Chapter 1: The Contract
Rain lashed against the grimy windows of the café, transforming the city's neon skyline into a kaleidoscope of distorted light. Ava Sinclair sat alone at a corner table, the sleeve of her threadbare coat damp from where it brushed against the leaking window. Her coffee had gone cold hours ago, forgotten next to the eviction notice she clutched like a lifeline.
"FINAL WARNING. VACATE WITHIN 72 HOURS."
The bold red letters bled into the edges of the cheap paper. Her thumb trembled over the words as her phone buzzed again—another message from her sister, Clara.
Clara: Any luck, Ava? Please… we need that money by Friday. The hospital won't wait.
Ava turned the screen over, face-down. She couldn't bear to look at it. Couldn't bear to hear Clara's voice, bright with pain and hope all at once.
Outside, the city moved on without her—people laughing under umbrellas, rushing toward their next meeting, their next lover, their next cappuccino. Once, she'd been one of them. A rising star in PR, with offers from every elite agency in Manhattan.
Now she was a pariah.
Blacklisted. Betrayed. Alone.
The scandal had ruined her overnight. Someone in her firm had leaked confidential data—high-profile, sensitive information. And somehow, Ava's access code had been used. She had protested. Begged. Fought.
It hadn't mattered. The blame stuck to her like tar. And the real culprit had vanished without a trace.
Her hands curled into fists, the eviction notice crumpling between them.
"Miss Sinclair?"
The voice was crisp. Unfamiliar.
She looked up sharply. A tall man in a dark coat stood beside her table. He looked out of place in the rain-drenched café—impeccably dressed, polished shoes untouched by the grime of the city.
"Who are you?" she asked warily.
"My employer would like to speak with you. Immediately."
Her eyes narrowed. "What employer?"
He placed a card in front of her. Black. No logo. No name. Just a gold-embossed address. A penthouse suite in one of the most elite towers downtown—Vale Tower.
She almost laughed. "Is this some kind of scam? Because if it is, I really don't have time—"
"Miss Sinclair," he interrupted smoothly, "this is not a request."
Her blood ran cold.
Thirty Minutes Later
The elevator climbed faster than she could process. Cold marble walls. Polished chrome. Silent men in suits stood on either side of her, like sentinels.
This wasn't just wealth. This was power—the kind that silenced rooms, erased names, rewrote reality.
She took a steadying breath as the elevator doors opened, revealing a penthouse that could've belonged in Architectural Digest. Floor-to-ceiling glass overlooked the skyline. Black marble floors gleamed beneath her boots. Abstract art adorned the walls, the kind that made you feel like you didn't belong if you had to ask for meaning.
And then she saw him.
A man stood near the glass wall, his back to her. He was dressed in tailored black, his posture unnervingly still. But it was the silver mask that stole her breath.
Half his face was hidden behind it—ornate, almost regal. Cold.
He turned slowly.
"Miss Sinclair," he said, voice smooth, deep.
She crossed her arms. "You dragged me out of a café with armed men. Not exactly polite."
He stepped forward. "I'm Dominic Vale."
Her breath caught.
That name was legend. A tech tycoon turned recluse. Founder of ValeTech. Billionaire ghost. Five years ago, he'd vanished from the public eye after a brutal corporate war no one ever solved.
"This is about a job?" she asked.
"No," he replied. "This is about a marriage."
Ava blinked. "A… what?"
"I want you to marry me. For one year."
A stunned laugh escaped her lips. "Is this a joke?"
He didn't flinch.
"You don't even know me," she added, anger rising now.
"I know everything about you. Ava Sinclair. Age twenty-eight. Former PR executive. Fired, framed. No savings. Blacklisted. One eviction notice away from the streets. And a sister who needs emergency surgery you can't afford."
Her chest tightened. "You've been spying on me."
"I've been researching a solution. One that benefits us both."
She shook her head. "You don't even pretend to be normal."
"Normal is for people who don't have to hide."
He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell his cologne—sharp, clean, expensive.
"I need a wife for one year. One who understands the importance of discretion. One who will not fall in love with me."
She stared, stunned. "You think I'd fall for a man who won't even show his face?"
"I've built empires on knowing human nature. And yours is predictable."
His words stung more than they should have.
He held out a thick envelope. "This contract outlines your compensation. Enough to clear your name. Pay for your sister's treatment. Rebuild your life. The only thing I ask is loyalty, silence—and obedience."
She opened the envelope, eyes scanning the pages. Zeroes that didn't feel real. Clauses that felt like shackles.
Rule One: No falling in love.
Rule Two: No touching the mask.
Rule Three: In public, you are mine. In private, you are nothing.
She closed it, trembling.
"Why the mask?" she whispered. "What are you hiding?"
He didn't answer. Just said, "Say yes, and you'll find out. Say no, and you walk back into a life already crumbling."
"What happened to your last wife?" she asked softly.
Something flickered in his expression—too brief to catch.
"Make your choice," he said, turning his back. "But once you sign, there's no turning back."
Ava stared at the pen on the table. At the man who was both her lifeline and her doom.
And then she signed.
---
Twelve Hours Later
The wedding was over in twenty minutes.
No guests. No flowers. Just signatures, a ring, and two people who didn't speak.
She wore a sleek black dress. He wore the mask.
Afterward, they were driven in silence to an estate outside the city. A sprawling mansion surrounded by forest and gates that locked behind them with a mechanical hiss.
In their bedroom, he handed her a card.
"Your schedule. Public appearances. Events. Expectations."
She stared. "You really think you can control me like I'm some glorified accessory?"
He leaned in, his voice low, dangerous. "You agreed to the terms, Mrs. Vale. Try not to forget that."
She met his gaze—what little of it she could see. "Then remember this: I may have signed that contract, but I don't belong to anyone. Not even you."
Something shifted behind the mask. Approval? Amusement? She couldn't tell.
He left without another word.
Later That Night
She lay alone in the massive bed, staring at the high ceiling.
The silence was thick. Smothering.
She should feel safe. But she didn't.
Not in a house where every hallway had cameras. Not with staff who avoided eye contact and whispered behind closed doors. Not when her husband of twelve hours slept in a separate wing—and refused to ever be seen without his mask.
She closed her eyes, exhaustion pulling at her. But just as she drifted—
A voice.
Low. Urgent.
From the hallway outside.
"…She signed it. The new Mrs. Vale. But I still think she's a risk."
A pause.
"If she finds out what really happened to the last wife, we're all dead."
Ava's eyes flew open.
And for the first time, she realized—
She hadn't just signed a contract.
She'd walked into a trap.
To Be Continued…