Terms of My Heart

The sharp click of Louboutins echoed like war drums across the marble floor of Sterling & Vale's top-floor boardroom.

Alina Sterling didn't walk, she commanded.

At twenty-eight, she was the youngest self-made billionaire in the city. And she wore that title like armor. Her dark hair was twisted into a sleek knot, her eyes lined with razor precision, and her expression was cool steel. Beauty with a brain, and the board knew better than to underestimate her.

Which is why their betrayal sliced through her like glass.

"Married," she repeated, voice clipped, every syllable laced with fury. "You want me to get married? or hand over my company to that snake?"

Across the table, Uncle Gregory leaned back in his chair, smug as ever. A vulture in a custom suit. "It's not personal, Alina. Your father's will was clear. A married heir keeps the company. Otherwise, it reverts to family hands."

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. Of course it came to this.

"Then I'll get married," she snapped.

Gregory's smile widened.

"But not to someone you pick."

Because Alina didn't believe in love. Not anymore. Not in a world where contracts mattered more than loyalty and betrayal came wrapped in blood ties and boardroom handshakes. Love was weakness, and weakness got you devoured.

That night, rage still simmering in her veins, Alina found herself in the last place anyone would expect: a dive bar on the city's edge.

Leo's Tavern reeked of spilt liquor and shattered dreams. Neon signs buzzed overhead like dying fireflies. It was the kind of place where no one asked questions and everyone was running from something.

Including her.

She took a seat at the far end of the bar, legs crossed, her black silk dress hugging her like a whispered secret. Her phone buzzed again on the counter, Gregory. She flipped it face-down without a glance and raised a hand for a drink.

The bartender walked over, pausing as his gaze swept over her clutch, her dress, her diamond watch.

"You sure you're in the right place, Miss Vogue?" he asked, brow raised.

She didn't even blink. "You always talk to customers like that, or just the ones who tip better than your rent?"

That earned a slow, crooked grin.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and blue-collar handsome. Late twenties, maybe. Rugged in a way that whispered of bar fights and bad decisions. His hands looked like they knew work. His jawline looked like it could cut glass.

"Whiskey?" he asked.

"Neat. The good stuff..if you've got it."

He turned to pour, but someone jostled him from behind. The glass slipped. Crashed.

A splash of brown liquid stained her blouse, dripping down the silk like a slow insult.

For a moment, the entire bar went silent.

Alina stood slowly, holding the edge of the ruined top between two fingers. Her expression was ice.

"Do you have any idea how much this costs?"

The bartender winced. "Enough to feed a small country, I'm guessing?"

"Two," she replied coldly.

He grabbed a towel, reaching out to dab, but she caught his wrist mid-air, light touch, sharp eyes.

"Touch me again, and I'll buy this bar just to shut it down."

His mouth curved into a grin. "You talk like you could."

"I can," she said simply. "And I would."

He didn't back down. Didn't flinch. Just watched her with that infuriating smirk. "So what's a woman like you doing in a place like this?"

Her gaze flicked to the bottle behind him. Her voice dropped, smoky and low. "Looking for a mistake."

His grin widened as he stepped back. "Well. Congratulations. You found one."

It hit her like lightning. An idea so insane it felt perfect.

Maybe it was the scotch. Maybe it was the fury. Or maybe it was the way he looked at her, like she wasn't the most dangerous person in the room.

"What's your name?" she asked.

He blinked. "Jesse."

"Jesse what?"

"Kane. Why?"

Alina leaned in, voice calm and deliberate. Her eyes didn't waver.

"Because, Jesse Kane, I have a business proposition for you."

He narrowed his eyes, curiosity stirring. "I don't do... business with women like you."

She smiled, a slow curve full of challenge. "One year. You marry me. We make it legal. You play the part of the devoted husband. At the end, you get your cut... and you vanish."

He blinked. "That's the deal?"

"That's the deal."

"What's the catch?"

Alina met his gaze without flinching.

"You don't fall in love with me."

Jesse's smile turned wicked. "Deal."

