The billionaire bargin bride

(Ariana’s POV) I never imagined I’d say “I do” while wearing a borrowed designer gown, standing beside a man who looked like he’d rather be at a hostile takeover than at a wedding. But here I was—Mrs. Ariana Reyes-Blackwood. God help me. The ceremony was so short I wasn’t even sure it qualified as legal. The officiant was probably a tax attorney in disguise. Nicholas stood tall in his custom tuxedo, looking like a Calvin Klein ad with emotional constipation. He didn’t smile, didn’t flinch—just nodded sharply as he slipped a ten-thousand-dollar ring on my finger like he was closing a stock deal. “I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the officiant said. “You may kiss the bride.” Nicholas looked at me like Are we really doing this? I looked back like Don’t even think about it unless your lips are made of cinnamon rolls. But we kissed. A polite, lukewarm, PR-approved peck. Dry. Efficient. Emotionally vacant. And then it was done. Just like that, I went from broke baker to billionaire bride. We skipped the reception—because why waste champagne on fake love?—and were whisked away in a sleek black limo with tinted windows and seats that probably cost more than my entire childhood home. Nicholas sat with his legs crossed, scrolling on his phone. Not a single glance my way. Not a “Hey, thanks for ruining your life for this scam.” Not even a “Nice dress.” “So,” I said, clearing my throat. “That was… magical.” He looked up briefly, one dark brow arching like I was an unreadable spreadsheet. “If you’re referring to the ceremony, yes. Efficient and concise. As planned.” I blinked. “Wow. I always dreamed of marrying a man who talks about our wedding like it was a quarterly report.” He ignored the jab. “We have dinner with the board tomorrow. You’ll be briefed on what to say, what to wear, and which of my relatives to avoid.” “Should I carry cue cards? Maybe a teleprompter?” He didn’t respond. Instead, he pulled out a leather folder and handed me a stack of documents thicker than a college textbook. “Your official NDA, behavior clause, and timeline schedule.” “Romance is just oozing out of you.” “Don’t start,” he said, coolly. “You agreed to this. You needed the money. I needed a wife. Let’s keep things professional.” Right. Professional. Because nothing says professionalism like getting married for half a million dollars and pretending to be in love with a man who smells like wealth and arrogance. By the time we arrived at his penthouse, I was emotionally exhausted and dangerously hangry. The place looked like something out of a futuristic design magazine—glass walls, marble floors, a staircase that spiraled like a DNA strand, and not a single crumb or speck of dust in sight. It screamed rich, cold, and absolutely no baking allowed. Nicholas gave me a quick tour like he was showing off a real estate listing. “Guest room’s yours. My room’s off-limits. The kitchen is barely used. The fridge is stocked with meal kits. Don’t rearrange anything.” “Wow,” I muttered. “Dream house.” He stopped at the guest room door. “You’ll be expected to accompany me to three public events per week. Minimal affection unless necessary. No discussing the nature of our marriage with anyone, including your family. Violation of any clause—” “—means I forfeit the money and get booted out. Yeah, yeah, I read the fine print.” He hesitated for a beat. “Good.” Then he turned and walked away. I closed the door, flopped onto the bed, and screamed into a pillow. (Third Person: Nicholas) Nicholas stood in his private office, gazing out over the Manhattan skyline, swirling a glass of whiskey in his hand. He’d done it. Sealed the deal. The board would back off. The merger was safe. So why did he feel… twitchy? He could still taste the frosting from her cupcake. Ariana Reyes was unpredictable, loud, emotional, and chaotic. She moved through his penthouse like a blast of color in a grayscale painting. She had no concept of silence, she left cookie crumbs on the counter, and worst of all—she’d made him smile. Twice. That was dangerous. No one made Nicholas Blackwood smile. Not since… No. He shut down the thought like a faulty server. He downed the whiskey and promised himself he’d survive three months. No complications. No feelings. No distractions. (Back to Ariana’s POV) The next morning, I woke up in a room that felt like an Apple Store had been converted into a prison. Everything was white. Sheets? White. Walls? White. Rug? A slightly off-white. It was clinical and sterile and I hated it. I padded out into the kitchen wearing my World’s Okayest Baker T-shirt and fuzzy pineapple slippers. Nicholas was already there, dressed in a three-piece suit at seven a.m., sipping coffee like he was auditioning for a Bond film. He looked me up and down. “Is that what you’re wearing to breakfast?” I poured myself orange juice. “Is that what you’re wearing to an emotional breakdown?” He blinked once. “You’re late.” “For what?” “The wardrobe fitting.” I nearly choked. “Excuse me? I need a fitting to eat eggs?” He tapped on his phone. “Tonight is the Blackwood Foundation Gala. You need a gown. Hair. Makeup. Presence.” I blinked. “You’re aware I’m a human and not an accessory, right?” He didn’t reply. Just handed me a croissant like a peace offering. It worked. A little.