The letter was taped to her door.
Ariana Blake stood in the narrow hallway of her walk-up apartment building, clutching two grocery bags and already sweating through her shirt, when she saw the bold red letters:
FINAL NOTICE – EVICTION PENDING
Her stomach dropped.
The bags slipped from her fingers, one landing with a dull thud, a bruised apple rolling across the scratched linoleum. She didn't even chase it. She just stared at the paper taped haphazardly to her peeling green door.
FINAL.
She'd known it was coming. She'd been dodging her landlord's calls for a week. But seeing it there, in writing, made the denial shatter completely.
"Damn it," she whispered.
A door creaked open behind her. "Don't tell me that's what I think it is."
Maya Rodriguez, Ariana's best friend and part-time guardian angel, peeked out from across the hall in her leopard-print robe. Her hair was in rollers and she was holding a mug that read World's Most Tired Nurse.
Ariana managed a weak smile. "If you're thinking eviction notice, bingo."
Maya stepped into the hallway and took one of the bags from Ariana's feet. "Girl, you need a break. Or a sugar daddy. Whichever comes first."
"I'll take a working toilet and a steady paycheck," Ariana muttered.
Maya followed her into the apartment—a one-bedroom disaster zone that smelled like paint thinner and old curry. The overhead light flickered again as Ariana flipped the switch.
She peeled the letter off the door with shaking fingers and read the fine print: Vacate within 72 hours or legal action will be pursued. Rent overdue by sixty-four days.
Sixty-four. That sounded so much worse than "two months."
Maya raised an eyebrow as she read over Ariana's shoulder. "I told you to call your mom."
"No," Ariana said flatly.
"She'd help you."
"She'd judge me. Again. I'm not going back to Ohio with my tail between my legs. I left to build something here. I'm not giving up."
Maya didn't push. She walked into the tiny kitchen and began unpacking groceries. "So what's the plan?"
"Same as yesterday," Ariana said, collapsing onto her sagging couch. "Apply to everything, beg for freelance work, sell a kidney if I have to."
Maya shot her a look.
Ariana groaned, pressing a hand to her forehead. "I had a promising lead, actually. Some hotel design firm asked for my portfolio."
Maya perked up. "Really? When?"
"Two days ago. Haven't heard back."
Maya joined her on the couch. "You're one of the most talented designers I know. And I don't just say that because you picked the wallpaper in my bathroom."
Ariana gave her a dry look. "You picked leopard print."
"Exactly. And you made it work."
Despite herself, Ariana smiled.
Her smile faded quickly.
"Maybe it's time I gave up the dream," she murmured. "Take some boring office job, answer phones, just… survive."
"Don't you dare."
Ariana looked over at her.
Maya's voice softened. "You're not just surviving. You're rebuilding. That takes guts. And patience."
Ariana nodded slowly, but her chest still felt heavy.
The thing was, it wasn't just about money. It was about failure. About how many times she'd picked herself up only to fall again. About how each fall hurt a little more.
Her phone buzzed.
She grabbed it from the coffee table and unlocked the screen.
Email. No subject. Unknown sender.
Her heart skipped.
She opened it and her eyes widened.
CONFIDENTIAL OPPORTUNITY – URGENT
It was from Cross International. Cassandra Hale.
Same as yesterday.
The difference was the second email, arriving just beneath it:
Ariana Blake – Background Approved
Approved?
She blinked.
There was an address. A time. 9:00 a.m. The next day.
Her thoughts spun. What had she gotten into?
---
That night, Ariana lay awake in bed, staring at the cracked ceiling and listening to the distant wail of a siren somewhere in the city. The email still sat open on her phone beside her pillow.
Cross International.
It was too surreal.
She'd heard of Leo Cross, of course. Everyone had. The trillionaire with a reputation for ice-cold deals and zero tolerance for emotion. Rumors swirled around him like storm clouds: hostile takeovers, lawsuits, exes with gag orders. The man didn't date—he acquired.
And somehow, she had ended up on his radar?
She didn't sleep much. When she finally drifted off, her dreams were fractured and strange—boardrooms that turned into elevators, contracts written in fire, a man in a suit watching her from the shadows.
---
The next morning, she dressed in her best approximation of professional chic: black slacks, white blouse, her only blazer. She smoothed her curls into a bun and did her makeup like armor. Simple, clean, no-nonsense.
The subway was packed. Her heart raced the entire ride.
By the time she arrived at the towering steel-and-glass headquarters of Cross International, she felt like an imposter.
The lobby was all marble, chrome, and sharp edges. She approached the front desk, heart thudding.
"I'm here for an appointment," she said. "Ariana Blake."
The receptionist nodded without looking up. "Sixty-third floor. Mr. Cross is expecting you."
Her breath hitched.
The elevator whooshed upward. Each floor a countdown to something she didn't understand.
When the doors finally opened, she stepped into a hallway quieter than a tomb. Cassandra Hale waited by a set of glass doors, all sleek hair and sharp heels.
"Ms. Blake. Right on time. Follow me."
Ariana followed her into a private conference room.
And then—he entered.
Leonardo Cross.
The man from the hotel.
She almost choked.
"You!" she blurted. "You're the coffee guy!"
His brow lifted. "You're the one who spilled it."
"You looked… different in the email."
"Emails rarely capture my best angles," he said dryly.
She flushed. "I didn't mean—never mind."
He didn't laugh. But his mouth twitched.
Cassandra gestured toward the chair. "Have a seat, Ms. Blake."
Ariana sat, pulse thundering.
Leo opened a folder and placed it in front of her. "This is not a job offer," he said. "It's a proposal."
"A proposal?" Her stomach turned.
He nodded. "I need a wife."
She stared at him.
"You're joking," she said, voice small.
"I'm not."
She stood. "Is this a prank?"
"No. It's a contract."
Cassandra remained silent.
Ariana looked between them, disoriented. "You don't know me."
"That's the point," he said.
She blinked.
He continued, voice calm and surgical. "My company is merging with Virexion, a family-run firm. Their board inserted a morality clause. They don't trust bachelors. I need to appear married before Friday."
Her mouth opened. No sound came out.
He added, "You were vetted. Your background is clean. No press, no family entanglements, no history of public drama."
"I'm not… someone you can just buy," she said, stunned.
"I'm not offering to buy you," he replied. "I'm offering you financial security, professional connections, and complete discretion."
She laughed—sharp, disbelieving. "You want me to fake marry you for money?"
"Yes."
"And what do I get in return? Besides a panic attack?"
He slid a paper toward her. "The full terms are here. You'll be compensated monthly. All living expenses covered. At the end of the year, you walk away with seven figures and a glowing design endorsement from Cross International."
She stared at the document. She didn't touch it.
"This is insane," she whispered.
"It's business," Leo said simply.
She shook her head. "I don't know what kind of women usually say yes to this kind of thing, but—"
"You're not like them," he interrupted. "That's why I picked you."
The room went quiet.
Her heart thundered. Her mind raced.
This wasn't real.
But the eviction notice in her bag was.
The debt was.
And this man—this cold, unreadable, untouchable man—was holding out a lifeline wrapped in thorns.
She stood, slowly. "You'll get my answer tomorrow."
---