The pen clattered on the glass table like a gun dropped after a duel.
Evangeline Hart sat back in her chair, arms crossed, brown eyes narrowed at the pristine contract in front of her. Around them, the top floor of Lockwood Tower gleamed with surgical precision—cool marble, chrome fixtures, the distant hum of city life buffered by triple-glazed windows. But at this moment, it felt like a war room.
Across from her sat the man himself: Grayson Lockwood. Unsmiling. Impeccably dressed. Equal parts Wall Street statue and volcanic pressure, neatly disguised behind a charcoal-gray three-piece suit and storm-gray eyes.
"You're not signing?" he asked, voice low and level, as if the idea hadn't occurred to him that anyone might dare to say no.
"I read every clause," Evangeline said coolly. "Twice."
"And?"
"I'm not a houseplant you can water once a week and ignore the rest of the time."
Grayson blinked. The only sign of surprise.
"I don't believe the agreement specified plant care."
"I don't believe you understand what 'cohabitation' means."
She tapped a fingernail on Paragraph 6, Section B:
'No requirement for physical intimacy, shared activities, or personal interaction unless publicly necessary.'
"In case you missed it," she added, "you're asking me to be a ghost-wife who appears for gala photos and disappears afterward. That's not marriage. That's a marketing campaign."
His eyes flicked to the page. "This isn't about love. It's about optics. My foundation is under review by the board. Married CEOs look more stable. Less... volatile."
She tilted her head. "And you thought the best way to appear emotionally balanced was to marry a stranger?"
"Not a stranger. A professional. One with no romantic history with me, no social scandals, no family leverage. A clean slate."
Evangeline laughed—short, unladylike, utterly delighted.
"So I'm your reputation rehab project?"
He didn't flinch. "You need this too."
She went still.
His voice dropped, precise and quiet: "You're three weeks behind on rent at your design studio. You lost two high-profile clients this quarter. And your ex-fiancé is getting married this fall... to your former business partner."
Her jaw clenched. "You did a background check on me."
"I do due diligence on vendors. Why would my fake wife be an exception?"
"Fake wife?" she echoed, rising slowly to her feet. "Then here's my fake answer: no."
She turned to go.
"You'll want to see Clause 12," he said, not looking up. "The one about full funding for Hartline Interiors if you complete the six-month term."
Her hand froze on the doorknob.
Evangeline had started Hartline two years ago—scraping together salvaged wood, elbow grease, and late-night hustle. And now, a fully-funded studio meant freedom. Stability. A chance to expand without crawling back to banks who'd already said no.
She turned, slow.
"You're bribing me with my own dreams."
"Motivating," he corrected. "I don't believe in coercion."
"No," she said, walking back to the table. "You believe in contracts. And loopholes."
He slid the pen toward her again.
Her fingers hovered over it. Then she picked it up.
And signed.
---
Twelve Hours Earlier
The job listing had been posted anonymously:
Discreet designer needed. Must be comfortable working in high-security environments and maintaining absolute confidentiality. Duration: 6 months. Generous compensation.
Evangeline had answered out of sheer curiosity.
She hadn't expected to be escorted by private elevator to the 88th floor of Lockwood Tower. Or to sit in a waiting room so minimalist it made hospital lobbies look cluttered.
"Ms. Hart?" A sleek woman in a headset appeared. "Mr. Lockwood will see you now."
Evangeline followed her into a glass-walled office where the view made her stomach drop and the temperature dropped lower.
And there he was—Grayson Lockwood. The man Forbes had called "too rich to be relatable, too smart to be charming." He hadn't smiled. Just studied her like a product blueprint.
"I need a wife," he said by way of introduction.
"Excuse me?"
"You need a paycheck. I need a solution. Let's save each other time."
She almost walked out then.
Almost.
---
Now
"Effective immediately," Grayson said, folding the contract into a slim black folder. "You'll move into the penthouse tonight."
She stared at him. "You assume I don't have a life?"
"I assume you didn't make evening plans after reading Clause 4: 'Immediate cohabitation required.'"
