UNTILL THE CONTRACT ENDS

Chapter One The first time Emily Reyes stepped into the towering obsidian building of Crosshill Enterprises, she felt like an impostor in borrowed shoes. Everything about the lobby screamed power. The floor gleamed so clean she could see the reflection of her worn heels in the polished marble. Chandeliers glittered above her head like a constellation of judgmental stars, and sleek steel pillars rose to the vaulted ceiling like the backbone of something cold and inhuman. Everyone moved with purpose—interns in sharp skirts, executives with Bluetooth earpieces, receptionists with smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. And then there was her. In a coat too thin for winter and a résumé in her bag that felt like a joke. Emily adjusted the sleeves of her navy blouse, the only decent one she hadn’t sold, and stepped toward the reception desk. Her hand trembled slightly, but she clenched her fingers into a fist. She couldn’t afford to shake. Not today. The woman behind the desk glanced up. Her name tag read Chloe in neat gold script, and her appearance was as immaculate as the rest of the building—platinum blond hair twisted into a French roll, lipstick the exact shade of a crisp red apple, and a demeanor carved from ice. “Name?” Chloe asked briskly, not looking up from her screen. “Emily Reyes. I… I’m here for the ten o’clock appointment with Mr. Cross,” she said, swallowing the nerves clawing at her throat. Chloe finally glanced up, her expression unreadable. “One moment.” Emily watched as she tapped something into her computer. The screen illuminated her sharp cheekbones. Then, with a tone clipped and businesslike, she said, “He’s expecting you. Forty-ninth floor. Take the private elevator on the left.” Emily’s stomach fluttered. “Thank you.” As she crossed the lobby toward the elevator, her reflection flickered across the black glass walls like a ghost—someone who didn’t belong here, someone moments away from unraveling. But she had no choice. Her mother’s medical bills had climbed past the point of desperate prayers. Her sister, Lila, still had two years left in college. And Emily? She was twenty-four, jobless, nearly bankrupt, and had just walked willingly into the lair of Damien Cross—the coldest, richest man in the city. Damien Cross was a man people whispered about in boardrooms and cocktail parties like he was a myth wrapped in Armani. At thirty-two, he’d built Crosshill Enterprises from the ashes of a legacy he never wanted. He was known for buying out failing companies the way children collected trading cards—fast, ruthless, and without sentiment. His jaw was sharp enough to slice glass, his eyes an unnatural shade of storm gray, and his presence so commanding that most people forgot to breathe when he entered a room. And Damien Cross didn’t offer contracts. He demanded them. Emily’s heart thudded as the private elevator ascended. It was so silent, she could hear the hum of the cables. Forty-nine floors in less than a minute. She rehearsed the lines she’d practiced the night before, but they dissolved like sugar in hot tea the moment the doors opened. The space beyond was cavernous—walls lined with dark walnut and black paneling, bookshelves arranged like decor rather than function, and floor-to-ceiling windows casting light across the sleek office. A winter skyline stretched far behind the man who stood with his back to her, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of something amber and undoubtedly expensive. He didn’t turn at first. “Miss Reyes,” his voice came like frost over velvet—smooth, deep, and cutting. “You’re late.” Emily froze. “Only by a minute.” Now he turned. And when he did, she saw why every rumor about him paled next to the reality. Damien Cross had the kind of face that belonged on billboards or magazine covers—if only he smiled. But his expression was sculpted into something far more dangerous than charm. It was unreadable. Sculpted. Controlled. His dark hair was neatly swept back, his tailored suit immaculate, and those storm-gray eyes—God, those eyes—locked onto her like she was an equation he’d already solved. “You know why you’re here,” he said. “I… yes. I was told you had an offer.” “A contract,” he corrected. He stepped forward, setting the glass down on the table between them. “And not the kind you’re used to.” Emily stiffened. “You mean not for a job.” “No.” He let the word hang. “I don’t need a new assistant. I need a wife.” She blinked. “I’m sorry… what?” His lips twitched. Not a smile—just a crack in his armor. “Not a real one. It’s a legal arrangement. You’ll live with me. Accompany