The restaurant was the kind of place where prices weren't printed on the menu.
Crystal chandeliers glowed overhead. Soft piano music drifted through the room, and waiters wove between candlelit tables carrying bottles of champagne that probably cost more than your month's paycheck.
And then there was you.
A broke college student who spent almost every hour outside of class working shifts at a local coffee shop, desperately trying to keep up with your mother's mounting medical bills.
You definitely didn't belong here.
And you definitely didn't belong sitting across from Mr. Falcrest, the ridiculously handsome CEO of Falcrest Enterprises.
"I love someone else—"
His perfectly styled hair, expensive clothes, luxury watch and effortlessly commanding presence practically screamed old money. He looked like the kind of man who had never once checked his bank account before ordering something.
Unfortunately, he also looked like he would rather be anywhere else.
A few days ago, he had approached you with what might have been the strangest proposition you'd ever heard.
Marriage.
Not because he loved you.
Hell, the man barely knew you.
His parents had apparently given him an ultimatum: leave Celia Melrose and marry someone they approved of—or risk losing everything tied to his family.
And somehow, his brilliant solution had been...
you.
Now you were sitting across from him while he poured champagne into your glass and slid a thick stack of papers over the pristine white tablecloth.
You glanced down.
MARRIAGE AGREEMENT.
Oh, boy.
You nearly choked on your champagne.
Your eyes lifted slowly to him.
"Okay,"
you interrupted, fighting back an amused smile.
"Bit of a harsh opening."
His expression barely changed.
Apparently Mr. Personality wasn't interested in jokes tonight.
"If we get married,"
he went on calmly,
"I will never love you."
Your eyebrows rose.
Wow.
Somehow he'd managed to make his opening even worse.
"There will be no real marriage. No romance. No intimacy. Definitely no expectations."
He leaned back slightly, watching you with that infuriatingly calm CEO expression.
"This is an arrangement. Nothing more."
You took another sip of champagne.
At least it was expensive champagne.
"To my parents, my family, the press, and everyone else in this city, you'll be my wife,"
he continued.
"They'll believe we're happily married."
Then his jaw tightened.
"But privately, we live separate lives."
You glanced toward the contract again.
"And why exactly am I volunteering for this disaster?"
His eyes went hard.
"Celia Melrose."
Ah.
Of course.
"My parents refuse to accept her,"
he said.
"They've made their position very clear. If I stay with Celia, they'll cut me off from the family."
You had to physically stop yourself from laughing out loud.
Everyone who had ever heard the name Celia Melrose seemed to have heard something about her. Manipulation. Lies. Scheming. Using people whenever it benefited her.
Frankly, his parents' opinion of Celia might have been the least surprising part of this whole conversation.
What was surprising was that the supposedly brilliant CEO sitting across from you seemed completely blind when it came to her.
Or perhaps he simply didn't want to see it.
Still, you kept that opinion to yourself.
Instead, you set your champagne glass down on the table.
"Mr. Falcrest,"
you said, barely containing your amusement,
"with all due respect..."
You gestured vaguely toward him.
"You really sound like a walking red flag."
For the first time, something moved across his expression.
You pushed your chair back.
"Dinner was lovely, though. Thanks for the free champagne."
You were halfway out of your seat when his next words stopped you cold.
"Two hundred thousand dollars."
You froze.
Slowly, you looked back at him.
He didn't blink.
"A month."
Your hand remained on the back of the chair.
"...Excuse me?"
He pushed the marriage agreement further across the table.
"Two hundred thousand dollars every month for the duration of our marriage."
Your gaze dropped toward the contract.
That kind of money...
Your tuition.
Your rent.
Your mother's hospital bills.
Everything that had been keeping you awake at night could suddenly vanish.
"You'll have access to anything necessary to maintain the appearance expected of my wife,"
he continued.
"Clothes. Transportation. Security. Expenses. None of it comes from your payment."
You sat back down slowly.
Damn him.
Now he had your attention.
He leaned in slightly.
"Your only real job is to stay out of my life."
You picked up the contract and began flipping through the pages.
"We sleep in separate rooms,"
he said.
"You don't interfere with my personal relationships. I don't interfere with yours. Behind closed doors, we're strangers."
Your eyes moved across line after line of legal language.
"And in public?"
His expression became colder.
"In public, you'll behave like my wife."
You looked up.
"My loving, devoted wife,"
he clarified.
"You'll attend events with me. Family dinners. Galas. Business functions. You'll smile for cameras, hold my hand when necessary, and convince everyone that this marriage is real."
A humorless little smile touched the corner of his mouth.
"And they'll believe I adore you."
You just stared at him.
"So basically I become Mrs. Falcrest whenever there's an audience."
"Exactly."
"And when there isn't?"
"We stay out of each other's way."
You leaned back in your seat.
"Charming."
His gaze didn't leave yours.
"And there's one thing you need to understand before you sign anything."
There was suddenly something sharper in his voice.
Something final.
"Celia Melrose is the only woman I will ever love."
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes again.
"You will never replace her. You will never ask me to choose you over her. And whatever happens during this arrangement, you will never mistake our marriage for something real."
Silence settled between you.
The candle flame flickered beside the contract.
Two hundred thousand dollars every month.
Enough to change your whole life.
Enough to help your mother.
Enough to finally stop calculating whether you could afford groceries after paying another hospital bill.
Mr. Falcrest reached into his jacket and placed an expensive fountain pen directly on top of the contract.
Then he slid both toward you.
His eyes locked onto yours.
Cold.
Confident.
Completely convinced he already knew exactly how this marriage would go.
"Two hundred thousand dollars a month,"
he repeated quietly.
"You play my wife in public, stay out of my life in private, and understand that my heart belongs to Celia."
He leaned back, waiting.
"So what's it going to be?"
"Will you marry me?"
His gaze dropped briefly toward the unsigned contract, then came back to you.