The car that arrived outside Amelia's apartment wasn't flashy. It wasn't loud or covered in chrome like she half-expected from someone like Damien Ashford.
Instead, it was sleek and black, understated but commanding attention just the same—like him.
She stood at the curb, a single suitcase at her side, her worn apartment door closing behind her for what might be the last time. For a moment, she stared back at the building: cracked bricks, squeaky stairs, and the small balcony where she and Caleb used to sit and dream bigger than their world allowed.
But dreams didn't pay bills. And today, reality was waiting for her in the backseat of a luxury car.
The driver nodded politely and took her bag. "Miss Hart?"
She hesitated. "It's still Ms. for a few more days."
He smiled. "Of course. This way, please."
The ride was silent—intentionally so. Amelia stared out the window, watching the city pass by, her thoughts oddly still. There was no going back now. The contract was signed. The money transferred. The marriage scheduled.
And yet, something about it didn't feel like a loss. It didn't feel like she was selling her soul.
Not yet.
Ashford Penthouse – Late Morning
Damien's penthouse sat on the top two floors of the tallest residential tower in the city. The elevator opened directly into a sun-drenched living space that could have fit her entire apartment inside the foyer alone.
It wasn't opulent in a loud way. It was curated—every detail from the black marble kitchen to the soft gray furniture spoke of taste, not indulgence. Art lined the walls, abstract and powerful, none of it framed.
Amelia stepped inside, almost afraid to leave footprints.
Damien stood by the window, his posture as still as the skyline behind him. A fresh shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. He turned when she entered, meeting her gaze.
She spoke first.
"I expected gold statues. Or at least a marble fountain shaped like your face."
His mouth curved ever so slightly. "That's in the east wing."
She smiled. It surprised them both.
There was a pause. Then Damien walked over to her—his steps measured but not cold—and nodded at her suitcase.
"Jude, my assistant, will help you settle in. You'll have your own room, complete with an office if you choose to continue working or studying. I assumed you might want that."
The offer wasn't performative. It was thoughtful.
"I appreciate that," she said. "And yes—I'd like to keep working. Even part-time. I… need something that's mine."
He nodded once, not questioning her.
"There's a schedule," he continued. "We'll attend a few events together monthly. Charity galas, dinners, board appearances. It won't be excessive, but they will be public."
"And in private?"
"In private," Damien said, voice level, "you'll have your space. And I'll have mine. I won't interfere in your personal choices. I ask only for mutual respect and honesty. If you're uncomfortable with anything—tell me. I'll do the same."
It wasn't a romantic declaration. It was better.
It was clarity.
She met his gaze. "Agreed. No games. No pretending we're something we're not. Just… honesty."
He extended his hand—not for a handshake, but a quiet agreement between adults making the best of an impossible situation.
Their fingers touched. Briefly.
And in that moment, something passed between them. Not attraction, not yet. But a flicker of recognition. Two people who had learned to live behind walls, choosing—for once—not to raise them higher.
Later That Evening
Her room overlooked the east side of the city, floor-to-ceiling windows wrapping around a space she wasn't sure how to exist in yet. But there was a bookshelf. A proper reading chair. A desk.
And a framed photo on the nightstand—Caleb, smiling. The one she carried in her bag.
She hadn't told anyone she was bringing it.
She stepped out of the room and found Damien in the living area, reading. No television. Just a leather-bound book and a glass of something amber in his hand.
He looked up.
"I didn't expect you to still be awake," he said.
"I could say the same."
He nodded to the empty seat across from him. She accepted.
"I meant to ask," she said gently, "why this marriage clause exists. It seems… unusual."
He didn't flinch.
"My grandfather was a traditionalist. Brilliant, manipulative, and obsessed with the idea that family meant stability. His will states that unless I'm married by the time I turn thirty-two, I forfeit controlling shares in Ashford Enterprises."
She blinked. "That's absurd."
"Completely," Damien agreed. "But legally binding."
"Why not just marry someone you… know?"
His jaw ticked slightly, but his voice stayed calm.
"Because people I know want more than I can give. They see the last name and think of legacy. You see the name and think of a check. I can work with that."
There was no insult in his tone—just plain fact. It might've sounded harsh from someone else.
But from him, it sounded… fair.
Amelia leaned back, watching him. "You know, for someone offering a fake marriage, you're incredibly good at real conversation."
He gave her a sidelong glance. "I find civility efficient."
She smiled. "I find it refreshing."
They sat in silence a while, the quiet not awkward but shared.
Two strangers.
Two adults.
One impossible arrangement.
And yet—for the first time in a long time—Amelia didn't feel like the poor girl surviving on hope.
She felt seen.
And so did he.
🖤Next Chapter Preview:The wedding is simple, elegant, and all over the headlines. But when the world starts watching, can they keep up the perfect lie… without slipping into something real?