“Three million dollars,” Julian Cross said. “In exchange for one year of your life.”
The number glowed from the contract between them—more money than Ava Monroe could earn in a hundred years, offered by a man who made that much before breakfast. Julian’s office floated sixty floors above Manhattan. Her shoes were still wet from the bus stop. His black marble desk cost more than the apartment the bank would seize on Friday.
“You need a fiancée,” Ava said. “Not a wife.”
Julian leaned back, immaculate and unreadable. “I need my board to believe I have become stable. You need your brother’s surgeons to keep treating him tomorrow.” He slid a second page toward her: Noah’s hospital balance, stamped FINAL NOTICE. “We can argue about vocabulary after he survives.”
Anger burned through the shame in Ava’s throat. “You investigated me.”
“I investigated the woman asking me to save her family.” His gaze moved over her thrift-store coat, then returned to her face. “You have forty-three dollars in your account, twelve hours before the hospital stops treatment, and no one else willing to help. I have three million dollars and a reason to put a ring on your finger. That is not romance, Miss Monroe. It is leverage.”
Clause twelve forbade emotional attachment. Clause thirteen required public affection whenever cameras were present. Clause fourteen allowed either party to end the arrangement—but if Ava left first, Julian could reclaim every dollar. The contract was not a lifeline. It was a silk-covered cage with her brother breathing at the bottom of it.
“Why me?”
Julian pushed a photograph across the desk. It showed Ava serving champagne at a charity gala while, behind her, Julian's uncle passed an envelope to a city commissioner. “Because everyone thinks you are invisible,” he said. “And because you already saw something my family would kill to hide.”
The office door opened. A silver-haired man entered without knocking, and Ava recognized the face from the photograph. Charles Cross smiled at her as if they had met before.
“So this is the little witness,” he said.
Julian moved between them. His voice dropped into something harder than anger. “She is my fiancée.”
Charles glanced at the unsigned contract. “Not yet.”
Ava picked up the pen before fear could make the decision for her. She signed for Noah’s next breath, for the apartment keys, for the impossible promise that poverty would not choose who lived. Her name looked painfully small beneath Julian’s.
Julian signed, opened a velvet box, and slid a diamond onto her finger. The stone was cold, flawless, and probably worth more than every building on Ava’s block. His thumb settled over her racing pulse. When Charles left, Julian still did not release her.
“Wear this,” he said, lifting her hand between them, “and every person in this city will believe you belong at my side.” His voice dropped. “Take it off before the year ends, and I take back every dollar. Let anyone threaten you while you wear it, and I take them apart.”
Ava should have pulled away. “Is that another clause?”
“A warning.” Julian closed her fingers over the diamond. “Do not enter the east wing of my penthouse. If you hear someone behind that door calling your name, do not answer—no matter how much she sounds like you.”