me publicly. Play the part. For one year. In return, your debts will be cleared. Your mother’s care? Covered. And your sister’s education? Paid in full.” Emily’s throat went dry. “Why me?” He didn’t flinch. “Because you’re discreet, desperate, and you’re not from my world. That makes you useful. And forgettable.” She flinched. “But I don’t think I want to be forgettable.” For the first time, something flickered behind his eyes. Interest? Annoyance? She couldn’t tell. “You’ll find the contract behind you,” he said. Emily turned to the table. A thick folder lay open. Her name was typed neatly at the top. Clauses, bullet points, legal jargon. And a signature line at the bottom. Everything she needed—salvation in printed ink. Everything he wanted—obedience wrapped in silk. “How do I know this isn’t some sick joke?” she asked, spinning back. “You don’t,” Damien said coolly. “But I don’t have time to lie.” He turned away again, like the matter was already settled. Like she was nothing more than a means to an end. And maybe she was. But she’d walked in here to save her family. Now, she had to decide if the cost of their salvation was her own soul. The silence stretched. “Do I get a say in anything?” she asked finally. He didn’t turn. “You get one condition. Pick wisely.” Her heart pounded as she stared at the contract. Emily stared at the contract on the table like it might explode. The leather folder lay open with sharp precision, almost surgical in how perfectly the pages were aligned. The papers inside were thick, expensive, and scented faintly of something smoky, like they’d been stored in cedar. Her name, printed across the top, looked like it belonged to someone else—someone with options. “I’m allowed one condition,” she said slowly, repeating Damien’s last words. “One,” he confirmed without turning. Emily walked toward the window, needing distance from the ink and its threat. From him. She stared out at the snow-blanketed skyline, skyscrapers like jagged glass teeth rising into the clouds. Her reflection ghosted back at her in the pane: wide eyes, pale lips, and a fury that belied the tears she refused to let fall. “One year pretending to be your wife,” she said. “For the sake of appearances?” “Yes.” “Nothing more?” He finally turned, slow and deliberate. “Unless you want there to be.” Emily flushed. “I don’t.” “Then that makes two of us.” Silence pressed between them, heavy as lead. She didn’t know what unnerved her more—that he spoke with the certainty of a man who never heard no, or that some small, dangerous part of her wanted to know what it would be like if he meant more. But she wasn’t here for fantasies. She was here because reality was cruel. “My condition,” she said, lifting her chin, “is that when this contract ends, you walk away. No, dragging me back into your world. No threats. No favors. No connections.” Damien studied her like she’d just posed a riddle. “You want to disappear.” “I want my life back.” “Interesting,” he murmured. Then: “Agreed. That condition will be added.” He gestured toward the folder. “Now sign.” Emily hesitated. She thought of her mother, barely lucid in that hospital bed. Her sister, working double shifts at the diner while trying to study. And herself, grasping at dignity in a world that rewarded none of it. Then she thought of the way Damien Cross looked at her. Not with lust. Not even with pity. With calculation. Like he’d weighed every piece of her and found her useful. Still, her hand moved. She picked up the pen. Her fingers hovered over the line. The moment stretched, thick and breathless. And then she signed. Emily Reyes. The ink bled smoothly into the paper. She felt something inside her shift—something that could never go back. Damien crossed the room and took the folder, closing it without ceremony. “Congratulations, Mrs. Cross.” She flinched at the sound of it. “When do we start?” she asked. He didn’t look up. “Now.” The penthouse wasn’t what she expected. It was colder. Damien’s driver, a silent man in black named Marcus, had picked her up that afternoon with no warning and even less warmth. She was instructed to bring only essentials—everything else would be “provided.” Now, as the elevator opened onto the top floor, Emily felt like she was being delivered into a cage lined with silk. The space stretched out like something from an architectural magazine—sharp angles, floor-to-ceiling windows, stone floors, black and silver décor, and furniture that looked like it cost more than her college tuition. Damien stood near the fireplace, a glass of scotch in hand, looking more like a ghost than a man. She stepped in. Her