"Do you always quote your own legalese in casual conversation?"
He ignored her, rising smoothly. "My driver will meet you at your studio in an hour. Pack only essentials. We'll go over the public rollout tomorrow."
He extended a hand. Formal. Transactional.
Evangeline didn't take it.
"I have a few conditions of my own."
That got his attention.
"One," she said, ticking fingers. "I cook dinner. Every night."
Grayson's brow furrowed. "Why?"
"Because I'm not going to be arm candy without a soul. Cooking centers me. You want a stable image? I need a stable ritual."
He said nothing, so she continued.
"Two. We celebrate anniversaries—yes, even fake ones. If I'm giving up six months of my life for your press image, I get my damn milestones."
A long pause.
Then, to her shock, his mouth twitched.
"Noted."
She narrowed her eyes. "Are you... smiling?"
"Smirking," he corrected. "There's a difference."
---
Later That Night – The Penthouse
The elevator opened directly into the living room.
Evangeline stepped out into clean lines, black marble, and soulless silence.
No plants. No art. Not even a clock.
"This place has all the warmth of a cryogenic lab," she muttered, wheeling her suitcase behind her.
Grayson, already inside and loosening his tie, raised an eyebrow.
"I don't live here for comfort."
"No kidding."
She wandered into the kitchen.
It was stunning. State-of-the-art. Unused.
The range gleamed. The copper pots hung like museum pieces. And the fridge—well-stocked with sparkling water and absolutely nothing else.
"You said you cook?" he asked, stepping into the doorway.
"I said I need to cook," she corrected. "This kitchen needs an exorcism."
He watched as she pulled fresh herbs from her bag, set a skillet on the stove, and rummaged for olive oil.
"You brought a basil plant?"
"It's called flavor. You should try it sometime."
She tied her hair up, clicked on the burner, and began to hum—something soft and unhurried.
Grayson leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, eyes unreadable.
"You're not what I expected," he said.
"You expected compliant silence. A shadow in heels."
"Something like that."
"Well." She cracked an egg into the pan. "I'm afraid you married a woman with opinions. And a spatula."
And to her great surprise, Grayson Lockwood—the coldest CEO in Aurelia City—smiled.
Not smirked. Smiled.
Just once.
---
Penthouse Kitchen — 10:42 PM
By the time the pasta hit the boiling water, Grayson was seated at the edge of the kitchen island, watching her like she was building a bomb instead of dinner.
Evangeline noticed. Of course she did.
"You don't cook, do you?" she said, flipping the sizzling garlic in the skillet with practiced ease.
"I have a private chef."
"Let me guess—meal preps, portion-controlled, salt-free?"
He arched an eyebrow. "It keeps me functional."
"You make yourself sound like a machine."
He didn't answer.
Steam curled from the pot, perfuming the room with olive oil, thyme, and fresh tomato. Evangeline worked in quiet efficiency—her movements fluid, precise. She didn't just cook; she created order, grounding herself in every stir.
"Why interior design?" Grayson asked, out of nowhere.
She paused, considering him.
"My mom used to say a well-loved room could stop a fight before it started." She turned down the heat. "Spaces affect people. I like giving them peace."
Grayson was silent a moment. Then: "And has anyone made you a peaceful space?"
She looked at him, startled.
"Not yet," she said softly. "But I plan to."
Their eyes locked—briefly, but enough for something to shift. The moment felt suspended, held together by the scent of basil and butter and something unspoken.
He cleared his throat. "You're surprisingly philosophical for someone wielding a spatula."
"Don't knock it till you taste the pasta."
---
Dining Area — 11:03 PM
Evangeline placed a bowl in front of him and took the seat across the sleek marble table.
"House rules," she said, stabbing a fork into her own serving. "You try everything at least once. Even carbs."
Grayson raised an eyebrow but took a bite.
And froze.
"This is..."
"Edible?" she teased.
He looked down, then back up at her, visibly struggling with the fact that it was, in fact, delicious.
"I was going to say good," he admitted, as if confessing a state secret.
She grinned and leaned back. "See? Already improving your quality of life."
