When I step into the kitchen, my family is already waiting. My father, pale and hunched, nursing a mug of coffee like it will steady his nerves. My brother Nathan is leaning against the counter, arms crossed, looking like he’s bracing for bad news. My grandmother—bless her—has that disapproving glare that makes me feel like a child who has just ruined Christmas.

I try to keep my face neutral, but my stomach twists. I hate this part. Breaking news like a bomb. I hate seeing their faces like they might shatter.

“I got the call,” my father says finally, setting his mug down too hard. “Liam Knight… is coming here?”

“Yes,” I say. My voice is calm, steady. Too calm for how my heart is hammering. “He wants to meet all of you.”

My brother’s eyes widen. “Meet… meet you or meet us?”

“Both,” I say, folding my arms. “He wants to make sure we’re… compatible.”

Compatible. Like we’re furniture or an investment. Like my family is just another line item in his empire.

My grandmother snorts. “I don’t like it. I don’t like him. Not one bit. He’s that young, arrogant man who builds skyscrapers and ruins lives.”

I feel my jaw tighten. “Grandma, it’s a contract. One year. Nothing more. I’m not marrying him because I like him.”

She waves a hand, dismissive. “You’re going to fall for him. Young women always do.”

I glance at Nathan. “I won’t. I can’t. I have a plan.”

And then the doorbell rings.

I freeze, and my family looks at me. “Go,” my father mutters. His voice is low, wary, like he’s warning me without actually saying it.

I take a deep breath and open the door.

Liam Knight is there. Of course he is. In black from head to toe, tailored suit, polished shoes, that expression that doesn’t belong on anyone under forty. He steps inside without waiting to be invited, and I realize immediately: he doesn’t just enter a room. He owns it.

He looks at my family, then at me. His gaze is sharp, appraising, like he’s measuring every heartbeat. “Hello,” he says simply. No warmth, no charm, just… presence.

“Hi,” I say, my voice higher than I like.

He turns to my father. “Mr. Hayes.” His tone is polite, but every word carries weight, like it could crush or redeem. “Thank you for allowing this meeting.”

My father clears his throat. “Of course.”

Liam looks at Nathan next, giving him a slow once-over. Nathan shifts uncomfortably. “And you must be…?”

“Nathan.”

“Nice to meet you.” Liam’s voice doesn’t change, but his eyes hold something that makes my brother fidget. I can tell he feels judged, tested.

Then Liam turns back to me, and for a moment, it’s like no one else exists. His storm-grey eyes are unreadable, but the way he studies me makes my skin prickle.

“You’re wearing the same thing you wore yesterday.” His tone is calm. Not cruel, just… observant.

“I like comfort,” I say, lifting my chin. “And I can’t afford new clothes every week.”

“Not a problem,” he says, pulling a black card from his jacket pocket. He slides it across the counter. “Call this number. My designer will help you. Clothes, shoes, everything you need. You will appear at my events as my wife. Your image is part of the contract.”

I pick up the card. Black with gold letters. Liam Knight. My thumb brushes the smooth edge, and I feel something stir. Control. Command. And maybe… attraction.

I glance at my father. He looks like he’s about to argue but doesn’t. I know he wants to. I also know he doesn’t have the right.

“You’ll like it,” Liam says, reading my expression. “If you don’t, we’ll find something you do. But you will cooperate.”

“I always cooperate,” I reply lightly.

His lips twitch, like he’s amused. “Good. I prefer willing partners.”

The first evening is awkward. Dinner at our small apartment. My grandmother critiques the tablecloth. Nathan keeps fidgeting, asking questions about contracts and clauses, as if he’s reading legal fine print in his head. My father doesn’t say anything, which is both comforting and terrifying.

Liam doesn’t eat much. He doesn’t drink either. He just sits, observing, occasionally nodding or making a small comment that sounds like guidance but lands like a verdict.

“You need to dress differently,” he says suddenly, ignoring everyone else. “Tomorrow, my designer comes. She will help you transform. Your appearance matters more than you think.”

I blink at him. “You think I can’t look presentable?”

“You’re presentable,” he says, calm. “But this is not enough for public appearances. This is not enough for the world I inhabit. You will learn quickly.”

I swallow. “I don’t need to learn quickly,” I say, trying to sound confident, though my pulse is picking up. “I can handle it.”

He leans back slightly, eyes darkening, and I notice something subtle: the corner of his mouth quirks, just enough to make me question my own composure.

“You will,” he says. His tone isn’t angry. Not exactly. It’s… intimate, commanding, as if he’s talking only to me even in front of my family.

Next morning, the designer arrives. A whirlwind of fabrics, heels, and expert critique. She does not hesitate, does not flinch at our modest apartment. She doesn’t look at Liam at all, but I can feel his gaze on me from the corner of the room.

“Straighten your shoulders,” the designer says immediately, pinching a corner of a blouse. “Head up. Chin forward. You’re going to be seen. You cannot slouch.”

I nod, trying to stay composed. Liam watches silently, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe. Every glance feels deliberate, almost predatory. I hate that I like it.

“Do you always stand there like a statue?” I ask, trying for teasing but my voice sounds too shaky.

“Only when I’m judging you,” he says. Calm, deliberate. And yet I feel the weight of his words press against my chest.

The day goes on in a blur of fabrics and mirrors. Dresses, suits, shoes, accessories. Liam offers opinions in that quiet, subtle way that makes me want to argue and obey at the same time.

“You can wear the black dress tomorrow,” he says finally, nodding toward a sleek gown. “It fits your figure. But the heels—wear them only if you can walk naturally. Otherwise, it will look forced.”

I lift my chin. “I can walk.”

He doesn’t answer. He only tilts his head, eyes tracking mine, and the silence stretches, loaded.

Something fires in my chest. I want to snap at him. I want to tell him I don’t need his approval. I also want to lean closer and see if he will notice how fast my heart is beating.

By evening, the apartment is quiet. The designer is gone. My family has retreated to their rooms. Liam stands in the living room, the only light catching the sharp planes of his face.

“You look…” he pauses. “Different.” Not good, not bad, just… acknowledging.

I feel heat creep into my cheeks. “Different how?”

He steps closer, closing the distance, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe. “Better. Stronger. Dangerous. All the things you will need to survive with me.”

I swallow hard. My pulse spikes. I want to push him away. I want to step closer. I do neither. I just nod, pretending I am calm.

“You’ll get used to it,” he says, softer now. “To me.”

I freeze. The words land differently than anything else he has said. They are heavy with meaning, intimate in a way that should be forbidden.

“I…” My voice falters. I clear my throat. “I have to plan the first event. Make sure it goes smoothly.”

He doesn’t move. His gaze lingers on me, and I can feel him mapping my body, my expression, my hesitation. “You do that. I’ll be there.”

I nod, forcing myself to step away. But my chest still races, and I know—deep down—that this is just the beginning. Not just of a contract. Not just of revenge.

Something else is building. Something dangerous.

And I can’t tell if it’s him or me.