Married to the CEO Desired by His Twin

ARIA’S POV I learned two things at twenty years old: One — life didn’t care about fairness. Two — debt collectors didn’t care about tears. The Lagos sun glared over the city as if I had a personal feud with the sun, and I felt its heat crawl under my skin as I clutched the envelope of medical bills that had ruined my life. Forty-two stories of steel, glass, and power towered before me. Voss Dynamics. The building itself looked like it was carved from ambition, sharp angles and polished surfaces gleaming in the afternoon light. It dared me to step inside, as if whispering: You don’t belong here. As I stepped into the building, the smell of— marble cold underfoot, faint perfume lingering like someone else had already claimed the space, and the subtle, unshakable scent of money. Every step echoed in corridors that could swallow me whole. No one spoke, yet the silence was alive, heavy with expectation. “Miss Nwosu?” A voice broke through, crisp, precise, high heels clicking against the marble floor. “Mr. Voss will see you now.” My stomach twisted. Kieran Voss. The man whose name alone in Nigeria could shutter businesses, ruin reputations, and command obedience without raising a hand. I followed the assistant down the long, glass-panelled corridor, my shoes clicking nervously, each sound amplified in my mind. The office door opened, and there he was — tall, rigid, back turned, staring at Lagos like it owed him allegiance. “Sit,” he said, not even turning back to take a glimpse of me. The chair seemed fragile, as if it could break under the weight of the room, of the tension, of the destiny he carried effortlessly. I obeyed, hands fisting in my lap, my knees brushing against each other like I needed to regain my balance. Finally, he turned. Cold. Beautiful. Dangerous. Sharp enough to cut air. His eyes were the colour of a storm threatening to drown everything in its path. “Your situation,” he said, voice low, precise, deliberate, “is… Quite unfortunate. But useful.” My pulsed skipped. “Useful?” What do you mean by useful? Is that an insult? “You need money. I need a wife. Temporarily. Legally. No emotions. No romantic expectations.” My mouth went dry. “You’ll be compensated generously,” he added, voice still flat, still unyielding. “And your family’s debt will be cleared immediately.” I should have said no. But my throat was parched, my mind was spinning. The desperation that had clawed at me for years finally found a doorway. Who would have thought that a few years back, I was comfortable, my family was comfortable, we could afford everything we desired without looking at the price list. Everything changed. When investors started withdrawing their investments from our company, the situation wasn’t totally bad, until it became worse when my father had a stroke, which completely ruined us. All our money was gone, the once powerful Nwosu family had lost its value in the Nigerian economy, not even a single dime was left to our name. And then this opportunity came from the Voss Empire. I didn’t even know the reason I was chosen. I woke up with a notification on my email address that I was the perfect candidate for the role of wife, temporarily, and all medical bills would be taken care of, no questions asked. All I knew was that life gave me another opportunity to escape this torture of handling medical bills that were above me. And I whispered: “Show me the contract.” He slid a thick folder across the black marble desk. The paper gleamed under the sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, every line a razor-sharp reminder of the choice I was about to make. I could almost hear the ink sizzling. My fingers trembled as I opened the folder. The clauses stared back at me, impersonal, absolute, like a judge delivering a sentence: Public appearances required. Total discretion mandated. No intimacy unless necessary for appearances. Duration: six months binding her to the Voss name. The numbers were shocking. The fine print endless. The consequences suffocating. I read it again, slower this time, searching for anything like loopholes that weren’t there. My chest tightened, palms slick with sweat. Every clause screamed control, dominance, and meticulous planning. Not exactly my type, if only I could scream it out loud. “You understand what this means?” Kieran’s voice broke my reverie. Calm, unwavering. “I… I think so,” I said, though my mind swirled with panic, fear, and a thread of hope. “Sign, and your family’s debt disappears. Refuse, and they remain trapped in your failure.” My hand hovered over the pen. The metal bit against my fingertips, cold and real. I swallowed, my mind screaming, this is your only chance. The first stroke of ink was hesitant. My signature trembled across the page. The sound of pen on paper seemed impossibly loud in the cavernous office. Kieran’s eyes didn’t change. But for one fraction of a second, I thought I saw something flicker — curiosity? Recognition? A shadow that didn’t belong in his icy demeanor. Then it was gone. Cold. Precise. Unreadable. I exhaled, shakily, and tried to steady my racing heart. A heavy silence stretched between us. The kind of silence that presses against your ribs and makes it impossible to breathe properly. “You are now my wife,” he said finally. Flat. Controlled. Deadly calm. My stomach churned. Wife. The word felt alien, absurd, terrifying. And yet here I was. Sitting on one of his expensive chairs, already signed a contract I wasn’t prepared for. Who was I going to blame? I could only blame myself, this was the only option left, and I wasn’t going to waste it. I had said yes to a life I did not understand. A life with a man who looked at me like I was a puzzle piece in a design I couldn’t yet comprehend. I rose from the chair, heart pounding as I followed him out of the office. But as I walked behind him, one thought whispered through my chest like a chill: Why did it feel like Kieran Voss was hiding something from me? Not the truth. Not yet. Just a quiet, unsettling intuition. Something was off. And I didn’t know why.