Husband for a Day

Savannah Leclerc adjusted the delicate pearl earring for the fifth time, staring at her reflection in the tall mirror framed in rose gold. Her dark auburn curls were pinned into a soft bun, with a few rebellious strands kissing her neck, and her makeup was flawless—subtle, elegant, expensive. She wore a pale lilac dress that hugged her curves in all the right places, cinched at the waist with a silver belt, and soft chiffon flowing just below her knees. The Louboutins on her feet gleamed like polished armor. Everything about her screamed “fiancée material.” Today was supposed to be special. Two days to her wedding. The beginning of a legacy. She clutched a carefully wrapped velvet box—inside was a vintage gold wristwatch she’d spent months tracking down. Her fiancé, Bryan Cole, loved collecting antique timepieces. This one had belonged to a World War I pilot. It felt meaningful. Thoughtful. Romantic. The Leclercs didn’t do things halfway. Her family was synonymous with old money, real estate empires, and ruthless boardroom decisions. But Savannah? She still believed in love. She stepped into her sleek white Mercedes, the late morning sun glinting off the hood. She’d asked Bryan to spend the morning with her before the final rounds of wedding preparations began. He had sounded distracted on the phone, but she assumed it was nerves. The drive to his estate in Beverly Hills was smooth. Trees lined the road like a parade of silent witnesses. She hummed softly to the classical music playing on the stereo, her fingers dancing across the steering wheel. Her stomach fluttered with a mix of excitement and anxiety. As she entered the wrought-iron gates of the Cole residence, she noticed something odd—Bryan's car was parked sideways, as if someone had arrived in a hurry. Her brows furrowed. She dismissed it. Maybe he was stressed. She climbed out, heels clicking against the marble steps. The butler was missing—he usually greeted her with a stiff nod. The front door was slightly ajar. That was strike two. "Bryan?" she called gently, stepping inside. Silence. She took a few careful steps, her heels muffled by the thick Persian rug. Her eyes scanned the luxurious interior—modern, cold, lifeless. It always felt more like a showroom than a home. As she ascended the stairs, soft giggles echoed from the master bedroom. Her heart slowed. No. She pushed the door open. There they were. Bryan. Shirtless. Kissing a woman in red lace lingerie. Savannah's body froze before her mind caught up. The woman was slim, with striking green eyes and long brunette waves. Savannah recognized her immediately—*Miranda*, the same "cousin" Bryan had introduced to her at their engagement party three months ago. He had wrapped an arm around Miranda’s waist then and said, *“She’s practically like a sister.”* That sister was now straddling him, moaning softly, fingers tangled in his hair. They didn’t notice Savannah at first. Then Miranda gasped. Bryan's head snapped around. “S-Savannah,” he stammered, scrambling to sit up, guilt and fear rippling across his face. The box fell from Savannah’s hands, hitting the wooden floor with a dull thud. The velvet lid flipped open, revealing the watch. A second later, the watch cracked as Bryan stepped on it, rushing toward her. Savannah took a step back, eyes burning. “How long?” she whispered. Bryan didn’t answer. “HOW LONG?!” she shouted. He flinched. Miranda stood by the bed, shameless, arms folded. “Six months,” she said casually. “But let’s not act like you didn’t suspect something. Bryan never wanted this wedding.” “You were family!” Savannah hissed, her voice trembling. “Technically, no,” Miranda smirked. Savannah turned to Bryan. “And you let me plan a wedding with you while sleeping with her?” Bryan opened his mouth, then closed it. Weak. Cowardly. “You’re pathetic,” she whispered. She ran down the stairs, the walls blurring. By the time she hit the driveway, her lungs were burning. The tears fell fast. Not just from betrayal—but rage, humiliation. She got into the car and floored the gas pedal. Her phone buzzed. Her aunt. *"Savannah, remember what I told you—if you’re not married by Saturday, everything reverts to me. Don’t test me, darling."* Savannah ended the call. Her knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. Minutes later, she was in downtown LA, parked beside a rundown motorcycle shop. That’s when she saw him. A guy in a grey T-shirt and oil-stained jeans crouched by his broken bike. Sweat clung to his neck. His brows furrowed in frustration. Savannah wiped her tears and stepped out. She didn't know his name. Didn’t know if he was kind or cruel. All she knew was—he looked like he needed something. And so did she. She walked up to him, heels clicking like gunfire. “Hey,” she said, voice steady despite the storm inside her. “Wanna make ten thousand dollars today?” He looked up, confused. She extended her hand. “Be my husband for a day.” --- Luca Cruz looked up, the wrench in his hand still covered in grease, his dark brows lifting ever so slightly. He took in the woman standing before him—a trembling figure draped in elegance. Her silk blouse screamed wealth, her perfume whispered class, but her eyes… they were swollen, red-rimmed, and glistening. He almost chuckled. Did he look that desperate? Her offer—*“Be my husband for a day”*—was absurd. Insulting, even. But something about the way she said it, like it wasn’t a joke but a final plea, made him pause. He wiped his hands on his jeans and leaned back against the half-fixed bike, arms folded. “You think I’m broke?” he asked, voice laced with sarcasm and curiosity. Savannah Leclerc met his gaze, chin held high despite the tremble in her fingers. “Aren’t you?” she snapped. Luca’s lips curved into something between a smirk and a grimace. “So, you just cruise around LA offering marriage to strangers who look… poor?” She crossed her arms. “Are you always this slow, or is the heat frying your brain?” His grin widened. Ballsy. He scanned her—again. Tall, regal posture. Designer shoes. A pearl bracelet that probably cost more than his entire bike. Yet, she was trembling. Angry. On the verge of breaking. “Ten thousand dollars to pretend to be your husband for a day?” he asked, straightening up. “That’s the offer?” She nodded, already turning to walk back to her car. “I’ll find someone else. I don’t have time to convince you.” But before she could take two steps, his voice cut through the air. “I’m in.” She froze. “I’ll do it,” he repeated, walking toward her. She turned slowly, brows arched. “Why?” He shrugged. “Maybe I’m curious what kind of mess you’re in. Or maybe I like a little chaos.” She stared at him. “No funny business. No questions. Just one day. We get married. We sign the license. We separate tomorrow.” “You rehearsed that?” he asked, amused. “I don’t need to rehearse desperation,” she muttered. He paused, the weight of her words settling between them. “I’m Luca, by the way. Luca Cruz.” “Savannah Leclerc,” she said, then blinked. “Wait—you’ll need a suit.” He looked down at himself. “You think I don’t own a suit?” “You look like you sleep in motor oil.” He leaned in, voice low. “And you look like a heartbroken heiress running from something expensive.” They stared at each other. Then she handed him her phone. “Give me your ID. We’re getting married at the courthouse in two hours.” “You’re not gonna drug me, right?” he teased. “Only if you say something stupid before the ceremony.” Luca laughed. “This is gonna be fun.” Savannah didn’t respond. She was already dialing her assistant, telling her to draw up the emergency prenup and call a stylist to meet them at the courthouse. As she walked ahead, Luca stood still, watching her. His day had started with a busted clutch cable. Now he was about to become a billionaire’s husband—for a day. What the hell had he just agreed to?