Alexander Hayes didn’t believe in fate.

He believed in numbers. Contracts. Deadlines.

And that when people left, they stayed gone.

Yet here he was—alone in a rooftop bar in Manhattan, the kind of place where people ordered whiskey for the aesthetic, not the burn. His glass sat untouched. The skyline stretched before him like a glittering temptation. All those lives. All that light. None of it touched him.

Exactly one year ago, everything he loved died in a single phone call.

The memory slammed into his chest with familiar cruelty. The rain-slick road. The sound of metal against metal. Tara’s name lighting up on his screen, only to vanish forever.

Everyone told him grief faded. That time would soften the edges.

Time, it turned out, was a liar.

He hadn’t cried. He hadn’t screamed. He hadn’t done anything except build taller walls, work longer hours, and learn how to function with a hollow in his chest.

But tonight felt different.

He couldn’t explain why.

Maybe it was the calendar. Or the silence. Or the guilt that clung to him like a second skin.

When his phone buzzed, he barely looked at it—until the sender’s name froze him in place.

From: Tara

Subject: Open on Our Anniversary

His thumb hesitated over the screen.

It was a scheduled message. Sent posthumously.

He inhaled sharply and opened it.

Alex,

If you’re reading this… it means I’m gone. I probably didn’t get to say goodbye. And knowing you, you’ve shut down. Again.

But you weren’t made to live like that. You weren’t meant to freeze.

So here’s my last request. My dare. Take one year. One year to try again. Not for me—for you. Fall in love, even if it’s not with me.

Live again.

Yours, always,

Tara

The screen blurred.

Alexander set the phone down with deliberate calm. He stared at the glass of whiskey, then past it—at the skyline he’d once dreamed of conquering.

“One year,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “You want me to fall in love… in one year?”

A bitter smile pulled at his lips.

“Fine, Tara. I accept your dare.”

⸻

Across the city…

Brielle Morgan didn’t believe in signs, but today felt like the universe had given her the middle finger.

She’d started the morning with a spilled coffee, missed her subway stop, and ended her shift at the travel magazine with a spectacular exit: telling their wealthiest client—Alexander Hayes, no less—that he had the emotional depth of a teaspoon.

She’d been fired on the spot.

Now, with rent overdue and her younger brother’s hospital bills piling up, she wandered into a bar she couldn’t afford, trying to quiet the chaos in her head.

Five minutes. She just needed five minutes where she wasn’t a disaster.

She didn’t notice the man sitting in the shadows near the windows. But he noticed her.

Eyes tired, posture defensive, coat clutched like armor—she looked like someone who had spent the day fighting battles no one else could see.

And in that moment, Alexander Hayes made a decision.

If he was going to take Tara’s dare…

If he was going to feel again…

It would start with her.

The bartender had offered her water with a skeptical glance, and Brielle had accepted it with fake grace and a forced smile. She could feel the weight of the polished space pressing down on her—velvet booths, chandeliers overhead, people in tailored suits sipping expensive liquor like it was water. This bar wasn’t built for people like her.

She didn’t care.

She needed air. Noise. A place that didn’t smell like hospital corridors or her boss’s cologne.

Brielle wrapped her coat tighter and walked to the balcony. The city shimmered below her like a dream she couldn’t afford.

“What are you running from?”

The voice came from behind her. Low. Controlled. Curious.

She turned, instantly defensive.

“Excuse me?”

He stepped into the light. Tall. Suit tailored like it was sewn onto him. Dark hair, darker eyes. His face looked like it had been carved by focus and fury—sharp jaw, unreadable expression, expensive watch ticking steadily at his wrist.

She narrowed her eyes.

“Do you always approach women with lines that sound like bad detective movies?”

His lips twitched. Barely.

“I wasn’t trying to be charming. I was being accurate.”

“Well, you missed.” She turned back toward the skyline. “Try again with someone else.”

“I wasn’t asking a question,” he said. “I was offering an observation.”

She let out a breath. “What are you, a psychologist?”

“No,” he said simply. “I’m a man who recognizes what it looks like to want to disappear.”

Something in his voice—flat, calm, certain—made her glance at him again.

There was a hollow in his eyes. A coldness that didn’t feel cruel. Just… old.

“Are you following me or just naturally creepy?” she asked.

He stepped forward and offered his hand.

“Alexander Hayes.”

Brielle stared at him for two seconds too long.

“Wait… the Alexander Hayes? CEO of Hayes Global? The guy I—”

She stopped herself.

He tilted his head. “The guy you what?”

“Nothing.”

“Did we meet before?”

“Not unless you remember being insulted by a very underpaid editorial assistant two days ago.”

Something flickered in his expression. “Ah.”