suitcase rolled quietly behind her. “There’s a guest room for you down the hall,” he said without looking. Emily blinked. “Guest room?” “This is a contract, not a honeymoon.” “I figured.” Her tone was sharper than intended. He looked over his shoulder then. Just briefly. Enough to register that flicker of something—approval, maybe, or curiosity. “You’ll be briefed in the morning,” he said. “On how this arrangement works. My assistant will walk you through what’s expected. Your first public appearance will be in three days. Until then, stay inside.” Emily frowned. “You’re giving me rules now?” “I’m giving you protection. Don’t mistake it for kindness.” She swallowed hard. He set his glass down and moved to the hallway, pausing beside her just long enough to say, “Don’t get any ideas, Emily. This contract may have saved your family, but don’t think for a second it’s going to save you.” Then he was gone, footsteps echoing into the sleek emptiness. And Emily, for the first time, understood exactly what she had signed away. Three Days Later The dress fit like a second skin. It was silk, obsidian black, with a slit high up one thigh and sleeves that slipped off the shoulder. Elegant, sensual… and clearly tailored to attract attention. Damien’s assistant, a severe-looking woman named Valeria Chen, had appeared that morning like a military commander—armed with a schedule, wardrobe, and instructions so precise it felt like training for a role she didn’t audition for. Valeria had razor-sharp cheekbones, hair in a high twist, and eyes that missed nothing. “You are to speak little, smile often, and never correct Mr. Cross in public,” she said, ticking items off her clipboard. “You are not to drink, argue, or engage in personal commentary. You are a silent accessory to his image—understood?” Emily had nodded through most of it, a storm building inside her. Now, she stood at the top of a grand staircase in the ballroom of the Wexford Gala, a charity event crawling with society’s most powerful. Damien stood beside her in a tuxedo that looked custom-fit to his DNA. His hand rested on the small of her back, just enough to be possessive. He leaned toward her. “Smile,” he said without looking at her. “You’re supposed to be in love.” She forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Every camera in the room turned toward them. Every whisper circled like perfume in the air. Emily smiled harder. For her mother. For Lila. For herself. Damien’s fingers pressed slightly tighter against her back. “You’re learning,” he murmured. She wanted to tell him that pretending was easy when you’d spent your whole life doing it. But she kept smiling. Because this was only Chapter One of the lie they’d signed into existence. And it was far from over. The gala’s grandeur was suffocating. Crystal chandeliers dripped light like falling stars. Waiters in tuxedos floated past carrying trays of champagne and caviar. The string quartet played a polished waltz, but Emily could barely hear it over the thudding of her own pulse. Her hand rested on Damien’s arm like a prop. Decorative. Controlled. She couldn’t afford to look overwhelmed. Every eye in the room tracked them like they were royalty or prey. Damien whispered against her ear, “Keep your posture straighter. We’re being watched by the media mogul from The Clarion. Far corner.” Emily adjusted, spine lengthening. “I thought you didn’t care about the press.” “I care about control.” His voice was low, composed—but the undercurrent of warning was unmistakable. They made their way through introductions. Damien was all smooth charisma, cool and commanding. Emily smiled when expected, spoke only when prompted. She wasn’t invisible, but she wasn’t meant to shine. Not tonight. Not yet. She met too many names to remember: board members, investors, politicians with manicured grins. But the one who made her blood chill was the last. “Senator Graham,” Damien said with a steely nod. “This is my wife, Emily.” The older man extended a hand with a smile that didn’t reach his sharp gray eyes. He had the look of someone used to bending laws—and people—to his will. “A pleasure, Mrs. Cross,” he said. “You’re quite the mystery. No debutante buzz, no engagement announcement. I do hope Damien isn’t keeping you a secret on purpose.” Emily smiled politely. “Not everything worth having needs to be announced.” Damien’s grip on her waist subtly tightened. Whether in approval or warning, she couldn’t tell. Senator Graham chuckled. “She has bite. You’ll need that, Damien. Politics is no place for the weak.” “I don’t do weak,” Damien said, his tone as sharp as glass. As they moved on, Emily