Ty.
I watched her closely, saw the way her jaw tightened as she swallowed back the words she really wanted to say. My eyes danced with amusement; I didn't even bother to hide it. She was furious, humiliated, and clearly trying not to let it show. It was almost... entertaining.
Not that I truly believed she intended to steal my phone. I couldn't care less about that. Hell, even if she did, I'd get it back if I wanted it back. I own this hotel, after all. Nothing goes missing here; no one has ever complained that they forgot something here and did not find it. I've spent years building this place to be as efficient and unbreakable as the empire I intend to keep growing.
No, this wasn't about the phone.
It was about backing her into a corner. Seeing how she responded under pressure. Pushing buttons, her pride, her fear, her limits. Maybe that makes me a bastard. Fine. I've been called worse. It doesn't change anything.
Because right now, I'm the one in a corner.
And I need a wife.
Fast.
There's a major contract on the table, one that could elevate my company to a whole new level. But along with that opportunity comes a spotlight I don't particularly want shining on my past.
Three years ago, everything nearly fell apart. A scandal broke out, one I had absolutely nothing to do with. But the timing was perfect, too perfect. I was accused, dragged through the mud, and for a while, it felt like the entire business world had turned its back on me. By the time I discovered it was all orchestrated by a rival trying to tank my reputation, the damage had already been done. My name was cleared legally, but in the court of public opinion, things are never that simple.
Sure, I cleaned it up. I salvaged what I could, rebuilt what they tried to destroy. But one thing stuck: the image. The playboy reputation. The rumors, the women, the nightlife. They've clung to me like a second skin, and no amount of press releases or charity events has managed to strip it off.
That kind of image doesn't go unnoticed in the corporate world. Investors might smile at the numbers, but boardrooms are full of traditionalists, people who still believe that a man with a wife is a man they can trust with their money. Stability. Respectability. Control.
And so, here I am, back in the spotlight again. My business is on the line. This contract could change everything or destroy what I've fought so hard to rebuild.
I don't believe in love. I don't need a soulmate. But I do need a wife. A well-timed, well-behaved, perfectly ordinary wife. Someone who looks the part and plays it well enough to make the world stop asking questions.
If marriage is the only thing standing between me and everything I've worked for, then fine.
Let's get it over with.
Getting a woman? That's never been a problem. My contact list reads like a who's who of Manhattan's most beautiful women, socialites, influencers, models, and heiresses. I've slept with more of them than I can remember, and most would gladly marry me in a heartbeat if I asked.
But that's exactly the problem.
They'd want things: love, exclusivity, a piece of my soul I'm not willing to give. They'd expect candlelight and soft words and some grand emotional payoff. I'm not interested in any of that. Never have been. Love? It's a nice word people use to mask need, obsession, or fear of loneliness. I've never seen it last; hell, most people don't even love their own families. So why expect it from strangers?
Sure, women like to believe it's real. I've had enough of them tell me they love me. Some were even convinced I felt the same, just because I know how to touch a woman like she matters. I appreciate the female body; it's a work of art. And I worship it with the reverence it deserves. That doesn't mean I want forever.
Which brings me back to her.
What I need isn't love. It's control. Agreement. A transaction.
I want someone desperate. Someone I can bind to me with paper and money, not promises and emotion. Someone who won't demand more than I'm offering, someone who can't afford to.
And she… she might be perfect.
I heard her earlier, on the phone, speaking softly near the window. I hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but her voice carried, and I'm always listening. Something about a brother in the hospital. Urgency in her tone. Pain in her eyes.
People like her, maids, workers scraping by, they all need money. But this one? She needs it now. She's drowning.
Which means I have two things I can use to corner her: desperation… and the illusion of rescue.
Call me what you want.
But I always get what I want.
"I intended to send it to the lost and found section," she said softly, the mischievous glint that had flickered in her eyes moments before now completely gone. Her tone had shifted, calmer and more reserved. There was a quiet dignity in her voice, the kind you hear from people who are used to being misunderstood but no longer waste energy defending themselves.
Perfect.
My plan was about to begin.
"I heard your conversation on the phone," I said, letting the words drop slowly, watching her every reaction. "You need money, and I'm in a position to help. Also, I'm willing to forget the fact that you almost walked away with my phone."
Her head jerked up slightly, her brows knitting, but her voice remained even.
"I wasn't going to steal," she replied with quiet firmness, no hint of fear in her eyes, just tired defiance.
I offered her a practiced smile, one of the many I kept for moments like this, polished and persuasive.
"Let's say I believe you," I said smoothly. "Regardless, my offer still stands."
