Signed in Sin

Chapter One: The Devil Wears Armani

Alexander opened the cream-colored folder but didn't hand it to me. His eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.

"There's something I need to discuss with you," he said. "Something that has nothing to do with filing systems."

He spoke. Calm. Businesslike. Matter-of-fact.

And with every word, the ground shifted beneath my feet.

My lips parted, but no sound came out. I blinked, trying to process what he'd just said, but the words didn't make sense.

"You're..." I swallowed hard. "You can't be serious."

My voice came out strangled.

"I'm completely serious."

The world tilted. I gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles white against the dark wood. My knees threatened to buckle.

"That's—" I shook my head, the movement jerky. "That's insane."

Heat flooded my face, then drained away just as quickly, leaving me cold. Shaking. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I was certain he could see it.

Alexander just watched me with that infuriating calm, like he'd proposed something perfectly reasonable.

I took a step back. Then another. My heel caught and I stumbled, catching myself against the doorframe.

"I need—" My breath came too fast. "I can't—"

My hands trembled as I pressed them against my stomach, trying to steady myself. Trying to think.

"Miss Torres—"

"Don't." The word came out sharp. I held up one shaking hand. "Just... don't."

I stared at this man I'd known for three weeks, who now stood there proposing the most ridiculous, impossible thing I'd ever heard.

My throat tightened. My eyes burned.

This couldn't be real.

But the folder in his hands said otherwise.

What if this impossible, insane offer was the answer I'd been praying for?

I dropped my hands and looked at him—really looked at him.

"Why me?" My voice barely rose above a whisper.

And in his answer, I knew my life was about to change forever.

1 DAY AGO

I lasted forty-seven minutes before I made Alexander Cordovan bleed.

To be fair, he deserved it.

"Miss Torres, these files are a disaster." He didn't look up from his desk, but he held out the folder anyway, as it had personally offended him. "Redo them. Alphabetically this time, not whatever fever dream organizational system you've invented."

I'd been alphabetizing files since I was sixteen. The folder was perfect.

"They are alphabetical, Mr. Cordovan."

"By first name." Now he looked up, and I got the full force of those ice-gray eyes that had been featured in Forbes' "30 Under 30" three years running. "What functional adult organizes by first name?"

"The instructions from HR said—"

"I don't care what HR said. I care about efficiency. First names are useless. I have four different Davids in my contacts. Do it by last name."

I took the folder with a smile that could cut glass. "Of course. Right away."

"And the coffee you brought me is cold."

It had been hot seven minutes ago when I'd placed it on his desk. For seven minutes, he'd ignored it while tearing apart someone's marketing proposal on a conference call.

"I'll get you a fresh one."

"Make it an espresso. Double shot. The coffee tastes like dishwater."

That coffee cost forty dollars a pound and came from some exclusive roaster in Seattle that only sold to elite clients. I had to sign for it as if it were nuclear codes.

But I smiled. "Double espresso. Anything else?"

"Yes." He returned to his computer screen, dismissing me with his attention. "Tell whoever designed the lobby display to replace it. It looks like a dental office."

The lobby display had cost seventy thousand dollars and been featured in *Architectural Digest*. I'd coordinated the entire installation myself during my first week, working until midnight to get it perfect.

"I'll pass along the feedback."

I made it to the door before he spoke again.

"Miss Torres? One more thing."

I turned, still smiling. "Yes?"

"Try to keep up today. My last three secretaries couldn't handle the pace. I'd hate to have to replace you already."

That's when I decided Alexander Cordovan needed to learn a lesson about underestimating people.

At 6:47 PM, my desk phone rang.

"Miss Torres. My office. Now."

I saved my work, smoothed my skirt, and walked into the lion's den.

Alexander Cordovan stood behind his desk, jacket off, tie loosened, looking like a model for "Angry CEO Monthly.”

"Close the door," he said.

I did, my heart rate picking up. Was I about to be fired? On my first day?

"Explain," he said, holding up his phone, "why my CFO just called asking why I wanted to meet at two in the morning."

"Oh no," I said, channeling my inner actress. "That's my fault entirely. I must have accidentally—"

"And my lunch reservation?"

"I could have sworn you said next Tuesday—"

"And why is my presentation in black and white when the entire point was to showcase the new brand colors?"

I blinked innocently. "You didn't specify color in your instructions."

His jaw worked. Those gray eyes studied me like I was a balance sheet that didn't add up.

"You're doing this on purpose."

"I'm doing exactly what you asked for, Mr. Cordovan. Efficiently."

"No." He walked around the desk, and suddenly the office felt much smaller. "You're trying to make a point."