"Temporary quality," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. "The contract is for six months."
"And six months is enough to ruin you for lifeless cuisine forever."
Grayson didn't argue.
Instead, he ate in silence, slowly, like someone realizing for the first time that food could feel like a hug.
---
Guest Bedroom — 11:42 PM
The "guest bedroom" was a design crime. Clinical, cold, and so symmetrical it bordered on dystopian.
Evangeline stood at the door with her suitcase and frowned.
"No. Absolutely not."
Grayson, behind her, gave her a look. "It's a bedroom."
"It's a mausoleum." She wheeled her bag inside and immediately pulled the pillows off the bed. "I'm going to need candles. A throw blanket. Plants. Lamps with actual warmth."
"You're staying here for six months, not nesting."
She ignored him and opened the closet. Empty. But clean.
"I'll fix it," she muttered. "This room's soul-dead."
Grayson studied her for a moment. "Does it matter that much to you?"
She turned to him. "You brought me into this tower because I had no social baggage and a clean aesthetic, right? So let me give something back. I know how to make a space feel like a home."
He didn't answer right away. Then: "Fine. Add what you need."
She blinked. "That was surprisingly generous."
"Consider it part of the performance."
But she caught the shift in his eyes—curious, maybe even admiring. Just for a moment.
---
Living Room — Midnight
Grayson Lockwood did not expect his fake wife to drag him out of his office chair at midnight to help unbox fairy lights.
Yet here he was, holding a tangled string of warm LEDs while Evangeline perched on the couch arm, laughing.
"Do you own anything cozy?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Efficiency is comfort."
"You're emotionally allergic to throw pillows, aren't you?"
"They serve no function."
She pointed at one of the navy cushions she'd unearthed from her bag. It had a stitched phrase: Comfort isn't a luxury. It's a necessity.
"Function," she said smugly. "Emotional insulation."
"I don't need emotional insulation."
"No," she said lightly. "You just need pasta, fairy lights, and a wife who isn't afraid of arguing over lamp placement."
He didn't argue. Didn't even scoff.
Instead, he plugged in the lights.
Warm gold flooded the room. The mood shifted instantly.
Even the cold edges of Lockwood Tower seemed to take a breath.
---
Kitchen Again — 12:37 AM
"I have a question," Grayson said.
Evangeline sipped from her chamomile tea and raised an eyebrow. "Only one?"
"Why did you say yes?"
She considered. "Because I don't run away from challenges."
He waited.
"And because," she added softly, "no one's ever chosen me first. Not for the right reasons. You didn't pretend to love me. You offered a deal. Honest. Calculated. On the surface, that should have made me feel disposable. But it didn't."
Grayson looked at her. Not through her. At her.
"You think I chose you?"
"You had a list, didn't you?"
"I did."
"And?"
"You weren't on it."
Her expression faltered.
He continued. "I scrapped the list when I saw your design portfolio. Then I read the interview you gave about creating warmth from secondhand wood and salvaged tiles. You built something with integrity. I trust people who finish things they start."
Silence fell between them, heavier than before.
Evangeline smiled, but it was smaller now.
"Then let's hope we both finish this."
---
Balcony — 1:10 AM
Evangeline stood at the balcony railing, looking out over Aurelia City. Lights twinkled like champagne bubbles. The wind lifted her hair.
Grayson joined her, two mugs in hand.
"You don't sleep much either?" she asked, accepting the tea.
"Sleep is... inefficient."
"You keep saying that," she said. "Like it's your religion."
He looked out over the skyline. "Efficiency kept me from becoming my father."
Her head tilted.
"He ran the company before me. Brilliant. Unstable. Addicted to risk and too many women. He burned trust like fuel. I learned early that discipline was survival."
She was quiet a long moment.
"I'm not here to fix you," she said finally.
"I know."
"But I might bake banana bread at inconvenient hours."
"I'll allow it."
They stood in silence, shoulder to shoulder, drinking tea and not saying what was slowly starting to settle between them.
Not attraction. Not affection.
Possibility.