Chapter 2 The price of yes

Ava Monroe hadn't slept a wink.

She sat on the edge of the guest bed in Julian Blackwell's glass palace, still wearing the oversized T-shirt he'd given her. It smelled like cedarwood and money. The kind of scent you couldn't fake.

Her mind raced. Every hour that passed made his proposition feel more real-and more insane.

Marry me.

It echoed in her head like a warning. Or a dare.

Julian Blackwell didn't ask for anything. He made decisions. Demands. Declarations. And she knew him well enough, after months of tiptoeing around his ruthless moods, that he didn't bluff.

He needed a wife. He wanted her. For a year.

And in return?

Security. Comfort. Safety.

Things she hadn't had in years.

She looked down at her phone. 7:53 a.m. The twenty-four hours he'd given her were almost up.

Julian stood at the kitchen island, dressed in another custom-tailored suit that probably cost more than her student loans. He sipped black coffee, scrolling through a report on his tablet, every line of his body tense and focused.

Ava hovered at the edge of the room like an intruder.

"You look like hell," he said, not looking up.

"Good morning to you too."

He glanced over his shoulder. "Coffee's on the counter. Help yourself."

She walked to it, trying not to let her hands shake as she poured. He turned fully to face her.

"Well?"

She took a long sip. "You don't waste time, do you?"

"Time is money."

Ava exhaled slowly. "I'll do it."

Julian didn't react for a beat. No smile. No thank you.

"Good," he said simply. "I'll have the contract drafted by this afternoon."

"That's it?" she asked. "Just... 'good'?"

"What would you prefer? A ring and a poem?"

Ava rolled her eyes. "A little humanity would be nice."

Julian set down his tablet. "This isn't about feelings, Ava. It's about logistics. Legalities. You needed a solution. I offered one. You accepted. We both get something out of it."

She crossed her arms. "So what now?"

He stepped toward her, and for a second, his eyes softened-just a little.

"Now we make this real."

By noon, Ava was in the back of Julian's town car, staring out the tinted windows as the city blurred past.

"I feel like I'm being kidnapped by a luxury cult," she muttered.

Julian, seated beside her, didn't respond.

They pulled up to a sleek glass building in midtown, home to the Blackwell Law Group. The entire top floor was owned by Julian's private legal team. Ava had only seen it once, when she delivered files. It had the sterile feel of a place where people signed away their souls.

Inside, a lawyer named Mr. Danner-tall, bald, and terrifyingly precise-placed a thick document in front of her.

"The marriage contract outlines expectations on both ends," he explained. "No legal separation or divorce for twelve months. Discretion is paramount. Ms. Monroe will be given a monthly stipend, access to a secured residence, and health coverage."

Ava flipped through the pages. "Do I get a say in anything?"

"You may request amendments before signing," Danner replied, "but Mr. Blackwell has final discretion."

Of course he does.

Julian leaned in. "Everything in that contract protects us both."

She paused. "And what happens if I break a clause?"

Julian's jaw tensed. "Then everything ends. You walk away with nothing. And I lose everything."

The weight of it pressed down on her. This wasn't pretend. It was a trap, gilded and velvet-lined, but a trap nonetheless.

She picked up the pen.

"You're sure about this?" she asked softly, searching his face.

For once, his eyes didn't look like cold steel. "Yes."

So she signed.

The wedding happened the next morning.

No dress. No guests. No champagne. Just a courthouse, a judge in a bad tie, and the click of a pen on paper.

Ava wore a borrowed black blazer. Julian wore control like armor. He didn't flinch. He didn't hesitate. He didn't even look at her during the vows.

She stole a glance at his hands. His fingers didn't tremble when he slid the ring onto her finger.

Ava felt everything and nothing all at once.

They returned to the penthouse in silence.

Julian poured a glass of scotch and handed her a set of keys.

"That one's yours," he said, nodding to the hallway on the left. "The room's furnished. Closet is empty. Use the card I gave you to buy what you need."

Ava stared at the ring on her hand. Simple. Silver. Like the lie they just agreed to.

"This doesn't feel real."

"It isn't."

A strange ache bloomed in her chest. "Then why does it hurt?"

Julian didn't answer.

That night, Ava lay in the massive guest room, staring at the ceiling. The sheets smelled like lavender and wealth. Everything in the apartment was beautiful and cold and impersonal-except for the single book on the nightstand.

A well-worn copy of The Great Gatsby.

She picked it up and flipped through the pages. A line was underlined:

"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

Ava frowned.

For a man who claimed not to feel, Julian Blackwell read some painfully emotional literature.

She set the book down and closed her eyes, the contract echoing in her head.

Do not fall in love.

Too bad rules were easier to write than follow.

The next morning, Ava emerged to find Julian already dressed, phone to his ear, barking orders to someone.

When he ended the call, he turned to her. "We have an event tonight."

"Event?"

"Corporate gala. Media will be there. You'll need something formal."

Her stomach twisted. "You mean I have to-"

"Pretend," he said, cutting her off. "Smile. Laugh at my jokes. Look at me like you adore me."

"That's not hard," she muttered under her breath.

He paused. "What?"

"Nothing."

Julian reached into his wallet and handed her a sleek black credit card.

"Personal stylist will meet you at Bloomingdale's at noon. You'll need a dress, shoes, makeup, everything. Don't embarrass me."

Ava snatched the card. "God forbid I ruin the fantasy."

He stepped closer. Close enough for her to smell his cologne-sharp and intoxicating.

"This is our reality now," he said quietly. "So play your part."

Ava's heart pounded, but she didn't look away.

"I hope you're good at pretending, Julian."

He smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"I've been pretending my whole life."