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Yes, you are." He stopped three feet away, arms crossed. "You're angry because I criticized your work. So you decided to sabotage my afternoon."

The accusation hung between us.

I could deny it. Play innocent. Keep my head down and my mouth shut like a good secretary.

Or I could do what I'd promised myself I'd do when I'd taken this job: never let anyone make me feel small again.

"You want honesty, Mr. Cordovan? Fine." I straightened my spine. "I'm angry because you've treated me like an incompetent child since the moment I walked in this morning. My filing system was color-coded by project priority—something you'd have known if you'd taken two seconds to ask instead of assuming I was an i***t. The coffee was hot when I brought it. And that lobby display I designed won an award last month, but you decided it looked like a dental office without even asking who created it."

His expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes.

I kept going. "You told me you didn't want another secretary who couldn't keep up. Well, I can keep up just fine. What I won't do is let you treat me like I'm disposable."

Silence filled the office. Outside the windows, the New York skyline glittered with evening lights. My heart hammered against my ribs.

Alexander Cordovan studied me for a long moment.

Then, impossibly, he smiled.

Not a big smile. Just a slight quirk at the corner of his mouth that somehow transformed his entire face.

"You sabotaged my entire afternoon," he said slowly, "because I insulted your filing system."

"Yes."

"That's insane."

"That's self-respect."

Just then, he pulled out a cream-colored folder I hadn't seen before. "How much do you know about my family?"

The question threw me off. "Just what's public record. Cordovan Industries, three generations ago, you took over as CEO two years ago."

"My grandfather's will contains a stipulation," he said, his tone suddenly businesslike. "I have until my thirty-fifth birthday to marry, or a controlling interest in the company goes to my cousin Vincent. That's in six weeks."

I blinked. "That's... archaic."

"That's my grandfather." Alexander's jaw tightened. "Vincent is incompetent. If he gets control, he'll destroy everything my family built. Three thousand employees will lose their jobs."

"So get married," I said carefully, still not understanding why he was telling me this.

"I need someone who understands this is business. Someone intelligent, discreet, and practical." His gray eyes locked onto mine. "Someone who won't complicate things by falling in love."

The implication hit me like ice water.

"You're insane," I whispered.

"I'm desperate." He opened the folder. "One year. We marry, maintain appearances, then divorce quietly. You get five million dollars. I keep the company."

"Five million—" I couldn't breathe. "You can't be serious."

"I investigated your employment file. Your mother is at Memorial Sloan Kettering. Stage three breast cancer. Insurance won't cover the experimental treatment."

Anger flashed through me. "You have no right—"

"I'm offering you a solution, Miss Torres. You need money. I need a wife. This is mutually beneficial."

My mother's face flashed in my mind. The way she'd smiled when the doctor said they couldn't cover the immunotherapy. The way she'd told me it was fine while I watched her give up hope.

Five million dollars would save her life.

"This is insane," I said again, but weaker this time.

"This is business." He held out the folder. "Standard contract. Everything is spelled out. Separate lives. Just wear the ring and attend events for one year."

I stared at the folder like it was a snake.

"Twenty-four hours," Alexander said. "Then I explore other options."

My hand trembled as I took it.

I didn't sleep. I read the contract seventeen times. Called my best friend from law school. Asked my mother's oncologist what five million dollars could buy.

"Her chances would go from thirty percent to eighty percent," Dr. Chen had said. "Why? Did you win the lottery?"

"Something like that."

At 6:47 AM, I was back at my desk.

Alexander arrived at 7:15, looking like he'd slept even less than I had.

"Have you made a decision?"

I stood, met his eyes. "I have conditions."

His eyebrows rose. "I'm listening."

"First, my mother never finds out this is fake. Second, I want two million upfront. Third, if you ever disrespect me again like you did yesterday, the deal is off and you still owe me everything. And fourth, when this ends, I want my career back. Recommendations, connections, everything."

Something shifted in his expression. Respect, maybe.

"Agreed." He extended his hand. "Do we have an agreement, Miss Torres?"

I looked at his hand. At the man who'd been a nightmare twelve hours ago and was now offering to be my husband.

This was crazy. This was reckless.

I shook his hand.

"We have an agreement."

His grip was firm, warm. "Then you should call me Alexander."

"Isabela."

"Isabela." He tested my name. "We're getting married in three weeks."

"Three weeks?"

"We need time for it to look legitimate." He released my hand and headed toward his office. "Oh, and Isabela?"

"Yes?"

"Welcome to the family."

The door clicked shut.

My phone buzzed.

*Ring shopping Saturday, 10 AM. Wear something suitable for Tiffany's. - Alexander*

I stared at the message, then at the closed door.

What had I just agreed to?