing was an exercise in detachment.

Stefano had said, Don't bring the furniture. He hadn't needed to say it. Nothing in this apartment belonged in a penthouse. The chipped mugs, the mismatched towels, the rug with the coffee stain—it was all evidence of a life lived on the margins.

Livia packed two suitcases.

In the first: her "professional" clothes—the three blazers, the sensible skirts, the few blouses that weren't threadbare.

In the second: the things that actually mattered. A framed photo of her father before he died. Her mother’s old recipe book. A worn-out copy of Pride and Prejudice. Her favorite fuzzy socks that were definitely not Clause 4 compliant.

At 6:45 PM, a black Lincoln Navigator pulled up to the curb outside the building. It looked like a spaceship that had landed in a junkyard.

The neighbors were watching from their windows. Livia could feel their eyes—curiosity, envy, suspicion.

A driver in a black suit stepped out. He was built like a refrigerator, with a thick neck and sunglasses, even though it was raining and dark.

"Ms. Torres?" he asked, his voice gravelly. "I am Bruno. Mr. Ferraz sent me."

"Of course he did," Livia muttered.

Bruno took her suitcases as if they weighed nothing. He held the door open for her. Livia paused, looking back at the peeling yellow building one last time. The ambulance for her mother was scheduled to arrive in an hour. A private nurse, paid for by Ferraz Holdings, was already upstairs preparing Elena for transport.

It was done. The transaction was complete.

Livia stepped into the car. The leather seats were soft, smelling of new car scent and conditioned air. The silence was absolute as the heavy door thudded shut, sealing her inside.

As the car pulled away, navigating the potholes of her street, Livia didn't look back. She couldn't. If she looked back, she might run.

The Mirage Tower was not just a building; it was a statement. A shard of black glass piercing the night sky of the Jardins district, it screamed power, exclusivity, and isolation.

Bruno drove the car into a private underground garage that was cleaner than most hospitals. There were no other cars parked near the elevator bank. Just a sleek black Ferrari and a silver Aston Martin.

Of course he drives an Aston Martin, Livia thought, rolling her eyes. How cliché.

"The elevator opens directly into the penthouse," Bruno informed her, handing her a key card. It was black metal, heavy and cold. "Mr. Ferraz is expecting you."

Livia took the card. "Thank you, Bruno."

He nodded, impassive, and got back in the car.

Livia stood alone in front of the elevator. She took a deep breath, smoothed her damp skirt, and pressed the card to the reader. The doors slid open silently.

The ascent was fast. Too fast. Her ears popped as the numbers on the display blurred upward. 10... 20... 30... 40... Penthouse.

The doors opened.

Livia stepped out—and stopped dead.

She had expected luxury. She had expected expensive furniture. But she hadn't expected the sheer, overwhelming scale of it.

The living room was cavernous. The ceiling soared twenty feet high, and the walls were floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a 360-degree view of São Paulo. The city lay spread out below like a sea of glittering diamonds, beautiful and distant.

But inside, it was cold.

The floors were white marble, streaked with gray. The furniture was low, sleek, and terrifyingly white. There were no photos. No books. No clutter. No signs of life. It looked like the lobby of a futuristic hotel, or the lair of a villain in a sci-fi movie.

"You're late."

The voice came from the shadows near the window.

Stefano stood looking out at the city, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. He had discarded his jacket and tie. His white shirt—a fresh one, thank God—was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms dusted with dark hair.

He turned to face her. The backlighting from the city framed him in a halo of light, making him look even broader, more imposing.

Livia checked her cheap wristwatch. "It's 7:03, Stefano. Traffic exists for us mortals."

"You are Mrs. Ferraz now," he said, taking a sip of his drink. "You don't deal with traffic. Bruno knows the routes. If you were late, it's because you lingered."

"I was saying goodbye to my life," Livia shot back, her defensive walls slamming into place. She dragged her suitcase onto the marble. The wheels made a loud, rude clack-clack-clack sound that echoed in the empty space.

Stefano winced slightly at the noise. He walked toward her, the sound of his movements muffled by the silence of the room. He stopped a few feet away, invading her personal space again. He smelled of whiskey and fatigue.

"Did everything go well with your mother?" he asked. The question surprised her. His tone wasn't mocking; it was almost... polite.

"The nurse is with her. The ambulance is on the way." Livia gripped the handle of her suitcase tighter. "She thinks I got a promotion. She thinks this is corporate housing."

Stefano nodded once. "A kind lie. It is better this way."

He gestured vaguely with his glass toward a long hallway that seemed to stretch for miles. "The East Wing is yours. Bedroom, en-suite bathroom, walk-in closet, and a private sitting room. My suite is in the West Wing. The office, kitchen, and main living areas are neutral ground."

"Neutral ground," Livia repeated. "Like a demilitarized zone."

"Exactly." Stefano’s eyes glinted. "The housekeeper, Maria, comes daily from 8 AM to 4 PM. She handles cleaning, laundry, and breakfast. Dinner, we are usually on our own, unless we have an event."

"I can cook," Livia said automatically.

Stefano looked at her as if she had said she could fly. "You don't need to cook. We have chefs on call."

"I like cooking. It relaxes me."

"Fine. Just don't burn down the kitchen. The appliances are imported from Germany and I don't have the patience to replace them."

He turned his back on her, dismissing her. "Dinner is at eight. I ordered takeout. Thai food. Unless that violates your culinary principles?"

"Thai is fine," Livia muttered at his retreating back.

"Good. Unpack. Shower. Wash off the... scent of the subway."

Livia bristled. "It's the scent of reality, Stefano. You should try it sometime."

He paused, glancing over his shoulder. His eyes traveled down her body, taking in her wet shoes, her frizzy hair, her defiant stance. For a second, the air crackled again, that strange, unwanted electricity humming between them.

"I have enough reality," he said softly. "That’s why I hired you. To be my fantasy."

He walked away toward the West Wing, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the empty, million-dollar room.

Livia’s room was bigger than her entire apartment.

The bed was a California King, covered in sheets that felt like woven clouds—some ridiculous thread count that probably had four digits. The carpet was so thick her toes sank into it. There was a balcony that overlooked the city, and a bathroom with a tub deep enough to scuba dive in.