The city skyline stretched out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of Volkov Enterprises, glittering like diamonds against the night. But Isabella Romano wasn't here to enjoy the view — she was here to sell her soul.
She clutched her handbag tighter, trying to still the tremble in her fingers as the heavy office door closed behind her. It was so quiet she could hear her heartbeat.
Dominic Volkov stood behind a glass desk, all sharp edges and stillness. His tailored navy suit was perfectly crisp, like everything else about him — controlled, detached, and untouchable.
"Miss Romano," he said, not bothering to look up from the tablet in his hand. "Sit."
She did. Because saying no to Dominic Volkov wasn't something people did — not if they wanted to survive in his world.
"I assume you know why you're here," he said finally, eyes cold as steel.
She swallowed hard. "The money."
"Five million. Paid in full at the end of twelve months. Marriage. In public, we're the perfect couple. In private, we don't exist to each other."
She blinked. "Why me?"
Dominic looked up then — and for a moment, she thought she saw something flicker in his eyes. Pain? Bitterness? But it vanished in an instant.
"Because you're drowning. And I need a wife on paper, not a woman who'll cling."
Isabella's jaw tightened. "You think I'd fall for you?"
He leaned forward. "Everyone does. Eventually."
She almost laughed — a bitter, hollow sound. "You're that confident?"
"No. I'm that experienced."
He slid the contract across the table.
Clause 1: No intimacy.
Clause 2: No emotional involvement.
Clause 3: Public appearances required.
Clause 4: One year.
She hesitated. "What happens if I break a rule?"
"You won't," he said simply. "Because you need the money more than you need your pride."
Her hands shook as she signed. And in that moment, something inside her cracked — the part that still believed in happy endings.
He stood, extended a hand. "Welcome to your new life, Mrs. Volkov."