Her cheeks flushed. “Look, if you’re here for revenge, get in line. My week’s already booked.”

He studied her for a moment longer. “I’m not here for revenge.”

“No?”

“I’m here to offer you a job.”

That made her laugh. Loud and sharp. “Are you serious? After what I said to you?”

“I like honesty,” he said. “And I don’t need a writer.”

“What do you need?”

He looked at her then—really looked at her. The kind of look that made people either lean in or run away.

“I need a wife.”

Brielle stared.

“I’m sorry—what?”

“A wife,” he repeated, as casually as if he’d asked for a cup of coffee. “On contract. One year. No romance. No expectations. Just appearances. I’ll pay you handsomely.”

She blinked. “Okay, either you’re clinically unwell or this is some elaborate prank show.”

“It’s not a joke.”

“You want me to marry you? Just like that?”

“No. I want you to think about it. Then say yes.”

She stared at him, unsure whether to laugh, scream, or walk away.

“Why me?”

Alexander looked out over the city as if weighing the truth.

“Because you don’t want anything from me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t,” he said. “But I trust instincts. And right now, mine tells me you’re exactly the person I need.”

She folded her arms. “And what do you need, exactly?”

He turned to her again, and this time there was something raw in his voice.

“I need someone to stand next to me so I can remember what it feels like to be alive.”

Silence wrapped around them.

Finally, she said softly, “You really meant that.”

He nodded once. “You have forty-eight hours to decide.”

And then he handed her a sleek black business card with his name and number, turned, and walked away.

Just like that.

As if he hadn’t just changed everything.

Brielle Morgan had made bad decisions before.

Like that time she tried to dye her hair pink with food coloring in middle school. Or the time she broke her ankle doing a backflip at a concert to impress a guy who didn’t remember her name the next day.

But agreeing to marry a billionaire stranger for money?

That would take the crown.

She stared at Alexander Hayes’ business card like it was radioactive. For two days, it lived on her nightstand, untouched—while her landlord sent her final notice, her fridge sat empty, and the hospital called twice to remind her of her brother’s unpaid bills.

“Are you sure this is a bad idea?” she asked her reflection in the mirror.

The reflection stared back, unimpressed. Pale under-eye circles. Chapped lips. Hope? Nonexistent.

It’s not love, she reminded herself. It’s business. A contract. Survival.

And he said no romance. No intimacy. Just the illusion of a marriage.

It wasn’t like she’d never faked a smile before.

⸻

Two days later, Brielle found herself in the lobby of Hayes Global, stomach twisted in a tight knot. The building was a gleaming column of steel and ambition. She’d taken the elevator to the top floor with shaking hands and a rehearsed line in her head.

She didn’t even get to say it.

Because the moment she stepped into Alexander’s private office, he looked up from behind his desk and said, “You’re late.”

Brielle arched a brow. “Hello to you too.”

“You thought about it.”

“I did.”

“And?”

She walked to his desk, dropped the business card on it, and met his gaze.

“I’ll do it.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just nodded, reached into a drawer, and pulled out a black folder.

“The contract,” he said. “Read it. Understand every word before you sign.”

She sat down across from him and flipped it open. His tone was detached. Professional. Like he was closing a merger—not planning a year-long marriage.

⸻

TERMS & CONDITIONS

– One-year marital agreement.

– No physical or emotional entanglements permitted.

– Appearances at social events required.

– Shared residence mandatory.

– Monthly allowance of $20,000, with additional living expenses covered.

– Termination clause available only with mutual consent.

⸻

She skimmed, brows lifting slightly. “You really went all in on this, huh?”

“I don’t take risks without control.”

“You do realize marriage isn’t usually considered a controlled environment?”

“That’s why this isn’t really a marriage.”

He handed her a pen. “You sign, and everything you need becomes yours tomorrow.”

She hesitated. Her hand hovered.

Then she thought of her brother. Of the way he smiled even when he was in pain. Of the bills she couldn’t pay. Of the dreams she’d buried under guilt and exhaustion.

She signed.

With one sharp stroke of ink, she sold her freedom. For money. For family. For a chance to breathe.

When she looked up, Alexander was already putting the file away.

“That’s it?” she asked. “No handshake, no ring, no… welcome to your fake life?”

He glanced at her, voice dry. “We’ll schedule the wedding for Friday.”

“Seriously?”

He stood, adjusting his watch. “You wanted time to think. I gave it. Now I expect results.”

“Do all your business deals involve women in white dresses?”

His mouth twitched. “Only the ones that need to look convincing.”

⸻

As she left the office, the reality of it all began to set in.

She was about to marry a man who looked at her like a solution.

Not a person.

And yet, for reasons she couldn’t explain, some part of her whispered:

This won’t go the way either of you planned.