She narrowed her eyes. "What's the catch?"
Smart girl, I thought. At least she understood that no one handed out help without a reason. Nothing is ever truly free, not in Freetown, not anywhere in this world.
"We get married," I said, watching her face carefully. "A marriage of convenience. No strings. Just a contract between two people who need something."
"Hmmm…" she murmured, not quite surprised but far from convinced.
That was when I really looked at her, truly looked.
She wasn't the kind of beautiful that turned heads in a crowd. No. Hers was the quiet kind of beauty, the sort that didn't demand attention but held it anyway. Her skin was smooth and warm-toned, glowing even beneath the harsh yellow lighting of the hotel room. Her lips were full, unpainted, and slightly chapped, the kind of mouth that probably rarely smiled these days.
Her eyes, they were what struck me most. Large and dark, like pools of ink, with a stillness that felt unnatural for someone so young. She didn't blink often, and there was no softness there, only exhaustion and something else: resolve.
Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, a few strands falling around her cheeks in a way that made her look unintentionally elegant. There was no trace of luxury on her, no jewelry, no perfume, no manicured hands. Just a plain maid's uniform and the faint scent of lemon cleaner clinging to her skin.
Life had humbled her. That much was clear. And yet, she hadn't broken.
Perfect.
She stared at me, unblinking, as if trying to decide whether I was insane or, worse, serious.
"A marriage?" she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. The word hung in the air like smoke, foreign, unbelievable.
I could see the war playing out behind her eyes. Her face remained still, but her fingers tightened slightly around the hem of her apron. She was thinking fast, calculating how far was too far when your back was against the wall.
"I don't even know you," she said finally, though her voice had lost some of its bite.
"I'm not asking for your heart," I replied smoothly. "Just your signature and maybe a smile when necessary."
Her lips parted slightly as if she were about to argue, but then… nothing. Just silence. Her eyes flicked away, toward the floor, then the ceiling, then the window, like she was searching for something, maybe an answer, or maybe a way out.
"My brother," she said quietly, almost to herself. "He needs surgery. They said, if we wait too long, he might not walk again."
I said nothing. I didn't need to. The silence was her space to break.
"I've been working double shifts, skipping meals, and sleeping four hours a night, just trying to gather a fraction of what we need. And it's still not enough." She swallowed, her throat visibly moving. "So you want to help me. In exchange for what? A ring? A last name?"
"A contract," I repeated, my voice calm and controlled. "Legally binding. For a fixed period, long enough to convince the world this is real, short enough not to trap either of us. You'll play the role of the loving, devoted wife in public. At events. Around business associates. With the media. You'll wear the ring, smile when needed, and stand by my side."
I paused, letting the weight of my words settle before continuing. "In return, you'll be paid generously. Not just a one-time fee. You'll receive a full settlement once the agreement is fulfilled, and in the meantime, you'll get a monthly allowance. Enough to live comfortably. More than comfortably."
I stepped a little closer, watching her carefully.
"You'll still have your freedom, as long as it doesn't interfere with the image we're creating. You do you; I do me. We live under the same roof, but we're not expected to play house behind closed doors, unless, of course, it's necessary for appearances."
She remained still, her eyes unreadable, but I could tell she was listening, really listening now.
"As for your brother," I added, softening my tone just enough to cut through the tension, "I'll cover his surgery. Move him to a private, state-of-the-art hospital. Get him the best surgeon available. After that, I'll arrange for a proper rehabilitation center, private, clean, and peaceful. He'll have his own room, a personal nurse, everything he needs."
Her lips parted, but no words came. "You'll also have access to anything you need," I went on. "Clothes, a car, even an education, if you want it. You'll live life with freedom, but a curated kind of freedom. I won't control you, but you will have to consider the image I need you to portray. How you present yourself will matter, because your image becomes mine."
I gave her one final look, measured and direct. "It's not a fairy tale. It's a transaction. But it's a transaction that could save your brother's life and change yours forever."
She laughed, but it wasn't a happy laugh; it was short, brittle, and tinged with disbelief.
"Just like that," she murmured. "From cleaning your sheets to wearing your ring."
Her eyes rose to meet mine again, and this time, they weren't calm. They were burning.
"You think because I'm desperate, I'll say yes without thinking. You think because I wear this uniform, you can throw me a bone, and I'll wag my tail in return."
I stayed quiet, letting her vent.
Then her shoulders sagged. The fire dimmed, swallowed up by fatigue.
"But you're right," she whispered. "I am desperate."
She looked down at her hands, pale against the dark fabric of her apron.
"So what's in the contract?"