MY FAKE HUSBAND IS MY BOSS

Chapter Two

THE CONTRACT

The address Victor texted her was in the part of the city where the buildings touched the clouds.

Hale Tower Penthouse. Code: 7741. Be here at 7.

Ella stood across the street for 10 minutes, clutching her one duffel bag. Everything she owned fit in it. Three shirts, two pairs of jeans, her work clothes, and a photo of her mom from before the cancer.

This was a mistake.

A billionaire didn’t need a broke accountant as a wife.

He’d realize it tonight and tear up the contract.

But then her phone buzzed.

Hospital: "Mrs. Hale, your mother is stable. Thank you for the payment."

Mrs. Hale.

She typed in the code. The elevator was glass. It shot up 40 floors in 20 seconds. Her stomach dropped.

The doors opened directly into his home.

Marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A view of the entire city.

And Victor Hale, in a black suit, pouring whiskey like he’d been waiting.

"You’re late," he said without looking up. "It’s 7:03."

"I got lost." It was a lie. She’d been too scared to come in.

He finally turned. His eyes did a quick sweep: her cheap blazer, the duffel bag, the fear on her face.

He didn’t look disappointed.

Just... assessing.

"Contract," he said, and gestured to the dining table.

12 more pages were laid out. Next to them: two pens, and a stack of $1 million in cash.

Fake. Prop money for photos.

Ella sat down. Her hands were cold.

"This is to clarify the terms," Victor said, sitting across from her. "So there are no misunderstandings."

He flipped to page 1.

"Clause 1: Duration. Six months, starting Friday. Can be renewed by mutual agreement."

"Clause 2: Payment. $50,000 paid to hospital. Remaining $950,000 transferred to your account upon divorce."

"Clause 3: Public appearances. Minimum 2 events per month. You will act as my wife."

"Clause 4: Privacy. No telling anyone this is fake. Not friends. Not family. Especially not my grandfather."

Ella nodded. She could do that. She was good at pretending.

"Clause 5," Victor continued, and his voice got colder. "Separate bedrooms. No physical contact. No dating other people. No falling in love."

The last part hung in the air.

Ella signed on the dotted line.

"Ella Reyes."

Then he slid another paper over.

"And this one. Mrs. Victor Hale."

Her married name.

It looked wrong. Fake.

She signed it anyway.

Victor signed too.

"Victor Hale."

His signature was sharp. Angry.

He stood up.

"Good. My assistant will handle the wedding. You’ll meet her at city hall Friday, 10 AM. Wear something white."

"That’s it?" Ella asked. "We just... sign and that’s it?"

"What did you expect? Vows?" He almost smiled. Almost. "This is business, Miss Reyes."

"Then why the penthouse? Why do I need to live here?"

"Because my grandfather drops by unannounced. Because paparazzi will follow us after Friday. Because if we’re not convincing, the deal is off."

He walked to the kitchen.

"You have your own room. Down the hall. Don’t go in my room."

Ella looked around. The penthouse was bigger than her entire apartment building.

"Where’s the kitchen?"

"Through there. There’s a chef. His name is Marco. Tell him what you want to eat."

Victor picked up his whiskey.

"Dinner is at 8. We have a charity gala tonight. You’re coming."

Ella blinked.

"Tonight? I don’t have a dress."

"My assistant already sent three options to your room. Pick one."

He looked at her duffel.

"And burn that."

It wasn’t cruel. It was just fact.

At 7:45, a woman knocked. She was 25, in a power suit, holding three garment bags.

"Miss Reyes? I’m Clara, Mr. Hale’s PA. I have your dresses."

In Ella’s new bedroom — bigger than her living room — Clara unzipped the bags.

Red silk. Black lace. Gold sequins.

All size 6. All $3000+.

"Mr. Hale said red," Clara said, holding up the silk dress. "It matches his tie."

Ella touched the fabric. She’d never worn anything that expensive.

"Why does he care what I wear?"

"Because image is everything."

Clara helped her into it. Zipped it up.

"Turn around."

Ella stared at herself in the mirror.

She looked like someone else.

Someone who belonged in this world.

At 7:58, there was a knock.

Victor.

He was in a black tux. And a red tie.

His eyes went to her dress. To her bare shoulders. To the way the silk clung.

For half a second, his jaw tightened.

"You look... acceptable," he said.

Ella’s cheeks burned.

"Thanks. I guess."

"Car is downstairs."

He offered his arm.

It was a gesture for cameras. Not for her.

They rode down in silence. The car was a Bentley. The driver didn’t talk.

The gala was at the Grand Hotel.

Flashing lights. Reporters.

The second Victor stepped out, cameras went off.

And then he looked at her.

"Smile," he murmured. "And take my arm."

Ella did.

The second their arms linked, Victor’s hand covered hers.

Warm. Possessive.

"Mrs. Hale," a reporter called. "How did you two meet?"

Victor answered before she could.

"At work. She’s the smartest accountant I’ve ever hired."

His thumb brushed over her knuckles.

"And the most beautiful."

It was part of the act.

It had to be.

But Ella’s heart still did a stupid little flip.

Inside, it was champagne and billionaires. Victor was pulled away immediately.

Ella stood alone, holding a glass she didn’t drink.

"So you’re the new Mrs. Hale," a woman said.

40s. Diamond necklace. Fake smile.

"Olivia Chen. Victor and I went to college together. We were very close."

Close.

Right.

"Nice to meet you," Ella said.

Olivia looked her up and down.

"Red. Bold choice. Victor usually prefers blondes."

Before Ella could answer, Victor was back.

His arm went around her waist.

Instantly.

"Olivia," he said, voice flat. "This is my wife, Ella."

My wife.

He said it like he meant it.

Olivia’s smile faltered.

"Of course. Congratulations."

When she walked away, Victor dropped his arm.

"You did fine."

"Thank you."

They stayed another hour. Shaking hands. Smiling for photos.

By 11 PM, Ella’s feet hurt and her face hurt from smiling.

In the car back, Victor loosened his tie.

"You can stop pretending now," he said.

Ella looked out the window.

"Was I convincing?"

"Yes."

A pause.

"Too convincing."

They got back to the penthouse at 11:30.

"Goodnight, Miss Reyes," Victor said, heading to his room.

"Goodnight, Mr. Hale."

Ella went to her room. Locked the door.

And finally let herself cry.

Not because she was sad.

But because for one hour tonight, when his hand was on her waist and he called her "my wife"...

It didn’t feel fake.

And that was the most dangerous part.