Fell for my fake bride

Chapter 1 Mia's legs gave out before she reached the bed. She sat on the edge of it, the test trembling between her fingers, and stared at the two lines again. Then again. As if they might change. Afternoon light filtered through the cream curtains, warm and indifferent, doing nothing at all to settle the storm underneath her ribs. She was still in the oversized sweater she'd thrown on that morning, her hair coming loose from its knot, and she couldn't stop looking at the small plastic window that had rewritten her entire life in the space of three minutes. The contract had been simple. A temporary marriage. Thirty days of pretending to be the perfect wife to the world's most famous football superstar. Life had never once cared about the terms of a contract. She let her head fall back against the headboard, clutching the test until the edges wrinkled under her grip. A short, humorless laugh broke out of her — the kind that comes right before crying, not instead of it. Ethan's face rose in her mind unbidden: that maddening, confident smile, and underneath it, the way his eyes softened on the rare occasions he thought she wasn't looking. "You really are unbelievable, Ethan." Her voice barely made it past a whisper. "Of all the things I expected from this marriage — this wasn't one of them." A tear slid down her cheek and she wiped it away almost angrily, refusing to let herself fall apart over a piece of plastic. Not yet. Not before she'd figured out what came next. "What am I supposed to tell you?" She looked down at the test again, her grip tightening. "How am I supposed to walk into that mansion and tell football's biggest superstar our fake marriage just became very real?" Nobody answered. There was nobody to answer. Just her, alone in a quiet apartment, in love with a man she had never meant to fall for — the same man who, six weeks ago, had been nothing to her but an arrogant stranger with too much money and not enough sense. A knock at the door cut through the silence, and her whole body jerked. She shoved the test back into its envelope, scrubbed a hand across her face, and stood still for a second too long. Nobody came by unannounced. Whoever was on the other side of that door, she already knew, wasn't bringing good news. She crossed the apartment barefoot, hesitated with her hand on the latch, and opened it. Victor Margo stood in the hallway. He wore a charcoal suit that looked tailored to the inch, silver threading through his dark hair, his face giving away exactly nothing. In all the months she'd known him, she had never once been able to read what he was thinking — and that, more than anything else about him, was what unsettled her. "What do you want?" She kept one hand braced on the door, ready to close it. "May I come in?" "That depends on why you're here." Something close to a smile touched his mouth. It didn't reach his eyes. "Straight to the point. I can see why Ethan likes you." The name landed like a hand closing around her chest. She crossed her arms and held his gaze, watching the last trace of amusement drain out of his expression. "You still haven't answered my question." Victor's face turned grave. "I came because we need to talk about Ethan." The words hit harder than she expected. Every instinct she had went cold and alert at once, and for the first time since she'd sat down on that bed twenty minutes ago, she forgot completely about the test still crumpled in her fist. All she could think was: what happened to Ethan.* Thirty days earlier… Championship Night The stadium shook under thousands of voices, blue and white flags rippling through the stands like waves under the floodlights, camera flashes going off in every direction. One name cut through all of it, chanted over and over until it became indistinguishable from the noise itself. "Ethan Margo! Ethan Margo! Ethan Margo!" At the center stood the man they'd come to worship. Ethan held the trophy above his head, grinning, sweat still cooling on his skin. His dark hair clung damp to his forehead, his jaw still tight with the last of the adrenaline from ninety minutes on the pitch. Twenty-eight years old, captain of a team that dreamed in silverware, the billionaire heir whose life looked flawless from every angle but the inside. The crowd roared louder when he turned and raised a hand toward them. He'd always loved this part — not just winning, but being seen winning. Tomorrow his face would be on every back page in the country, and some small, hungry part of him needed that the way other people needed air. This was his kingdom. His teammates reached him first, laughing, shouting, someone pouring champagne straight over his head. Diego grabbed him around the neck. "You insane man." Diego was grinning so hard it looked like it hurt. "Two goals and you still had legs left to run circles around their defense. Are you even human?" Ethan wiped champagne out of his eyes, adjusting his grip on the trophy, and gave Diego the same arrogant smile he'd been giving cameras since he was nineteen. "Unfortunately for all of you — very much human. Just better than everyone else." The group groaned in unison. "Listen to this guy," someone called out. "One day that ego's going to grow its own passport." Ethan pressed a hand to his chest, feigning offense. "My ego deserves respect. It carried this team tonight." They were still laughing about it hours later, in the VIP section of the city's most exclusive club, black marble under crystal light, champagne moving faster than anyone could track. Ethan sat with his shirt half-unbuttoned and a glass of whiskey he wasn't really drinking, a small crowd of beautiful women arranged around him like they'd been placed there for the photograph. "You were unbelievable tonight," one of them said, her hand resting on his arm, her voice pitched low and certain of its effect. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone control a match like that." "I know." He took his time with the whiskey. "The world keeps reminding me." She laughed. "Has anyone ever told you you're impossible?" "Every day." His smirk widened. "Somehow everyone still loves me." This was the life he'd built for himself, piece by deliberate piece. Private jets. Vacations nobody needed a reason for. Parties that blurred into each other by design. Women who knew his name before he'd said a word to them. Every goal he scored was one more proof, mostly to himself, that he would never become the man his father wanted. The empire could wait. The cartel, the responsibilities, the whole dark inheritance stitched into the Margo name — he wanted none of it, and he'd spent a decade making sure everyone knew it. The music was still shaking the floor when Daniel walked into the VIP section, and something in his face didn't belong there. Ethan clocked it and sighed. "Daniel. Whatever it is, it waits until tomorrow. Tonight I belong to the fans." Daniel didn't sit. "Sir. Your father's called three times." Something flickered behind Ethan's eyes, gone as fast as it came. "My father calls when he wants to criticize my lifestyle. If he's not telling me to quit football and become his perfect heir, he's reminding me what a disappointment I am." "This might be different." "Margo Margo has never once done anything differently in his life." Ethan leaned back into the couch. "Turn the phone off." "Sir—" "I said turn it off." Whatever amusement had been on his face was gone now, replaced by something colder — the reminder, for anyone who'd forgotten, that he wasn't only a footballer. Daniel nodded and stepped back. For half an hour Ethan tried to fold himself back into the celebration. It didn't take. Something sat wrong in his chest, and he refused to look at it directly. Then Daniel's phone rang again, and this time the color went out of his face before he even answered it. Ethan noticed immediately. The smile disappeared. "What happened?"