The rain came down in cold, relentless sheets as Aria West stood under the rusted bus stop shelter, clutching a soaked envelope against her chest. The ink had started to bleed through, but it didn't matter anymore—the eviction notice inside was already engraved in her mind like a curse.
Her phone buzzed with another reminder: "Final payment due today."
Aria's jaw tightened. There was no one else to call. Her mother's hospital bills were swallowing every dime she made working triple shifts at a downtown diner. Rent was overdue. The power company had already sent a final warning. She felt like she was drowning in slow motion—each day pulling her further under.
"Excuse me, miss?"
She turned, startled.
A man in a charcoal suit, completely untouched by the rain despite standing in the open, held out a black umbrella. He was tall—taller than most men she'd met—with perfectly styled dark hair and eyes that could freeze time. Piercing, cold, unreadable. A face that belonged on the cover of Fortune, not in this part of the city.
She blinked. "Can I help you?"
"You're Aria West, correct?"
She hesitated. "Who's asking?"
He didn't flinch. "Damon Knight. CEO of Knight Corporation."
Her heart skipped. Everyone in New York had heard that name. Billionaire. Ruthless. Untouchable. He was the kind of man who didn't even breathe the same air as people like her.
"I don't know what you want with me, but I'm not interested—"
"I want to offer you a deal."
She laughed bitterly. "Unless it's a free apartment and two hundred grand in cash, I'm not buying."
His lips curled into something that might've been a smirk. "What if it's exactly that?"
She blinked, stunned. "What?"
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "I need a wife. For one year. It's strictly business. No strings, no romance, no touching—unless required for appearances."
Her stomach twisted. "Why?"
"My late grandfather's will demands I be married before the next board meeting or I lose my seat at Knight Corp."
"And you want me?" she asked, incredulous.
"You're clean. No scandals. No family connections. You're exactly what I need—forgettable."
The insult stung, but the money he offered was too big to ignore.
"I'll give you $250,000 for the year. Half upfront, half when the contract ends. You'll live in my penthouse. Attend events. Be photographed."
Aria crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes. "What's in it for me besides cash?"
He didn't blink. "A chance to rebuild your life. Or let it fall apart. Your choice."
A long pause hung between them. Rain thudded against the pavement like ticking seconds.
"Why me?" she asked again, softly.
"Because you're desperate," he replied, brutally honest. "And I'm offering you a way out."
She hated how right he was.
---
Two days later, Aria stood in the grand lobby of Knight Tower, her $12 sneakers squeaking against polished marble floors. The place screamed wealth—towering glass, gold trim, a chandelier bigger than her old apartment.
"Miss West?" the receptionist called.
She nodded, nerves spiking.
"Mr. Knight is waiting."
She was led to the top floor. The elevator opened to a space that felt like the inside of a luxury magazine—sleek, cold, expensive.
Damon stood by the window, looking out at the city as if it owed him something.
"You came."
"I haven't agreed yet."
He turned to her. "Yes, you have. You wouldn't be here if you hadn't."
She hated how he read her so easily. "You really think a fake marriage is going to fix your empire?"
"I don't fix things, Aria. I control them."
He slid a file across the table. "Read it. Sign it. And we start tomorrow."
She opened it. The contract was all there. Every legal term. Every clause. A full breakdown of the payment. Rules. Boundaries. Zero intimacy unless required. Separate bedrooms. Absolute discretion.
But at the bottom was the thing that made her breath hitch—
> "If either party breaks the contract before 12 months, the deal is void."
She swallowed. "You really trust me not to screw you over?"
He looked her dead in the eye. "No. But I know you need me more than you want to hurt me."
She stared at the pen.
$125,000 now. Enough to get her mom into surgery. Enough to pay rent. Enough to breathe.
Slowly, she picked it up.
"Fine," she said, signing her name. "But if this ruins me—"
"It won't," Damon interrupted. "Because you're mine now, Aria. On paper, at least."
And just like that, with a few strokes of ink, her life was no longer hers.
It was sealed with a lie.
>>>Episode 2: The Contract Wife<<<
Aria woke up to the silence of a luxury bedroom she still couldn't believe was hers. The sheets were silk, the air smelled like fresh lavender and clean leather, and the sunlight pouring in through the glass walls made everything look like a dream—except it wasn't.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Damon: "Be ready in 20 minutes. Formal wear. We have dinner at the board chairman's estate."
She groaned. Not a good morning. Not even a "hey, new wife". Just orders. Typical.
Aria had been at the penthouse for barely twelve hours and Damon hadn't spoken a single word to her since last night. He had his own floor—of course—and she had been escorted to hers by a butler who seemed more like security than service.
She walked into the attached walk-in closet and gasped. Designer dresses hung like works of art, shoes lined up in perfect rows, and a vanity that looked like it belonged in a palace. Everything in that room screamed, "You don't belong here."
She ran her hand across the fabric of a midnight blue gown, then settled on a black dress that hugged her curves but still made her feel powerful. If she was going to play pretend, she'd play it like a queen.
When she came downstairs, Damon was already waiting, dressed in a sharp three-piece suit, checking his watch. His eyes flicked up—and for a fraction of a second, they lingered.
"You clean up well," he said flatly.
She raised a brow. "Thanks. I think."
"We're late. Don't speak unless necessary. Smile if someone asks about the marriage. Touch my arm if we're cornered by reporters. Understood?"
Her jaw clenched. "Understood, sir."
The ride was silent until she spoke.
"Why me?" she asked again, watching the city fly by through the tinted window.
"You really want an honest answer?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Because you're the only woman who didn't look at me like I'm a prize. That, and I knew you'd take the money."
She let out a dry laugh. "Romantic."
He smirked slightly. "This isn't a romance, Aria. It's war."
When the car pulled up at the estate, she barely had time to steady herself. The place was bigger than she expected—grand, elegant, dripping with old money. Cameras flashed instantly.
Damon stepped out first, then turned and held his hand out to her. She hesitated before taking it.
"Aria," he whispered sharply, "this isn't a choice. It's a role."
She smiled for the cameras, lips trembling just a little. Inside, the party was louder than she expected, and all eyes turned when they walked in. Damon was known. Aria was a mystery.
They made their rounds—Damon cold and flawless, Aria feeling like a shadow next to his icy perfection. He introduced her to CEOs, socialites, politicians. She smiled, nodded, said the rehearsed lines.
Until she was cornered by a woman with piercing blue eyes.
"You must be the new wife," the woman said with a snake-like smile. "So sudden. And you look so... young."
Aria held her ground. "Love has no timeline, Mrs...?"
The woman's smile thinned. "Knight. Victoria Knight. Damon's aunt."
Aria's blood ran cold.
Victoria leaned in. "Be careful, dear. Knight men don't marry out of love. They marry to win."
Damon appeared at her side immediately. "Is there a problem?"
"Not at all," Victoria said sweetly. "Just curious what your little bride is hiding."
Damon's hand moved possessively to Aria's waist. "Everything important, she's already given me."
Then he did the last thing she expected—he kissed her.
Not gently. Not politely. But fiercely, like he had something to prove.
Her heart stuttered. Her knees went weak.
When he pulled away, he whispered against her lips, "Smile."
And she did.
Because this wasn't love.
It was war.
And the first shot had just been fired.