exhaled slowly. “Friend of yours?” “Enemy with a leash,” Damien muttered. Later, when the cameras were gone and the ballroom began to empty, Emily slipped away to the terrace. The cold night air wrapped around her like a balm. Finally, she could breathe. She leaned against the marble railing and let her shoulders sag. Her feet ached, and her throat was dry from smiling. The city stretched below like a glowing map—unreachable, unknowable. She felt like Rapunzel in a tower made of crystal and lies. “You did well tonight.” Damien’s voice came from behind her. She didn’t turn. “You mean I didn’t embarrass you.” “I mean, you played your part.” He joined her at the railing, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his suit. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then she asked, quietly, “Who’s the real Damien Cross?” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulled a cigarette from a slim silver case and lit it, the flame briefly illuminating the sharp angles of his face. “The one you signed a contract with,” he said finally. “So… cold, calculated, and dangerous.” He glanced at her. “Accurate.” Emily’s arms folded tightly over her chest. “I don’t understand you.” “You’re not meant to.” “Well, maybe I should. Since I’m stuck with you for a year.” His gaze flicked toward her, unreadable. “You’re not stuck. You agreed.” “Don’t remind me.” They stood in silence again, the city humming far beneath them. Then, unexpectedly, he asked, “Why didn’t you ask for more?” She frowned. “What?” “In the contract. You had the chance to demand anything—money, status, connections. But all you wanted was for me to disappear when this ends.” Emily’s voice was quiet but steady. “Because I don’t want to belong to anyone, Damien. Not even for a year.” He watched her. Really watched her. Like she was something fragile and foreign. “I’m not the villain in your story, Emily.” “No,” she said. “You’re just the man who bought the leading role.” He dropped the cigarette and crushed it beneath his heel. “Go inside,” he said. “It’s cold.” “You’re deflecting.” “I’m protecting.” “From what?” He paused. A flicker of something—pain?—passed through his expression. “From me.” And then he walked away. Midnight Emily couldn’t sleep. She wandered the penthouse in one of the silk robes Valeria had delivered earlier that day. The silence was deafening. Every room echoed wealth. Perfection. Absence. In the grand library, she ran her fingers across the spines of first editions she’d only seen in museums. In the lounge, she found a piano no one played. In the kitchen, a fridge stocked with food prepared by chefs she’d never meet. It wasn’t a home. It was a stage. And she was the leading lady in someone else’s lie. She turned off the kitchen light and started back toward her room, but paused. Damien’s door was open. She hesitated, then stepped closer. She wasn’t going in. Just… looking. He stood at the window in a plain white shirt and dark pants, barefoot, his sleeves rolled up. His expression was raw, unguarded. There was a photo in his hand. A small one. Worn at the edges. Emily shouldn’t have stayed, but something kept her rooted. He stared at it for a long moment, jaw tight. Then, very slowly, he slid it into the drawer of a sleek black desk and shut it. She backed away before he could see her. The Next Morning Emily woke to the scent of coffee. She stepped out into the living area to find Damien at the breakfast counter, reading The Financial Post. A single white envelope lay beside her plate. “What’s this?” she asked. “Your first paycheck.” She blinked. “Already?” “You performed well last night. You’ve earned it.” Emily picked up the envelope and slid it open. The number inside made her throat dry. “You’re serious.” “I always am.” She swallowed. “I thought the money was paid monthly.” “I had it adjusted.” “Why?” He turned a page in his paper. “To make sure you don’t feel tempted to break the contract early.” She narrowed her eyes. “You think I’d run.” “I know you would.” He looked at her then, dark, direct. And for a moment, she didn’t see the billionaire. She saw the broken. “You hide it well,” she said softly. “Hide what?” “The part of you that’s afraid to trust anyone.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Finish your coffee,” he said coldly. “We have another event tonight. You’ll need to learn how to lie better.” And with that, he stood and walked away. Emily stared after him, the envelope still trembling in her hand. And that was the moment she realized… This contract wasn’t just a prison. It was a war. And Damien Cross wasn’t the enemy. He was on the battlefield.