Emma's apartment was a studio in Brooklyn that generous people called "cozy" and honest people called "a shoebox with delusions of grandeur." Four hundred square feet of peeling paint, a window that overlooked a brick wall, and a radiator that clanked like it was possessed. But it was hers—or at least, it would be for another two weeks if she couldn't make rent.
She dropped the cardboard box on her secondhand IKEA table and stared at it like it might spontaneously combust. Maybe that would solve her problems. Insurance fraud. She could add it to her growing list of terrible life choices.
Her phone buzzed for the hundredth time that day. She'd been ignoring it, couldn't bear to see another automated reminder about bills she couldn't pay. But this time, curiosity won out.
Unknown number.
She almost declined it. Probably a robocall about her car's extended warranty—never mind that she didn't own a car and couldn't afford one if someone gave it to her for free.
But something made her answer.
"Hello?"
"Miss Laurent?" A woman's voice, professional and crisp. "Please hold for Mr. Sterling."
Emma's brain stuttered. Sterling. The coffee shop. The ruined suit. The coldest eyes she'd ever seen.
"Wait, I don't—"
Click. She was on hold. Classical music played, something by Vivaldi that probably cost more to license than her monthly rent.
What the hell was happening?
"Miss Laurent." That voice. Deep, measured, the kind of voice that was used to being obeyed. "I apologize for the abruptness of this call."
"How did you get my number?" Emma's hand tightened on her phone.
"Your information was on your resume. In the box you dropped."
Right. Her resume. The one she'd printed out last week in a fit of optimism, thinking she might network at some architecture mixer. The one that now seemed like a relic from a different lifetime.
"That's... kind of invasive, actually."
"Perhaps." He didn't sound remotely apologetic. "I have a proposition for you."
Emma laughed—sharp, bitter. "Let me guess. You want me to pay for the suit after all? Because I wasn't joking about the financial situation—"
"I want to offer you a job."
The words landed like a physical blow. Emma sat down hard on her futon-slash-couch-slash-bed, the springs groaning in protest.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I read your resume while I was waiting for my coffee to be remade. Architecture degree from Columbia, top of your class, internship at Dresden & Associates, two years at Morrison & Associates." A pause. "You're overqualified for the positions you've been working."
"Yeah, well, being overqualified doesn't pay the bills." She couldn't keep the bitterness out of her voice. "And clearly Morrison didn't think I was qualified enough to keep around."
"Morrison's a fool." The certainty in his voice caught her off guard. "I looked into it. The Riverside project was yours. Every design element, every calculation. Your colleague presented it as his own work."
Emma's chest tightened. "How could you possibly know that?"
"I make it my business to know things, Miss Laurent. Especially when I'm considering making someone a very lucrative offer."
"I don't understand. You run a tech company. What would you want with an architect?"
"Not for architecture." There was something in his tone she couldn't quite read. "I need someone intelligent, capable of thinking on her feet, and desperate enough to consider an unconventional arrangement."
Every alarm bell in Emma's head started ringing at once. "Okay, this is getting weird. I'm going to hang up now—"
"One million dollars."
Her finger froze over the end call button.
"That's what I'm offering. One million dollars for one year of your time."
Emma's mouth had gone dry. "For what? Because if this is some kind of Pretty Woman situation—"
"I need a wife." He said it like he was ordering office supplies. "Temporarily. For business purposes."
The laugh that escaped her was almost hysterical. "You're insane. You're actually insane."
"I'm serious." Still that calm, measured tone. Like offering a stranger marriage over the phone was perfectly rational. "Meet me tomorrow morning. Eight AM. The address is being texted to your phone now. Hear me out, and if you're not interested, you walk away. No obligations."
"This is crazy—"
"You're three months behind on rent. Your grandmother's medical bills are approaching six figures. You're working three jobs and it's still not enough." His voice softened, just slightly. "What do you have to lose by listening?"
Everything, Emma thought. Her dignity. Her sanity. Whatever shred of self-respect she had left.
But he was right about one thing—she was desperate. And desperate people did stupid things.
"One meeting," she heard herself say. "That's all I'm agreeing to."
"That's all I'm asking." He paused. "And Miss Laurent? Don't research me. Don't Google my name or my company. Come in with fresh eyes. Can you do that?"
It was a strange request, but she was too tired to argue. "Fine."
"Eight AM. Don't be late."
He hung up before she could respond.
Emma sat there, staring at her phone like it had grown a second head. The text came through a moment later—an address in Midtown, one of those buildings where doormen wore white gloves and judged you for breathing their air.
She should delete it. Block the number. Forget this entire surreal conversation happened.
Instead, she set an alarm for six AM.
God, she really was desperate.
Emma had exactly two outfits that qualified as "professional." One was the black pantsuit she'd worn to interviews, now slightly shiny at the knees. The other was a navy dress with a coffee stain on the sleeve that she'd never quite managed to get out.
She chose the pantsuit.
The building's address led her to a sleek glass tower that seemed to pierce the sky. The lobby was all marble and modern art, the kind of place where her student loan debt would feel right at home, drowning in luxury it could never afford.
"Emma Laurent," she told the security guard, who looked her up and down with barely concealed skepticism. "I have an appointment with Mr. Sterling."
He checked his tablet, eyebrows rising slightly. "Penthouse level. Elevator on your right."
The elevator was glass on three sides, offering a view of Manhattan that made Emma's stomach drop as she rose higher and higher. She gripped the railing and tried not to think about what she was doing, meeting a strange man in his penthouse apartment to discuss a marriage proposal like this was a normal Tuesday.
The doors opened directly into the apartment—because of course they did—and Emma stepped into a space that belonged in an architecture magazine. Floor-to-ceiling windows, minimalist furniture that probably cost more than her entire education, art on the walls that might have been original Rothkos.
