Contractually Yours

Chapter Three :The Penthouse

Emma didn't sleep that night.

She lay in her tiny apartment, staring at the cracked ceiling, the contract burning a hole in her bag. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Alexander Sterling's cold gaze, heard his voice saying Welcome to the family like it was a threat.

At 6:00 AM, her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: Car will arrive at 8:00. Pack for two weeks. — A.S.

Two weeks.

She had agreed to two weeks.

Emma threw herself out of bed and started packing. She didn't own much—a few worn dresses, two pairs of jeans, a collection of paint-stained shirts that she loved but would probably embarrass her in front of billionaires.

She packed anyway.

At exactly 8:00 AM, a black sedan pulled up outside her building. The driver—a large man with a kind face and an earpiece—opened the door for her.

"Miss Watson. I'm Marcus. Mr. Sterling sent me to collect you."

"Collect me. Like I'm luggage."

Marcus smiled. "Yes, ma'am. Exactly like luggage."

Emma laughed despite herself. She liked him already.

---

The drive to Alexander's apartment took forty-five minutes.

It was forty-five minutes of passing through neighborhoods Emma had only ever seen in movies. The buildings grew taller. The streets grew cleaner. The air itself smelled different—like money and privilege and everything she'd never had.

Marcus pulled into an underground garage that looked more like a museum. They took a private elevator that required a fingerprint scan and a code.

"Penthouse," Marcus announced as the doors slid open.

Emma stepped out.

And her jaw dropped.

The penthouse was enormous. Walls of glass overlooked the entire city—skyscrapers stretching toward the clouds, the river snaking through the skyline like a silver ribbon. The floors were polished marble. The furniture was sleek and modern. Everything was white and gray and coldly beautiful.

It looked like a showroom.

It didn't look like anyone lived here.

"Welcome to the fortress," came a voice behind her.

Emma turned.

Alexander Sterling stood in the doorway of what she assumed was the kitchen. He wore a simple black shirt and tailored pants—casual, but even casual on him looked expensive.

He was holding a cup of coffee.

"Your room is down the hall. Second door on the left." He gestured vaguely. "There's an en-suite bathroom, a walk-in closet, and a view that's acceptable."

"Acceptable?"

"I've seen better."

Emma bit back a retort. "Thank you. For the room."

"Don't thank me. It's part of the contract." He took a sip of his coffee. "You'll find clothes in the closet. I had my assistant guess your sizes."

"My sizes?"

"I can't have you showing up to events in paint-stained shirts."

Emma crossed her arms. "You could have asked me."

"I prefer efficiency."

"Of course you do."

---

Emma found her room.

It was bigger than her entire apartment.

A king-sized bed dominated the center. Soft sheets. Fluffy pillows. The kind of bed she had dreamed about in the middle of the night when her mattress springs were digging into her back.

The closet was filled with clothes.

Dresses. Jeans. Skirts. Blouses. Shoes. A row of designer handbags. Everything in her size.

She stared at the tags.

Each one cost more than her monthly rent.

She pulled out a simple navy dress and held it against her body. The fabric was soft. Luxurious. It felt like wearing a cloud.

This isn't real, she thought. None of this is real.

A knock on the door made her jump.

"Coming."

She opened the door to find Alexander standing there, his expression unreadable.

"Get dressed. We have an event in two hours."

"What event?"

"A charity gala. The first official appearance of my new fiancée."

Emma's heart dropped. "You didn't warn me."

"I'm warning you now." He looked at her—really looked at her—and something flickered in his eyes. "You'll be fine. Just smile and nod and let me do the talking."

"That's not reassuring."

"It wasn't meant to be."

---

Two hours later, Emma stood in front of a full-length mirror, staring at a stranger.

The dress was floor-length, silver, and hugged her curves like it had been painted on. Her hair had been styled into soft waves that fell over her shoulders. Her face was dusted with makeup that made her look like someone else entirely.

She didn't recognize herself.

She was a woman who wore second-hand clothes and worried about grocery bills.

This woman looked like she belonged in a billionaire's penthouse.

"Ready?"

Alexander appeared behind her in the mirror. He wore a tailored black tuxedo that made him look even more intimidating than usual. His eyes swept over her once, his face betraying nothing.

"You clean up well," he said.

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"I meant the dress."

Emma turned to face him. "You know, for a man who's paying me half a million dollars to pretend to love him, you're not very good at acting like you actually like me."

His eyes met hers.

"I'm not paying you to like me. I'm paying you to seem like you like me. There's a difference."

"Then maybe we should practice."

"Practice what?"

Emma stepped closer.

She reached up and smoothed the collar of his tuxedo—a gesture that was unnecessary but intimate.

"We're supposed to be in love," she said, her voice soft. "In love people touch each other. They don't stand five feet apart like they're negotiating a deal."

Alexander's jaw tightened. He didn't move. Didn't speak.

But his eyes darkened.

"Don't," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Don't what?"

"Don't pretend to care. It's easier if we both know the rules."

Emma stepped back, a strange ache settling in her chest.

"I know the rules," she said. "I signed the contract. Remember?"

"I remember." His voice was cold again. Controlled. "Let's go. The car's waiting."

He turned and walked away.

Emma followed, her silver dress swishing around her ankles.

She was playing a role.

But the look in his eyes had felt real.