Jasmine Lane didn't sleep that night.
After leaving Thorn Enterprises with a signed NDA, her mind replayed every second of the strange, surreal encounter like a looped nightmare. Or was it a dream? A man she barely knew—powerful, cold, intimidating—had just proposed a one-week marriage. In exchange, her brother's life would be saved.
She didn't remember the ride back home. Her legs had moved on autopilot, her heart pounding, stomach in knots. Once in her apartment, she stared at the bare walls and the folder of sketches she had carried like a shield. The same sketches Lucien Thorn barely glanced at.
She should have felt shame. Maybe even fear. But instead, a strange calm settled over her. If she was going to do this, she had to go in with eyes open. Emotions wouldn't save her brother. Action would.
At 8:00 a.m. sharp, a luxury black car pulled up in front of her run-down building, its tinted windows concealing whoever was inside. A suited driver stepped out and opened the door for her without a word. Jasmine climbed in, her fingers wrapped tightly around the single duffle bag she'd packed. One week. That was the deal.
The ride was silent. Her fingers tapped against her leg nervously, eyes darting to the sleek black leather interior. This wasn't her world—this was Lucien Thorn's. Clean, polished, and emotionally sterile.
By the time they reached his estate, Jasmine was speechless.
The mansion rose from the hills like a fortress—modern architecture fused with elegance and a cold sense of power. Steel, glass, and marble glistened beneath the morning sun, but not a single flower grew on the grounds. Everything was too neat, too symmetrical. A world without warmth.
Lucien waited by the entrance, dressed in another tailored suit—this one dark gray with a silk pocket square. His expression was unreadable as always. When she stepped out of the car, he didn't smile. Didn't speak. Just turned and walked inside.
She followed him.
The interior was even more impressive. Open space. Art installations she recognized from high-end galleries. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Cold luxury. Not a single photo on the walls. No family portraits. No sign of life beyond what money could buy.
Lucien led her to a sunken lounge that overlooked the private pool and cityscape beyond.
"We begin now," he said flatly. "The media will get wind of our engagement in twelve hours. Marriage in seventy-two."
Jasmine blinked. "You already filed for a marriage license?"
Lucien nodded. "My legal team handles the logistics. Your signature will be needed by this afternoon. Our public image must be flawless. Paparazzi will be involved. Press releases. You'll be briefed before every event."
She crossed her arms, suddenly realizing the weight of what she had agreed to. "I assume there are… rules?"
He handed her a folder. "Read it. Sign it."
She opened it slowly. Inside were printed pages detailing behavioral expectations, schedules, and a section titled Physical Boundaries.
She glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. "You expect me to share your bed?"
"No," he said immediately. "That isn't part of the agreement."
Relief flickered in her chest.
"But," he added, "we must appear convincing. Intimacy will be suggested in public. Hand-holding, light touches, occasional displays of affection."
Jasmine felt her cheeks warm.
"You're cold and distant. How exactly do you expect to sell a passionate relationship?" she asked, unable to stop herself.
Lucien's eyes fixed on her. "Acting. You're not the only one with something at stake, Miss Lane."
She frowned. "And what exactly is at stake for you?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, Lucien turned toward the grand staircase, his tone reverting to that emotionless cadence she was starting to hate.
"You'll be assigned a stylist. Your wardrobe must reflect your new status. You'll be relocated to the east wing. A maid will assist you. Do not enter the west wing unless invited."
Jasmine felt like she was stepping into a real-life fairytale—with a cursed prince and a tower she wasn't allowed to climb. She followed him upstairs without further protest, her mind spiraling with questions she wasn't sure she wanted the answers to.
He opened a door, revealing a spacious bedroom that looked like something from a luxury magazine. Cream and gold furnishings, minimalist design, and an adjoining bathroom that was bigger than her entire apartment.
"Your room," he said. "Get comfortable. Dinner is at seven. There will be a photographer."
She spun around, her voice rising. "You're having a photo shoot over dinner?"
"Paparazzi will be stationed discreetly nearby. The photos will leak to media by midnight. We need authenticity."
She felt her jaw tighten. "You're really good at controlling everything, aren't you?"
Lucien gave her a look that could freeze oceans. "Control keeps people alive."
With that, he turned and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.
---
The hours passed quickly.
A stylist arrived with racks of designer gowns, heels, and accessories. Jasmine was measured, fitted, and made up like a Hollywood starlet. They chose a deep emerald evening gown that hugged her curves modestly but effectively, paired with subtle gold jewelry.
By the time she descended the marble staircase that evening, the sun had already dipped below the horizon, casting a golden hue across the estate.
Lucien was waiting in the dining room.
When he saw her, something flickered in his gaze—so fast she almost missed it. Admiration? Or just calculation?
"You clean up well," he said simply.
Jasmine lifted her chin. "So do you."
The dining room was intimate, with a long glass table set for two. Candles flickered. Soft instrumental music played in the background. Jasmine wasn't sure if it was meant for ambiance or the press outside.
They sat across from each other, a three-course meal served wordlessly by staff.
Halfway through dinner, Lucien finally spoke. "The reason for this arrangement isn't public knowledge. If anyone asks, you are an old acquaintance I reconnected with by chance."
"And the real reason?" she asked.
His fork paused mid-air. "Not your concern."
Silence stretched between them like a chasm.
Finally, Jasmine said, "You said you don't care about paintings, but you kept several in your office."
His gaze lifted. "I said I don't buy them. Everything in my office belonged to someone else."
"You don't collect anything?"
"I collect silence."
She blinked, unsure if he was serious.
He set his utensils down. "Tell me something personal. Something only a wife would know."
Jasmine hesitated, then said, "I talk in my sleep. And I'm scared of drowning."
Lucien studied her. "Why drowning?"
She shrugged. "My father died in a boating accident. I was eight. After that, I couldn't even take a bath without panicking. Still can't swim."
He nodded once, storing the information like it was data to be filed.
She leaned in. "Your turn."
Lucien looked away. "No."
"You want a convincing wife, but you won't let me know you?"
He didn't answer. But in that moment, she saw something—something raw behind the façade. Loneliness. Regret. Or maybe just emptiness.
Before she could press further, a flicker from the window drew her attention. Flashbulbs.
Paparazzi.
Lucien reached across the table and gently took her hand.
The contact sent a jolt through her. His fingers were warm, firm. His face remained unreadable, but she saw it in his eyes. The shift. The performance had begun.
He stood, walking around the table, then reached for her waist. Jasmine followed his lead, letting her head rest on his shoulder as they stood by the window, perfectly framed for the lenses outside.
"Smile," he murmured against her ear.
She did.
But inside, her world was spinning.
This wasn't just a lie.
This was a game.
And Lucien Thorn was playing for something far greater than money or reputation.