Married for the Wrong Reasons

Ava’s POV The moment I stepped into the Grayson Enterprises building, I knew I didn’t belong. Not in my thrift-store heels, not in my worn-out blazer, and definitely not with my resume that screamed desperation instead of prestige. But I wasn’t here for a job. I was here to sell myself. Literally. The receptionist barely looked up as I announced my name. “Ava Sinclair. I have an appointment with Mr. Grayson.” Her fingers flew across the keyboard with mechanical precision. “Eleventh floor. He’s expecting you.” My palms were clammy. I rubbed them against my skirt as I stepped into the elevator, watching the numbers climb. My stomach twisted with every floor. You can do this, Ava. Dad needs this. The company needs this. The doors dinged open to a minimalist office space that screamed money—glass, chrome, and cold perfection. A suited assistant with icy eyes gestured toward the massive double doors. “He’s waiting.” I walked in, holding my breath. Lucas Grayson sat behind a sleek mahogany desk, looking every bit the billionaire tycoon the tabloids painted him to be. Black hair slicked back, tailored navy suit molded into his tall frame, and eyes the color of winter storms—gray, unreadable, and cold. He didn’t stand. Didn’t smile. Just looked at me like I had another problem to solve. “Miss Sinclair.” Mr. Grayson, I said, trying to keep my voice steady. His gaze swept over me. Calculating. Dismissing. “Sit.” I did. He leaned back in his chair. “You know why you’re here.” “To discuss… the marriage contract.” I hated how the words felt in my mouth. He nodded, his fingers pressed together. “You’re a smart woman, Ava. Your father’s company is drowning in debt. You’ve exhausted all traditional options. And now, you’re here. Ready to make a deal with the devil.” I bristled. “That’s dramatic.” “It’s also accurate.” I hated him already. “Let’s not pretend this is anything other than a transaction,” he continued. You need my money. I need a wife.” “For what? Tax breaks?” He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “My grandfather’s will.” He stipulated that in order to gain full control of Grayson Enterprises, I must be married for at least six months. He believed marriage showed responsibility. “Old-fashioned.” “Stupid, but legally binding.” I swallowed. “And you chose me. Why?” “Because you’re desperate. Because I can trust desperation. Desperate people don’t get ideas. They don’t fall in love. They don’t expect fairy tales.” Wow. Romantic. “So,” he continued, “here’s the offer.” Six months. Public appearances. Occasional travel. You’ll wear the ring, play the doting wife when needed, and in return—five hundred thousand dollars, deposited in full upon signing. No s*x, no strings. And when the time is up, we divorce quietly. I stared at him. “You’ve done this before.” He smiled—sharp and dangerous. “I’ve considered it. Never found someone reckless enough. Until you.” Bastard. I crossed my arms. “And what if I say no?” “You won’t,” he said calmly. Because your father’s factory is three months away from foreclosure. Because you’re a good daughter. Because you have no one else. The words hit hard because they were true. I hated how right he was. I looked down at the contract, and he slid across the table. Legal terms, emotionless language. Cold black ink on ivory paper. Selling my freedom for six months. But saving Dad’s life works. I picked up the pen. “I want one clause added,” I said, surprising even myself. Lucas raised a brow. “Oh?” “If we’re going to pretend, I get some control too. I choose how we’re seen. No humiliating tabloids. No scandals. No treating me like your personal assistant.” He studied me for a long time. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Fine.” And just like that, I signed. ---