Until His Bride Returns

CHAPTER ONE: The Contract Bride The room was cold. Not from the air conditioning, but from the man sitting behind the desk like he owned the oxygen she was breathing. Which, technically, he probably did. Sage Everhart crossed her legs slowly, neatly, like a girl who knew how to hold her dignity in uncomfortable shoes. Her fingers twisted her mother’s old silver ring, the only piece of jewelry she wore. Everything else about her looked plain, average, even forgettable—just how she preferred it. Leonardo Sinclair didn’t say a word. His icy eyes scanned her like she was a price tag he didn’t agree with. He leaned back in the chair, fingers steepled, and raised one perfect brow. “You’re smaller than I expected.” Sage blinked. "I didn’t realize this was a height-based interview." He smiled. Barely. Like a man who hadn't smiled for free since 2007. The office screamed money. Black marble floors. A wall of glass offering a sweeping view of the skyline—New York or Geneva, it didn’t matter. This man could own a city and rename it after himself if he wanted. The air smelled like citrus and contracts. Every inch of space declared: I win. She kept her voice cool. "You said this would be a contract negotiation, Mr. Sinclair. Not an audition." “You’ll forgive me for wanting to inspect the merchandise,” he said flatly, flipping a file open on the table. "Sage Everhart. Age: 20. No Ivy League degree. No elite internships. Grew up in small towns. Raised by legal guardians. No debts. No scandals. No boyfriend." Sage sat straighter. “You make that sound like a crime.” “It’s perfect,” he said, shutting the file. “Which is what concerns me. Nobody’s that clean.” She shrugged lightly. “Maybe I’m just boring.” “No. You’re hiding something.” A beat of silence passed between them. He liked to intimidate. She could tell. Men like Leonardo Sinclair didn’t know how to deal with calm women. He was used to loud ones. Desperate ones. Ones who wanted a piece of the Sinclair empire. She didn’t want his empire. She wanted his signature. "Six months," he said finally. "Married. Public appearances. Two events a month. You stay in the mansion, wear what my assistant picks, and smile at cameras. No kissing, no touching, and definitely no illusions. When Isabella returns, you disappear." Sage nodded slowly. "Two million. Half upfront. Half when it ends." His lips twitched. "You know your value." "No, Mr. Sinclair. I know your desperation." He narrowed his eyes. She leaned forward, folding her arms on the table. “You need a wife on paper. A quiet, obedient placeholder. I’m giving you that. What I need in return is enough money to save thirty-seven children from being kicked out of the only home they’ve ever known. So if you’re done being suspicious, let’s sign the damn paper.” Silence. Then—he reached for the pen. The contract slid across the table toward her. Sage didn’t hesitate. She picked up the pen, signed her name like she was writing a grocery list, and passed it back. “You’ll move into the mansion tomorrow,” he said, standing. “My assistant will send a car. Do not be late. I hate lateness more than I hate journalists.” She stood too. "You might want to prepare for more than journalists, Mr. Sinclair. I’m not good at staying invisible forever." He frowned. "What does that mean?" "Nothing," she said sweetly. “It’s probably just the orphan in me talking.” She turned on her heels and walked out like she hadn’t just sold herself for the price of a miracle. --- The car that picked her up the next morning smelled like leather and quiet judgment. A man in a dark suit opened the door for her without smiling. “Name?” he asked, though he definitely knew it. “Sage.” “Last name?” “That’ll change today, won’t it?” He gave a dry look. “Don’t try to be funny. Mr. Sinclair hates that.” She smiled. “Guess he’s going to hate me, then.” They pulled into the Sinclair estate nearly an hour later. Calling it a mansion was cute. It was a palace. Wrought-iron gates, fountains, hedges trimmed like sculpture. A driveway that could host a film premiere. The house itself looked like the kind of place where secrets were locked behind oil paintings and antique mirrors. She was escorted inside by two men in suits who didn’t introduce themselves. Just nodded stiffly and motioned for her to follow. Up the grand staircase. Down a corridor longer than her entire apartment building. Into a room. A man stood there. Not Leo. This one had a cleaner haircut, a designer watch, and a clipboard clutched like a weapon. His tone was sharper than the creases in his shirt. “Ezra Cole. I’m Mr. Sinclair’s executive assistant. You’ll refer to him as Mr. Sinclair in public. You’ll wear what’s selected for you. You’ll attend events without complaint. And under no circumstances are you to wander the house unescorted. There are rooms you are not permitted to enter.” Sage raised a brow. “And if I get curious?” He glanced up. “Then you’ll regret it.” She smiled politely. “Do I get a room key, or is this more of a velvet-cage situation?” He didn’t answer. She liked him already. --- Later that evening, she met Leo again. This time, in the dining room. The table could seat twenty, but only two places were set—at opposite ends. He didn’t stand when she walked in. Didn’t speak, either. Sage sat, picked up her fork, and took one look at the perfectly plated steak. She smiled to herself. “Why are you smiling?” Leo asked from across the polished expanse of wood. “It’s just funny,” she said. “This steak probably cost more than my entire childhood. And it’s still missing pepper.” He looked up at her. “You’re strange.” “You’re rude.” A pause. He raised his wine glass slightly, amused now. “This should be interesting.” “Oh, it will be,” she said, slicing into her steak. “You just don’t know it yet.” She was calm. Elegant. Poised. But she wasn’t what he expected. And Leonardo Sinclair hated surprises.