Natalie's POV
I stared at Adrian Blackwell's business card for two days straight.
This offer expires in 48 hours.
The words haunted me. Two million dollars to marry a stranger. It was insane. Impossible. The kind of thing that only happened in movies, not to broke event planners from Queens who could barely afford rent.
Yet I couldn't throw the card away.
Twenty-six days until the restaurant closed. Twenty-six days to find fifty thousand dollars I didn't have. I'd called every client, begged for advance payments, even considered selling my car—except I needed it for work.
Nothing was enough.
My phone rang. Another loan shark, his voice oily and threatening. Miss Chen, you're two weeks late on payment. We're not patient people.
I need more time
Time costs money. The interest just doubled. Pay up, or we'll visit your parents' restaurant. Nice place. Would be a shame if something happened to it.
He hung up.
My hands shook. These weren't banks with legal procedures. These were criminals who broke kneecaps when people didn't pay.
And I'd brought them straight to my family's door because I'd trusted Lily.
The business card sat on my coffee table, mocking me with its elegant printing and impossible promise.
Contract marriage. Two million dollars.
I grabbed my phone before I could change my mind and dialed the number.
A professional voice answered immediately. Blackwell Pharmaceuticals, Mr. Blackwell's office.
This is Natalie Chen. Mr. Blackwell asked me to call.
One moment, please.
Classical music played while I waited, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might explode.
Then a different voice came on. Male, formal, lawyer-sounding. Miss Chen, this is Daniel Wright, Mr. Blackwell's attorney. We've been expecting your call. Are you available to meet today?
Today?
The offer expires at midnight. Mr. Blackwell doesn't wait.
Of course he didn't. Rich men never waited for anything.
I can meet at six, I said, trying to sound confident instead of desperate.
Perfect. Mr. Blackwell's penthouse. I'll text you the address.
He hung up before I could ask what I was supposed to wear to a meeting about selling one year of my life.
The address led me to a building in Tribeca where the doorman looked at me like I was lost.
I'm here to see Adrian Blackwell, I said, chin up, pretending I belonged.
He checked his tablet. Miss Chen? Top floor. Private elevator on your right.
The elevator was all mirrors and polished metal. I caught my reflection—cheap blazer, drugstore makeup, hair pulled back because I couldn't afford a salon appointment. I looked exactly like what I was: a desperate woman about to make a terrible decision.
The elevator opened directly into the penthouse.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Manhattan like the city was a possession to be admired. Everything was sharp angles and cold surfaces—more museum than home.
Adrian Blackwell stood by the windows, phone to his ear, speaking rapid Mandarin to someone about pharmaceutical patents. He gestured for me to wait without looking at me.
I stood there awkwardly, clutching my purse, trying not to calculate how much everything in this room cost.
Another man approached, mid-thirties, kind eyes, expensive suit. Miss Chen? I'm Daniel Wright. Thank you for coming.
I haven't agreed to anything yet, I said quickly.
Of course. He smiled like he knew better. Please, sit.
Adrian ended his call and turned to face me. In the museum's dim lighting, I hadn't fully appreciated how handsome he was. Now, in the bright penthouse, it was almost unfair—sharp jawline, ice-blue eyes, the kind of face that probably made women stupid.
I refused to be stupid.
Miss Chen, he said, voice all business. Let's not waste time. You need money. I need a wife. Temporarily.
Why? The word came out sharper than I intended. You're rich, successful, good-looking enough. You could marry anyone. Why buy a wife?
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, that I'd challenged him. Because everyone I could marry actually wants to be married to me. That creates expectations. Emotions. Complications.
And I won't have those?
You're a professional. You understand business transactions. This is a transaction, nothing more.
The coldness in his voice should have warned me away. Instead, it made me angry. You want to hire someone to play house for a year so you can inherit money you don't even need. That's not a transaction. That's using another human being.
For two million dollars, Daniel interjected smoothly. Which solves your rather significant financial problems.
I glared at him. How do you know about my financial problems?
Background check, Adrian said without apology. Your mother's restaurant faces foreclosure. You co-signed a loan for your cousin's gambling debts. You're being harassed by loan sharks charging illegal interest rates. Your business is failing. You're three weeks from losing everything.
Heat flooded my face, shame and fury mixed together. You had no right
I had every right. I don't enter contracts blindly. He moved closer, predator-smooth. I know you're desperate. I know you're out of options. I'm offering salvation.
You're offering servitude.
I'm offering a job. One year. Play the devoted wife in public. Attend family events. Smile for photographers. In private, we live separate lives. Separate bedrooms. No expectations beyond the contract.
And after a year?
Clean divorce. Two million dollars. You walk away and rebuild your life however you want.
It sounded too easy. Nothing was ever this easy.
What's the catch? I asked.
Adrian and Daniel exchanged glances.