"Miss Laurent."
She turned, and there he was. Alexander Sterling in the flesh, wearing charcoal gray slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, no tie. He looked different without the ruined suit jacket—younger, maybe, though still carrying himself with that same rigid control.
His eyes were just as cold as she remembered.
"Mr. Sterling." She kept her voice level, professional. "Nice place. Very... tall."
Was that the corner of his mouth twitching? "Thank you. Coffee?"
"Sure." She needed something to do with her hands.
He moved to an espresso machine that looked like it required a PhD to operate, and Emma took the opportunity to study him. Late thirties, maybe. The kind of handsome that came with money and personal trainers and probably a stylist. But there was something else too—a tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes that spoke of too many sleepless nights.
She knew that look. She saw it in her mirror every morning.
"You didn't Google me." It wasn't a question.
"You asked me not to."
"Most people wouldn't have listened." He handed her a small cup of espresso, their fingers not quite touching. "That says something about you."
"That I'm terrible at self-preservation?"
This time, he definitely almost smiled. "Perhaps. Sit."
Emma sat on a leather couch that was more comfortable than her bed. He took the chair across from her, crossing one ankle over his knee in a gesture that was probably unconscious but screamed old money and Ivy League education.
"So," Emma said, gripping her tiny cup. "Marriage. You want to explain that?"
Alexander leaned forward, hands clasped. "I'm in the process of finalizing a major business merger. The other party is... traditional. Family-oriented. They've made it clear they prefer to work with stable, settled individuals."
"And you're not stable or settled?"
"I'm thirty-four and unmarried. In their eyes, that makes me unreliable. Flighty." His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Five years ago, I was engaged. It ended publicly and badly. The tabloids had a field day."
Emma's fingers itched to pull out her phone and Google him. "Okay, so get a girlfriend. Date someone. Why the nuclear option?"
"Because I don't have time to date. Because relationships are messy and unpredictable and require emotional investment I'm not willing to make." He met her eyes directly, unflinching. "Because a contract is clean. Defined. Controllable."
"Romantic."
"This isn't about romance, Miss Laurent. This is about mutual benefit." He picked up a tablet from the side table and tapped it a few times before sliding it across to her. "Those are the terms."
Emma looked down at what appeared to be a actual legal contract. Pages and pages of dense text with headers like "COHABITATION REQUIREMENTS" and "PUBLIC APPEARANCE OBLIGATIONS" and "TERMINATION CLAUSE."
Her eyes caught on a number, and she nearly dropped the tablet.
Two million dollars. Not one. Two.
"You said a million on the phone."
"I did. But I've revised the offer. Two million paid in full at the end of one year. Plus all living expenses covered during the marriage, a housing allowance, and full medical coverage for you and your grandmother."
Emma's hands started shaking. "This is insane. You don't even know me."
"I know enough." He retrieved the tablet, scrolling to a different section. "Twenty-five years old. Columbia graduate. Fired from Morrison & Associates this morning for refusing to participate in plagiarism. Working three jobs to cover your grandmother's medical expenses. No criminal record. No drug use. No social media presence to speak of." He looked up. "You're perfect."
"Perfect for what, exactly? What would I have to do?"
"Live here. Attend events with me. Smile for cameras. Play the role of loving wife in public." His expression was carved from stone. "In private, we maintain separate lives. Separate bedrooms. No expectations of intimacy."
Emma's brain was struggling to process this. "So you want to pay me two million dollars to be your pretend wife for a year."
"Yes."
"And then what? We just... get divorced?"
"Quietly. Amicably. With a very generous settlement that ensures your silence."
She should have said no. Should have stood up, walked out, blocked his number and never thought about this again. This was crazy. This was the kind of thing that happened in books, not real life.
But two million dollars.
Her grandmother's medical bills, paid in full. Her student loans, gone. A cushion, a safety net, a chance to actually pursue architecture on her own terms instead of being ground down by the industry.
"I need time to think," Emma said quietly.
"You have twenty-four hours." Alexander stood, and she realized the meeting was over. "Read the contract thoroughly. Ask questions if you have them. My number is at the top."
Emma stood too, still clutching the tablet like a lifeline. "Why me? Seriously. You could hire an actress, someone beautiful and sophisticated who knows how to work a room—"
"I don't want an actress." For the first time, something flickered in those cold gray eyes. "I want someone real. Someone who won't fall in love with the idea of being Mrs. Alexander Sterling. Someone who sees this for exactly what it is—a business transaction."
"And you think that's me?"
"I think you're a survivor, Miss Laurent. I think you're practical and smart and desperate enough to consider this seriously." He walked her to the elevator, pressed the button. "I think you'll read that contract, calculate the odds, and make the rational choice."
The elevator doors opened. Emma stepped inside, turned to face him.
"And what if the rational choice is no?"
For a moment—just a moment—something almost human crossed his face. "Then I'll respect your decision and wish you well."
The doors started to close.
"Mr. Sterling?" Emma's voice stopped them. "If I do this... if I say yes... I need your word that my grandmother will be taken care of. No matter what."
He nodded once, sharp and certain. "You have it."
The doors closed, and Emma descended back to ground level, back to reality, with a tablet full of impossible promises and a decision that would change everything.
Her phone buzzed. Maya, her best friend, checking in.
How'd the dental reception shift go?
Emma looked at the tablet in her hands, at the contract that promised her an escape from the endless exhaustion, the constant fear, the slow drowning in debt.
I might have found a better opportunity, she typed back. Call you later.
She had twenty-four hours to decide if she was brave enough—or desperate enough—to marry a stranger.
The worst part was, she already knew what her answer would be.