30 days to Love You

The crystal chandeliers of the Grand Meridian Hotel caught the light and scattered it across the ballroom, reflecting off polished marble and designer gowns worn by the city’s most powerful people. This was the Blackwell Annual Masquerade, an event everyone important planned their year around and Adrian Blackwell stood exactly where he was expected to be: at its center. He wore a custom tuxedo tailored to his broad frame, the clean lines emphasizing his height and quiet authority. A deep black velvet mask concealed part of his face, giving him an air of distance that matched his reputation. Adrian looked exactly like the man society had decided he was; cold, dangerous and untouchable. On his arm rested Scarlett Hawthorne, draped in rich crimson silk that flowed with every confident step she took. She leaned into him as though she belonged there, her laughter light and deliberate, ringing just loudly enough to draw attention. She wasn’t his wife, but tonight she carried herself as if the title had already been handed to her. “They’re staring,” Scarlett murmured, her lips brushing his ear as she smiled at the room. “Everyone knows, Adrian. They know it’s over with her. Tonight, we will make it official.” Adrian didn’t look at her. He slowly turned the glass in his hand, watching the amber liquid swirl as his gaze drifted over the crowd. Faces softened when they met his eyes, conversations paused, shoulders straightened. “Patience, Scarlett,” he said evenly. “The lawyers are finishing the details. Isabella won’t fight it. She never does.” Isabella Sinclair. His wife of two years. Someone who existed more in name than in presence. In his penthouse, she moved quietly, like someone afraid of taking up space. Their marriage had never been about love, just a promise extracted by his grandfather on his deathbed. A contract Adrian had hated from the start. Isabella was calm, reserved, and endlessly accommodating. He had assumed she was home now, doing what she always did. Then the orchestra stopped. The sudden silence rolled through the ballroom, sharp and unmistakable. Conversations died mid-sentence. Heads turned as one toward the grand staircase. The massive double doors at the top creaked open. Adrian turned with clear irritation until he stopped short. A woman stood at the top of the marble steps, unmasked. Her midnight-blue velvet gown fit her perfectly, structured and bold, with a slit high enough to demand attention. Diamonds rested against her skin, Blackwell heirlooms he hadn’t seen since his grandfather’s funeral. But it wasn’t the dress or the jewels that held the room. It was her. Isabella Sinclair stood tall, shoulders back, her dark hair falling freely around her face. There was nothing timid about her now. Her chin was lifted, her expression calm but unyielding. Her eyes, once soft and lowered, burned with something unfamiliar and unsettling. “Who is that?” Scarlett whispered sharply, her grip tightening on Adrian’s arm. “Is that… your wife?” Isabella began to walk down the stairs. Each step was steady and deliberate. The crowd parted instinctively as she approached, whispers following her like a current. She ignored them all. Her focus never left Adrian. She stopped directly in front of him. The familiar scent of jasmine and rain reached him, vivid and sharp. It caught him off guard. “Isabella,” Adrian said quietly, his tone edged with warning. “What are you doing here?” “I came to celebrate, husband,” she replied. Her voice was clear, calm, and carried easily through the silent room. She reached into her clutch not for lipstick or a handkerchief, but for a microphone she smoothly took from a stunned MC nearby. “Isabella,” Adrian said under his breath, stepping forward. “Don’t do this.” She stepped aside, avoiding him without effort, and turned toward the guests. “Good evening,” she said. “I apologize for interrupting. My husband was just about to make an important announcement regarding his future with Miss Hawthorne.” Scarlett smiled, misunderstanding entirely, stepping forward as if ready to accept congratulations. “But,” Isabella continued, her voice firm now, “there’s something he seems to have overlooked.” She lifted her hand toward the balcony. Maximilian Cross emerged from the shadows, raising his glass with a smile that was anything but friendly. A wave of shock passed through the room. “As of one hour ago,” Isabella said, meeting Adrian’s stare, “I finalized the sale of my forty-nine percent controlling stake in Blackwell Industries to Mr. Cross.” The reaction was instant. Voices rose, glasses clattered to the floor, cameras flashed wildly. Adrian grabbed her arm, gripping too hard. “You can’t do that. The prenup—” “The prenup allows it,” Isabella said quietly, leaning close enough that only he could hear. “If the marriage ends because of public infidelity.” Her eyes flicked toward Scarlett, who had gone pale. “And you’ve made that very clear tonight.” “You’ll destroy everything,” Adrian hissed. “The company. The legacy.” “I am part of that legacy,” Isabella replied, her voice steady despite the rush of adrenaline beneath it. “And now you have a choice.” She adjusted his bowtie gently, an intimate gesture that looked affectionate to the cameras. “Either you let Maximilian dismantle your empire by morning…” She paused. “Or?” Adrian asked tightly. “Or you give me one month,” she said. “Thirty days. You stop the divorce. You send her away,” she nodded at Scarlett, “and you live with me as my husband. No affairs. No excuses. You give me the marriage we never had. On the thirty-first day, I return the shares and sign the divorce papers without taking a single cent.” Adrian searched her face, waiting for hesitation. There was none. “And if I refuse?” “Then Maximilian Cross becomes your chairman.” The moment stretched. Adrian looked at Maximilian’s satisfied smile, at Scarlett’s barely contained panic, then back at the woman he thought he knew. For the first time in two years, Isabella wasn’t something in his way. She was a challenge. “Fine,” Adrian said at last, his voice low and dangerous. “You have your month. But understand this, you won’t win.” Isabella smiled faintly. “I’ve already lost plenty, Adrian,” she said. “Being your wife was just the last thing left to try.”