MICHAEL’S POV

The next day arrived slower than usual.

A strange weight twisted in my gut, anchoring me deeper into the silk sheets. The anxiety was sharp, familiar, yet foreign. I hadn’t felt this particular kind of unease since… since I was getting ready for a date.

That was laughable now.

Golden sunlight bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my bedroom. It was more like a suite carved out of a billionaire’s fantasy. Vaulted ceilings stretched toward a crystal chandelier. Velvet drapes swallowed the light.

The floor gleamed with imported marble, cold and perfect. My bed, a customized beast layered with silk and down, cradled me like royalty.

Everything about this space whispered excess. But none of it filled the silence.

Still lying in bed, I reached for the small gold bell beside me and gave it a single sharp ring.

Seconds later, a maid entered, head bowed, movements precise, practiced. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. She walked directly to the bathroom to draw my bath.

A second assistant was already flicking through a holographic screen displaying weather updates, color palettes, my schedule, and wardrobe suggestions.

This was my new normal.

There was a time when I made my own coffee, picked my own clothes, ironed my own shirts. But that was before the breakup.

Before I broke.

Since then, I let others handle the small things. Maybe because I couldn’t trust myself anymore. Maybe because I was afraid of my own thoughts.

Whatever the reason, letting go of control has become my coping mechanism.

Today, I put on a sleek black torso suit, hand-stitched by New York’s best designers. Not because I had to impress anyone. But because... maybe deep down, I wanted to look good for her.

The rain had started again, light and irritating.

Two black cars idled outside the mansion's front exit. Ethan appeared beside me with an umbrella, shielding me from the drizzle as he led me to the G-Wagon. He opened the passenger door wordlessly. I slid in without looking at him. He followed, taking the seat beside the driver.

The first vehicle was loaded with bodyguards, a routine my parents never let go of. Years ago, I’d have argued about the absurdity of it all. Today, I didn’t care enough to protest.

We drove in silence, cutting through the city like a blade.

My phone buzzed.

1 New Message

Agency: “Miss Alessa has arrived at the venue and is waiting.”

Alessa.

My throat tightened. For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

No. It couldn’t be her.

Not Alessa from 7 years ago.

The Alessa I knew didn’t belong in this world of contracts and fake marriages. She was the daughter of a billionaire, not some girl desperate for money. According to the file, the woman who signed up was poor and doing it for mum's treatment.

Still... it was bold of her to register. Bold of a person from her class to want me.

After what felt like hours, we arrived.

Ethan opened the car door and stepped aside as I got out. The bodyguards moved into position around me, their eyes sharp.

Inside the venue, heads turned. Of course they did. I was used to it. People always watched when I entered a room, curious, envious, calculating.

A hostess led us to the VIP section. Ethan walked ahead and opened the private door.

And there she was.

Thick black hair tied in a messy bun.

A slouched figure resting her chin on the table.

At first, I thought... Natasha? Had she dyed her hair black? She hated that colour.

But as I stepped closer, I saw the truth. Those eyes, greyish blue, cold but tired, met mine and held me there.

It wasn’t Natasha. But the resemblance was too strong.

It was someone I hadn’t seen in seven years.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t flinch. She just stared at me like I was a memory she hated.

“You kept me waiting,” she said, voice steady but cracked at the edges. “You clearly haven’t changed.”

Her words hit harder than I expected.

I looked her over.

Once, she wore simple but stunning designer pieces with grace. Now, her outfit looked like something dragged out of a thrift store sale rack. The kind of clothes rich people would mock.

But she still carried herself like a queen, even if the crown was rusted.

I stood there, hesitating for five long seconds. I wanted to ask why, I wanted to ask how, I wanted to know and understand the whole story, I pulled the chair out and sat across from her.

She shifted uncomfortably, her gaze avoiding mine, fingers tightening around her handbag.

I couldn’t say I was surprised by how emotional she looked. I also couldn’t bring myself to care.

I knew I’d never love her.

So instead of offering an apology, I leaned back in my chair and smirked.

“It’s funny,” I said, my voice cool and measured. “You show up in rags. What is this? Some statement? Trying to prove I’m not even worth dressing up for?”

I chuckled at my own cruelty.

She didn’t laugh. Her eyes shimmered. Not with rage.

With pain.

Real pain.

I cleared my throat, suddenly unsure. Then I waved Ethan over. He placed the contract folder in my hand.

“Well, anyway. Here's the contract.” I slid it across the table. “My conditions are already listed. I'm waiting for yours.”

“This is a 3-year deal. After that, we divorce. No strings, no scandal. You get your money, I get my peace.”

She didn’t say a word. Just flipped through the file, her fingers trembling slightly.

Fifteen minutes passed. Then she stood.

Started walking toward the door.

Panic shot through me.

No. I wasn’t going to let this slip. Not after all the effort. Not someone so easy to control.

I laughed, loudly, cruelly, enough to make her stop and turn.

“You really think you’ve got options, Alessa?” I called out. “You think some wealthy, well-established man is going to marry you? You’re broke. Your mother’s sick. You need this more than I do.”

I swung my legs onto the table, resting them next to the untouched contract.

“If you walk out now, you lose. I, on the other hand, can get any girl I want.”

That got her.

She turned back around, her face tight with restrained rage.

“Fine!” she snapped, voice sharp with unshed tears. “But here are my conditions.”

She listed them. One by one. I didn’t even argue. I accepted them all.

Then asked if I agreed, I replied with a yes because her conditions were simple.

We set a date for the proposal. Then the wedding.

All fake. All business.

She signed first. I signed after.

The deal was sealed.

But as I watched her leave, part of me wondered if I’d just won..

Or if I’d made a mistake I could never take back.