Chapter One
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She didn't scream. She didn't beg. She just typed "I'm in." And hit send.
That email changed everything.
Jennifer Benz — orphan, survivor, dreamer — became a commodity.
A bride for lease.
For two years. For $2 million.
To save her future.
Even if it meant selling her soul.
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It landed at 2:47 AM, like a ghost knocking on her door.
Jennifer was awake anyway — curled under a thin blanket on her second-hand couch, clutching a mug of lukewarm tea and staring at the ceiling like it held answers. The rent was due in three days. Her tutoring gig got cancelled. Her aunt had called again — voice dripping with venom — "You're a burden, Jennifer. Always have been."
Then — DING.
Subject: URGENT — BRIDE REQUIRED FOR HIGH-PROFILE CLIENT
Her finger hovered over delete.
Who sends that kind of email?
Some rich creep looking for a puppet wife?
A sugar daddy with a contract?
But then she read the fine print:
"Two-year commitment. $2,000,000 USD upon completion. All expenses are covered. No emotional involvement is required. Strict confidentiality clause. Background check mandatory."
Her breath hitched.
Two million dollars.
That's rent for a decade.
A bakery in Paris.
A passport out of this nightmare.
She didn't cry.
She typed:
I'm in.
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FLASHBACK — THE GIRL WHO WAS NEVER MEANT TO BELONG
Jennifer Benz was born in a storm.
Her mother — a painter, a dreamer — died in a car crash when Jennifer was four. Her father — a quiet man who loved books and silence — followed a year later, heartbroken.
Left alone.
Aunt Beatrice took her in — not out of love, but obligation.
"Useless," she'd say, slapping Jennifer's hands away from the kitchen counter. "Lazy. Worthless."
Jennifer learned to be invisible.
She scrubbed floors until her knuckles bled. Tutored spoiled brats for pocket change. Ate ramen three times a day.
At night, she'd knead dough in her head — imagining buttery croissants, flaky pain au chocolat, the smell of cinnamon, and sugar rising like prayer.
She wrote letters to her mother — never sent.
Dear Mom,
Today, I cried under the sink while washing dishes.
But I also baked a cake in my mind.
It had pink icing. And butterflies.
And it tasted like freedom.
She kept those letters under her mattress — along with the scars on her back from Aunt Beatrice's belt.
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Three days later, she stood outside a glass tower in downtown Lagos, clutching a folder like it was her lifeline.
Inside, lawyers in tailored suits handed her a document thicker than her phone book.
Clause 1: Purpose of Agreement — To provide companionship and fulfil social obligations for the duration of two (2) years.
Clause 7: No public displays of affection… unless staged for press.
Clause 12: Termination may occur if Bride exhibits emotional attachment to Client.
Her stomach twisted.
Emotional attachment?
What if she fell in love?
What if he did?
But she signed.
Because freedom has a price.
And sometimes, that price is your heart.
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He didn't smile.
Didn't stand.
Just stared — cool, calculating — like she was a spreadsheet he was reviewing.
"Jennifer Benz," he said, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet. "Twenty-four. Orphan. No criminal record. References from tutors and landlords. You're… acceptable."
She swallowed hard.
Acceptable.
Not beautiful. It's not charming. Not worthy.
Acceptable.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled.
"You understand the terms? Two years. You'll attend events. Smile for cameras. Play the doting wife. No real feelings. No complications."
She nodded.
He didn't blink.
"You'll live with me. My penthouse. My rules. You'll be given an allowance. A wardrobe. A script."
"And if I break the rules?" she whispered.
His eyes flickered — cold, dangerous.
"Then the contract is void. And you get nothing."
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She didn't sleep.
Instead, she sat on the floor of her tiny apartment, surrounded by boxes labelled "Things I Can't Take With Me.""
Inside one — a sketchbook. Drawings of Parisian patisseries. Pastries shaped like hearts. Cakes with lace icing. A bakery sign that read: "Benz & Co. — Where Every Bite Tells a Story."
She flipped to the last page.
A quote scribbled in shaky ink:
*"Love isn't given. It's chosen." — Her mother's handwriting. From a letter found in the wreckage.
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
She wasn't selling her body.
She was selling her heart.
To buy her future.
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They married in a private chapel — no guests, no vows, no rings.
Just a judge, a camera crew, and a contract.
David wore a black suit. Unsmiling. Unmoving.
Jennifer wore white — not a gown, but a simple dress borrowed from a stylist. Too big. Too stiff. Too fake.
They stood side by side.
He didn't hold her hand.
She didn't look at him.
The judge said, "You may kiss the bride."
David hesitated — a fraction of a second — then pressed his lips to hers.
Cold. Quick. Calculated.
She felt nothing.
Until his thumb brushed her wrist — accidental — and her pulse jumped.
He pulled back — eyes sharp — like he'd felt it too.
And for the first time…
Something flickered.
Not love.
Not yet.
But… curiosity.
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They rode in silence — him typing on his phone, her staring out the window.
Rain tapped against the car.
She watched droplets slide down the glass — like tears.
"You're not what I expected," he said suddenly, voice low.
She turned.
His gaze was on her — not cold now, but… searching.
"You're softer than I thought. Prettier."
She didn't know what to say.
"I'm not here for compliments," she whispered.
He smirked — almost human.
"Good. Because I don't give them."
But later, when he thought she was asleep, he tucked a blanket over her shoulders.
And she pretended not to notice.
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She lay in his guest bed — not his wife's, not yet — listening to the rain, wondering if she'd made a mistake.
Two years.
Two million.
Two hearts pretending not to beat for each other.
She closed her eyes.
And whispered:
"I'm not selling my soul.
I'm buying my freedom."
But as sleep took her…
She dreamed of croissants.
And a man who called her Jen.
Not "Bride."
Not "Contract."
Jen.
And in that dream…
He smiled.
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