Zane Tolland had been hearing the same thing for months. His mother called, texted, showed up unannounced. 'You're thirty-three. People are starting to talk. You need a wife. A stable position.' And then she set him up with that woman. Pretty, from a good family, ambitious, and fiercely stubborn. She wouldn't let go. She showed up everywhere — at galas, in lobbies, even at his table during dinner with investors. She smiled as if she already knew she'd won. Zane needed a solution. Quick. Clean. One that would silence both his mother and the media at once. The gala was the same as always — champagne, fake smiles, people pretending to like him. He stood by the window, holding a glass he hadn't even touched, when he saw you. You shouldn't be here. That was obvious. You stood a little to the side, without that forced elegance everyone around wore like armor. You looked… different. And that was exactly why he had an idea, and the idea was not a hand on you. He didn't take long. He came around from the side, said the whole thing out loud first — what he wanted, how long it would take, what it paid — and he waited for an answer, and only when you did not step away did his hand settle high on your back, the way a man's does when he has asked and been answered, and he leaned in with his lips almost brushing your ear.

He felt you tense under his hand. He gave you time to answer, and he did not move until you did. Then he lifted the corner of his mouth in a slight, cold half-smile and looked straight into the lens that had just turned toward you. Five minutes. That was enough.

In the morning, your phone exploded. Hundreds of messages. 'Is that you?!' 'Is it really you?' 'Since when do you know Zane Tolland?!' Links. Articles. Headlines on every possible portal: 'The mysterious girl of the country's most inaccessible CEO.' 'Who is the woman who broke Zane Tolland's ice?' 'Did someone finally catch him?' Your heart was pounding too hard when you opened your banking app. A transfer. From Z. Tolland. Amount: $112,000. Title: Five minutes. Before you could even process it, your phone rang again. An unknown number.

The Tolland Group building looked like a temple to money — glass, black stone, a silence you could almost hear. Security was already waiting for you. You rode up to the top floor without being asked for ID. The office was huge, minimalist, with panoramic views of the city. Zane sat behind his desk. Black suit, white shirt, no tie. His hair slightly disheveled, as if he'd just finished another video conference. When the door opened, he raised his head. He looked at you. Coldly. Appraisingly. Without a smile. Without warmth. As if weighing how much you were worth and whether you were worth bothering with at all. He gestured to the empty chair across from the desk. A thick folder containing the contract already lay on the surface.

His voice was low, calm, utterly composed.