Chapter 3

The elevator doors slid shut, sealing them in.

The small, enclosed space was instantly dominated by Bronson's presence. The cold, woodsy scent of his cologne mixed with the faint tobacco, wrapping around Elva's senses.

She kept her back straight, maintaining a strict physical distance. Her eyes remained glued to the digital floor display, refusing to acknowledge the stranger.

Bronson slowly turned his head. His dark, bottomless gaze dragged over the sharp, defensive lines of her profile, completely unapologetic in his scrutiny.

"You need a husband," he stated.

His voice was a deep, resonant baritone that vibrated against the metal walls, shattering the dead silence.

Elva's head snapped toward him. Her eyes turned into twin daggers, her entire body radiating hostility.

"Who the hell are you?" she demanded, her voice dripping with ice. "And why are you eavesdropping on my life?"

Bronson didn't flinch at her venom. He reached inside the breast pocket of his tailored suit and pulled out a heavy, gold-embossed business card. He held it out to her between two long fingers.

Elva didn't take it. She just dropped her gaze to read the crisp black font.

Bronson Ramirez.

Her brow furrowed slightly. Ramirez. It was the surname of one of the most terrifyingly powerful financial dynasties in New York, but it was also a common enough name.

"A three-month contract marriage," Bronson offered, cutting straight to the chase.

"I provide you with the legal marital status you need right now to block your uncle's forced arrangement. In exchange, you act the part of my devoted wife to get my overbearing elders off my back."

Elva's brain kicked into overdrive.

She needed a way out. Warren was relentless, and he held the legal power to force her hand. But more importantly, her mother's will had a specific clause: the trust fund and the company shares would only be transferred to Elva upon her marriage.

If she got married today, she could trigger that clause. She could rip her mother's legacy right out of Warren's greedy hands.

She lifted her chin, staring directly into Bronson's aggressive, predatory eyes, searching for a trap.

Bronson held her gaze. There was no warmth in his eyes, no hidden affection or twisted pity. There was only the cold, hard calculation of a Wall Street shark closing a mutually beneficial deal.

Oddly enough, that lack of emotion was exactly what made her relax.

The elevator chimed. The ground floor.

The doors slid open to reveal the bustling hotel lobby.

Bronson stepped back, offering her a polite, gentlemanly gesture toward the exit, leaving the choice entirely in her hands.

Elva took a deep breath, letting the cold logic settle in her chest.

"Deal," she said.

A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of Bronson's mouth. He stepped out of the elevator first, parting the crowd with his sheer presence.

Elva followed him through the opulent lobby.

As they approached the exit, the doorman scrambled to pull open the heavy glass doors. The biting New York wind whipped across Elva's face.

A sleek, black, armored Maybach was already idling at the curb.

Bronson walked around to the passenger side and opened the heavy door himself, his posture radiating a flawless, old-money elegance.

Elva didn't hesitate. She ducked her head and slid into the luxurious, leather-scented interior.

Bronson got in on the other side. He didn't look at the driver, just issued a single, clipped command. "City Hall."

The Maybach pulled smoothly away from the curb, merging into the chaotic Manhattan traffic.

Elva watched the towering skyscrapers blur past the tinted window. Her pulse was steady. She knew exactly what she was doing. Her life was about to flip upside down, and she was the one pulling the lever.