Riley's POV

Brett Graham's office was a monument to power. Floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Manhattan, the city lights twinkling like stars below. Everything was chrome and glass, cold and expensive.

Just like the man seated behind the massive desk.

"Sit," he said without looking up from his tablet.

I perched on the edge of the leather chair, Lily heavy in my arms. She was burning up now, her small body trembling with fever. Every minute we spent here was a minute she wasn't getting help.

"Your name," Brett said, finally raising those steel-gray eyes to mine.

I shifted Lily in my arms, trying to find my voice. "Riley Plia. This is my daughter, Lily."

He didn't acknowledge Lily's existence, didn't even glance at the sick child in my arms. "Age?"

"Twenty-four."

Brett made a note on the paper before him. "Employment history?"

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. "I was a marketing assistant at Morrison & Associates until eight months ago."

His pen stopped moving. "Fired?"

The word hit like a slap across the face. "Yes."

"Why?"

My face burned with shame and humiliation. "My boss... he made advances. When I refused, he fired me and made sure I couldn't get another job."

Brett's expression didn't change, as if he heard stories like this every day. "So you're unemployed, blacklisted, and living where?"

I looked down at my worn shoes. "In my car."

"For how long?" His voice remained maddeningly neutral.

"Eight months."

He leaned back in his expensive leather chair, steepling his fingers like a judge preparing to deliver a verdict. "Let me understand this correctly. You're a homeless, unemployed single mother with no resources, no prospects, and a sick child. You've been living in a car for eight months, and now you're proposing to be my fake girlfriend."

Each word was like a knife, precisely placed to cut deepest. I felt tears prick my eyes, but I blinked them back furiously. I couldn't cry. Not here. Not in front of him. "Yes."

Brett tilted his head, studying me with cold curiosity. "What makes you think you're qualified for such a position?"

"I'm not," I said quietly, holding Lily closer for comfort. "But I'm desperate, and desperate people work harder than anyone."

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes. Interest, maybe. Or amusement at my honesty.

"The terms would be non-negotiable," he said, his voice taking on the tone of a business contract. "Six months. You would accompany me to events, act as my girlfriend in public, and never reveal the true nature of our arrangement."

I nodded quickly. "Okay."

"You would live in my penthouse," Brett continued, watching my face carefully, "but in the staff quarters. You would dress as I dictate, speak as I dictate, and behave as I dictate. Any deviation from my instructions would result in immediate termination of the contract."

My heart sank. Staff quarters. I'd be a servant, not a girlfriend. But Lily stirred in my arms, her fevered body reminding me why I was here, and I pushed down my wounded pride. "I understand."

Brett stood up, walking to the window to look out at the city below. "You would be subject to public scrutiny," he said. "The media will investigate your past, your family, your failures. They will find every embarrassing detail and publish it for the world to see."

I straightened my shoulders, finding strength I didn't know I had. "I don't care." My voice came out steady, but my hands curled into fists at my sides.

He turned back to face me, his gaze sweeping over me slow and assessing. "You would attend charity galas, business dinners, and social events where you'll be surrounded by people who have more money than you'll ever see." His lips curved in what might have been a smile, but there was no warmth in it. "They'll look down on you, and you'll smile and pretend you belong."

"I can do that." I lifted my chin defiantly.

Brett moved closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming. "You would have no privacy. No personal life. No contact with friends or family without my permission."

The words should have scared me, but instead I felt oddly hollow. "I don't have friends or family."

That stopped him cold. For a moment, something that might have been sympathy crossed his features, softening the harsh lines of his face. But it was gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

He returned to his desk, sitting back down with calculated intensity. "The compensation would be five hundred thousand dollars, paid at the end of six months. Not a penny before."

My breath caught audibly. Half a million dollars. The number seemed impossible, like something from a dream. Enough for Lily's surgery and a fresh start.

But there had to be a catch. There was always a catch. "What if I can't... what if I don't make it the full six months?"

Brett's smile was cold. "Then you get nothing."

Nothing. After everything I'd endure, if I broke or quit or failed to meet his impossible standards, Lily would still die.

"There's one more thing," Brett said, his voice dropping lower. "This arrangement would include physical intimacy when required for appearances. You would be expected to play the part convincingly."

My stomach clenched with sudden nausea. "What does that mean, exactly?"

Brett leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. "It means you would kiss me when cameras are present. Hold my hand at events. Share my bed when we travel." His eyes were cold, calculating, watching every micro-expression on my face. "It means you would convince the world that you're madly in love with me."

"And privately?" My voice came out smaller than I intended.

"Privately," Brett said, his tone turning businesslike again, "you would remember that this is a business transaction. Nothing more."

I looked down at Lily, her small face flushed with fever, her breathing shallow and labored. She was so sick, so fragile. Without that surgery, she would die. And I would do anything—anything—to prevent that.

"I need time to think." The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

Brett's laugh was harsh, devoid of any humor. "Time? Your daughter is burning up with fever, you have nothing to your name, you're living in a car." He gestured dismissively at my obvious poverty. "What exactly do you need to think about?"

I forced myself to meet his gaze. "I need to know you're serious. That you'll actually pay me at the end." My throat was dry, but I forced the words out anyway.

Brett leaned back in his chair, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I'm worth eight point two billion dollars. Five hundred thousand is pocket change."

"Then why not pay me some of it upfront?" I challenged, surprising myself with my boldness.

His eyes narrowed dangerously, a flicker of irritation tightening his jaw. "Because trust is earned, not given. And you, Riley Plia, have yet to prove you're worth trusting."

I stood up on shaking legs, clutching Lily closer to my chest. "Twenty-four hours. I'll give you an answer in twenty-four hours."

Brett's voice rang out. "Twelve hours."

I met his stare, finding courage I didn't know I possessed. "Twenty-four."

We stared at each other across his massive desk. Finally, he nodded once.

"Twenty-four hours. He said but understand this—if you walk out that door, this offer disappears forever. There are no second chances with me."

He pulled a business card from his desk and held it out. When I reached for it, his fingers brushed mine.

"Don't disappoint me, Riley," he said quietly. "I don't handle disappointment well."

As I walked toward the elevator, Lily heavy in my arms, I felt his eyes on my back.