Jesse Kane had been in some strange situations. Fistfights. Evictions. A road trip with a goat once.

But this? Sitting in a high-rise office overlooking the skyline, across from a woman who looked like a luxury brand come to life, watching her slide a thick legal contract across a glass table?

This was a new level of insane.

Alina Sterling didn't even blink. "Read it."

Jesse leaned back in the leather chair. It was stupid expensive-probably cost more than his yearly income-and yet he felt like he belonged in it. Maybe because she was watching him like he was a stock she hadn't decided to buy yet.

He picked up the contract and skimmed. The basics hit him first:

One-year marriage.

Public appearances.

No romantic entanglements outside the agreement.

A $500,000 payout upon successful completion.

He whistled low. "You really weren't kidding."

"I don't have time to kid," she said, standing and walking to the window. Her heels clicked with that same lethal rhythm. "I have thirty days before the board forces me to hand over my company to a man who thinks women should fetch coffee, not run empires."

"And you want to fool them by marrying me?"

She turned slowly, arms crossed. "I want to buy time. You just happen to be... convenient."

He gave her a half-smile. "I should be insulted."

"You should be flattered. I don't trust people, Jesse. But you? You're nobody. No connections. No ties. No ambitions that threaten mine."

Jesse raised a brow. "Wow. Romance really is dead."

Alina's lips twitched. Almost a smile. "This isn't romance. It's a business deal."

He looked at the bottom of the contract. There was a blank space next to her signature.

His fingers hovered over the pen. "Why me? Why not some actor? Someone polished."

She met his gaze dead-on. "Because actors want cameras. You want money. I can control that."

The room went quiet. The city hummed outside, lights flickering like distant stars.

Then he picked up the pen, twirled it once, and signed his name.

"Guess I'm your husband now," Jesse said with a grin. "What's next? A prenup or a honeymoon?"

She walked over, leaned down close enough for him to catch the scent of expensive perfume and danger.

"We make the world believe that we are in love."

Jesse had never seen so much marble in his life.

The Sterling Estate wasn't a house-it was an empire wrapped in glass, stone, and designer silence. From the black iron gates guarded by actual men in suits, to the sprawling circular driveway where a fleet of luxury cars glittered in the sunlight, everything screamed one word:

Power.

He stepped inside and nearly tripped over a butler.

"Sir," the man said with a deep nod. "Welcome. I'm Marcus, Miss Sterling's chief house manager."

"Right," Jesse said, glancing at the staff lined up along the hall like soldiers awaiting inspection. "You've got... a small army."

"They're efficient," Alina said behind him, removing her sunglasses. "I don't believe in doing things twice. Or doing them myself."

Jesse blinked at the gleaming marble floors, the crystal chandeliers, the fresh-cut orchids arranged like art installations.

"You live here alone?" he asked.

Alina walked ahead, heels tapping like a ticking clock. "Alone is underrated."

As they passed through a gallery hallway-lined with modern art that probably cost more than his old neighborhood-Jesse stopped in front of a sculpture that looked like two twisted metal hearts.

"What's this one called?"

"'Affection Fatigue,'" Alina said dryly. "By a French artist who only works during breakups."

"Cheerful."

She shot him a look. "You'll get used to it. Come on."

She led him through another set of doors into a vast dressing chamber-wardrobe didn't even begin to describe it. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held rows of tailored suits, designer shoes, watches that ticked louder than his bank account.

Jesse turned in a slow circle. "Do you dress every boyfriend that walks in here?"

She smirked. "Only the fake ones."

She picked up a dark navy Tom Ford suit and held it to his chest. "This'll do."

He eyed it warily. "That thing costs more than my student loans."

"That's why it's perfect," she said, thrusting it into his arms. "You're about to become the most polished lie the city's ever seen."

As he stepped into the dressing room, Jesse paused and looked back at her. "You know, for someone who says she doesn't believe in love, you sure know how to dress it up."

Alina tilted her head. "I don't need love, Jesse. I need a story the world will believe. And tonight, you're going to play the lead."