My grandfather amended the family trust, Adrian said finally. I can't inherit control of Blackwell Pharmaceuticals unless I'm married by my thirty-third birthday. That's six months away.
So marry someone real.
I don't want real. His voice turned cold as winter. Real means emotions. Expectations. Weakness. I watched my parents destroy each other in a 'real' marriage. I won't repeat their mistakes.
The pain in those words surprised me. For just a second, Adrian Blackwell looked human instead of robotic.
I need someone who understands this is business, he continued. Someone who won't confuse the performance with reality. You're smart, professional, and desperate enough to agree. You're perfect.
That's the worst compliment I've ever received.
His mouth almost smiled. Almost.
Daniel slid a folder across the table. Basic contract terms. Review it. If you're interested, we'll have the full agreement ready tomorrow.
I opened the folder with trembling hands. The numbers made my head spin. Two million dollars. Paid in installments. The final payment upon successful completion of contract term and amicable divorce.
I need half a million upfront, I heard myself say. To save my mother's restaurant. It closes in twenty-six days.
Adrian didn't even blink. Done. Daniel will have it wired the day we marry.
Just like that?
Just like that.
This was insane. Absolutely insane. Marrying a stranger for money, playing pretend for a year, gambling that I could keep my heart locked away and walk away unscathed.
But twenty-six days. Loan sharks. My mother's restaurant, my father's legacy, gone forever.
What choice did I have?
I need to think about it, I said, standing on shaky legs.
You have until midnight, Adrian reminded me. After that, I find someone else.
Of course he would. There were probably a hundred desperate women in Manhattan alone who'd take this deal.
I left the penthouse, rode the elevator down in silence, walked three blocks before I could breathe properly.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: Don't be late on Friday's payment, Miss Chen. My boss is losing patience.
The loan sharks. Circling closer.
I looked back at the gleaming tower where Adrian Blackwell lived in his cold, perfect world, offering me salvation wrapped in a contract.
Then my phone rang. Mom's number.
Natalie? Her voice was thick with tears. Someone came to the restaurant today. Big men with tattoos. They said we need to pay our debts or they'll burn it down. Baby, I don't understand what's happening. What debts?
My vision went red. Those bastards threatened my mother. My sweet, hardworking mother who'd never hurt anyone.
I'll handle it, Mom, I said, voice steady despite my shaking hands. I promise. Everything will be okay.
I hung up and dialed Daniel Wright's number.
Miss Chen? he answered immediately.
I'll do it, I said. I'll marry Adrian Blackwell. But I have one more condition.
What's that?
The money needs to be wired tomorrow. Not when we marry. Tomorrow. Or the deal is off.
Silence. Then: I'll call you back in five minutes.
Four minutes later, my phone rang.
Mr. Blackwell agrees, Daniel said. Half a million wired to your account tomorrow morning. The rest upon completion of the contract year. We'll draw up the papers tonight. You'll review and sign tomorrow afternoon.
And then?
And then you become Mrs. Adrian Blackwell.
The words hit me like a sledgehammer. Mrs. Adrian Blackwell. A wife bought and paid for. A year of my life sold to a man who saw me as a business transaction.
There's one more thing you should know, Daniel said, voice dropping. Adrian's family doesn't know this is a contract marriage. To them, you're his real wife. His grandmother especially cannot discover the truth.
Why not?
Because Eleanor Blackwell would destroy you both if she knew her grandson was manipulating the trust terms. You'll need to convince her—convince everyone—that your marriage is completely real.
My stomach dropped. You're asking me to lie to his entire family.
We're asking you to perform. Isn't that what you do? Create perfect events, manage difficult clients, make everything look flawless on the surface?
This is different
This is two million dollars different. Can you do it or not?
Could I? Could I lie convincingly enough to fool a woman like Eleanor Blackwell? Could I pretend to love a man who saw me as a contract employee?
The loan shark's text glowed on my screen. The memory of my mother's scared voice echoed in my ears.
Yes, I whispered. I can do it.
Excellent. We'll see you tomorrow at two PM. Bring identification and your social security card. We have a wedding to plan.
He hung up.
I stood on a Manhattan street corner, watching people rush past in their normal lives, and realized I'd just agreed to something that would either save me or destroy me completely.
My phone buzzed one more time. A text from Adrian Blackwell himself: Welcome to the deal, Miss Chen. Don't make me regret this.
I typed back before I could stop myself: Same to you, Mr. Blackwell.
His response came instantly: Meet me at the courthouse tomorrow. 10 AM. Don't be late. I hate waiting.
Then, a second later: And Natalie? Once we sign those papers, there's no backing out. You're mine for the next year. Every smile, every touch, every lie to my family—it all has to be perfect. Can you handle that?
I stared at the message, my heart racing.
Could I handle pretending to love a man who would never love me back? Could I survive a year in a world where I didn't belong? Could I lie to everyone—including myself—about what this really was?
I had twenty-six hours to find out.