ALESSA'S POV

The next day came faster than I wanted it to.

I told Mom I had a “date.” That’s all I said.

Her face lit up like it was something magical. Like I was about to be whisked away into a fairytale ending. I didn’t have the heart to crush that light in her eyes.

But I didn’t dress up.

No makeup. No heels. Just jeans, a plain blouse, and my worn coat the same one I wore to class. No perfume, no gloss, no effort. Let him think what he wanted. This wasn’t a dream. This was a task.

I left early.

The café was farther than I expected, tucked away in a high-end part of the city where everything smelled like expensive perfume and ambition. The moment I stepped in, the receptionist asked for my name. I barely got it out before she called for the hostess.

VIP lounge. Of course.

The place was too elegant for words, crystal chandeliers, polished floors, the kind of silence that felt expensive. But I wasn’t surprised. This used to be my world, once.

She led me to a table by the window. I sat with my back to the door, watching the rain streak across the glass.

I used to love the rain.

When I was younger, it meant puddles and laughter and my father spinning me under the clouds. But after he died, the rain just reminded me of what I lost. Every drop carried his absence.

The memories clung to me like damp clothes. I pushed them away before the tears could rise.

Time dragged.

I checked the clock. Over thirty minutes. Still no sign of him. I crossed my arms, staring blankly at the table. Ten more minutes. Then fifteen.

Still nothing.

I bit the inside of my cheek and looked toward the door, irritation bubbling under my skin. He couldn’t even keep time?

Typical.

Why did I come?

I rested my chin on the table, blinking at nothing, wondering how everything had spiraled this far.

Then the door opened behind me.

Shadows shifted, expensive perfume fill the air. I didn’t even turn until I felt them settle around me.

Michael.

I looked up, and there he was.

My stomach twisted.

Not from nerves. Not from attraction. It was heavier than that. Colder. Like watching a nightmare step into daylight.

The man who shattered my life with the ease of blinking.

He looked amused. Recognized me instantly. I hadn’t changed much, but God, I hated that look.

“You kept me waiting,” I said, forcing my voice steady. “You clearly haven’t changed.”

He smirked, looked at me head to toes.

Took his time.

With the arrogance of a king, he pulled out the chair across from me and sat like this was casual. Like we were just two old friends catching up. Like he hadn’t ruined me.

“It’s funny,” he said, voice smooth but laced with mockery. “You show up in rags. What is this? Some statement? Trying to prove I’m not even worth dressing up for?”

He laughed.

That laugh, it cracked something inside me.

I looked him dead in the eyes, fighting the burn that crept behind mine. He didn’t care. Not even a little.

He cleared his throat and gestured to one of the suited men standing nearby. They exchanged a file like this was some regular business deal. Michael dropped it in front of me.

“Well, anyway. Here’s the contract,” he said, that insufferable smirk etched across his lips. “My conditions are already listed. I'm waiting for yours.”

He leaned back like this was all perfectly reasonable.

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

I didn’t respond.

How was I supposed to breathe around this man, let alone survive three years married to him? He didn’t just bruise my pride, he shattered it along with my happiness.

Still, I opened the file.

I skimmed through the details, each line slicing deeper.

So this was why he was doing it. His parents were forcing him to inherit the empire. They believed in the ridiculous logic that “two heads are better than one,” and that a man’s logic plus a woman’s emotion made the perfect team.

I stared at the pages. How did parents that wise raise someone like him?

Then came his conditions, typed out in neat, cold lines that stared back at me like a slap to the face:

*Quit your current job and manage two of my companies.

*We stay married for exactly three years and act like a couple in front of others.

*No legal claims to my assets. It’s divorce after three years.

*No falling in love or interference with private life.

I didn’t realize I’d started shaking until the last line blurred.

No falling in love. How convenient. How arrogant.

A dry scoff escaped my throat before I could stop it. I stood, the chair screeching back. My fists clenched so tightly my nails bit into my palms.

I couldn’t do this. Not even for a day.

Not for money. Not for anything.

His laughter followed, sharp, cold, and loud. The kind that fills a room and scrapes at your pride like claws.

I stopped, breath catching in my throat. My back stiffened.

“You really think you’ve got options, Alessa?”

His voice, mocking, smooth, made me slowly turn to face him.

“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.”

He leaned back like a king, smug and untouched, swinging his legs up to rest beside the file as if he owned the damn air I breathed.

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

His words didn’t just sting, they sunk. Deep. Because they weren’t lies. And he knew that.

He knew exactly where to stab.

My feet moved before my brain caught up. Rage, shame, and desperation guided me as I marched back to the table.

I grabbed the file and slammed it back in front of me. My voice came out fast, loud, trembling with everything I couldn’t afford to feel.

“Fine!” I snapped. “But here are my conditions.”

He raised a brow, intrigued.

“I have five conditions,” I said, my voice sharp and unwavering. “First, you have to propose to me properly. I know it’s a fake marriage, but you’re a public figure. People will talk. It needs to look real.”

I held his gaze, refusing to blink, daring him to smirk or laugh.

He didn’t. Just stared back, silent and unreadable, like a man made of stone.

“Second,” I continued, “you’ll transfer the money for my mother’s treatment immediately after we sign. No delays. And once this contract is in place, you’ll help me build my personal brand, invest in it, promote it, whatever it takes.”

Still, not a flicker of emotion from him. No nod. No protest. Just that infuriating calm, like he was waiting to see how far I’d go.

“Third,” I said, my voice tightening, “there will be no sexual intimacy between us. And I expect loyalty during these three years. No affairs. No scandals. Not even rumors.”

My voice wavered slightly at the end, but I held my chin high. I meant every word.

“Fourth, we’ll sleep in separate rooms,” I said firmly. “Also, we exchange all personal passwords, phones, emails, accounts. Complete transparency. No secrets. That way, we both stay in check.”

His brow arched slightly. Amused. Still silent.

“And lastly,” I said, locking eyes with him, “I will not be forced or manipulated into having children. Not now, not ever, not with you.”

The air between us was thick, like a wire pulled tight, one second away from snapping.

Then he smirked. That signature, cocky, irritating smirk.

But he nodded.

“Do you agree?” I asked, keeping my voice steady, even though my heart thundered in my chest.

My phone recorded the conversation as evidence since I didn't have a written contract.

“Yes.”

I didn’t wait. I picked up

the pen, scrawled my name across the line, and slammed it down.

Then shoved the file toward him like it burned my fingers.