Wrong contract marriage, right husband

The law firm’s reception area smelled of old money.

Clara smoothed the fabric of her tailored black pencil skirt for the tenth time. She was a bundle of nerves, because by the end of today, she might be entering a contract marriage with a degenerate playboy.

But she had to do this. For her freedom, and to finally escape a man who had so deeply betrayed her.

The heavy oak doors swung open. Clara stood up instinctively.

A man walked in, and the air in the room seemed to instantly thin out.

He was nothing like she had imagined.

The target of Clara's contract marriage, Julian Hayes, was usually pictured in the tabloids stumbling out of high-end nightclubs, shirt unbuttoned, his face marked by drunkenness and debauchery.

But the man standing before her was the very embodiment of stillness. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a bespoke dark gray suit tailored with flawless, precise lines. He exuded an aura of absolute authority, a terrifyingly quiet power.

Clara drew a sharp breath.

The man stopped dead in his tracks the second he saw her.

Alexander Sterling stared at the woman standing by the chair.

It was her.

Clara Vance. The girl from the Met Gala three years ago.

Dressed in a stunning midnight blue gown, she had slipped away from the brightly lit ballroom to hide in the archive library. She had kicked off her heels and quietly read a thick book on Renaissance architecture while everyone else was busy drinking vintage champagne.

He had watched her from the balcony for an hour, utterly captivated by her quiet glow and the genuine smile that touched her lips as she turned the pages.

He had finally gathered the courage to step forward and introduce himself—but before he could cross the room, another man had walked in and possessively wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Alexander had retreated into the shadows, assuming she was spoken for, assuming she was happy.

And now, here she was. In a law firm famous for arranging highly discreet fake marriages.

Clara extended a hand, her fingers trembling slightly. "Mr. Hayes? I’m Clara Vance."

Alexander looked down at her slender hand, then up at her pale, determined face.

She thought he was Julian Hayes.

He could correct her. He could tell her that he was Alexander Sterling, the sole heir to the Sterling financial empire, a man who controlled more liquid assets than the GDP of several small countries, and that he was only here to fire his incompetent estate lawyer.

In that split second, he made a decision.

If the identity of "Julian" gave him the chance to talk to her, then he would be Julian.

"Please," Alexander said. His voice was a deep, rich baritone. He took a step forward and enveloped her hand in his. His grip was warm, strong, and incredibly grounding. "Let's skip the formalities."

They sat across from each other at a polished wooden table. Clara slid a blue folder across the sleek surface.

"My proposal," she said. Her voice was calm, but she couldn't completely hide her nerves. "One year. A strictly platonic relationship. Absolute division of assets. I am not asking for alimony, nor am I asking for spousal support."

Alexander opened the folder. The header read "Marriage Contract."

"I don't need love," Clara added. Her voice trembled almost imperceptibly on the word "love," a subtle crack in her strong facade. "I just need a signature."

Alexander gazed deeply into her eyes. He saw the profound exhaustion lingering there.

He pulled a black Montblanc pen from his breast pocket.

"Done," he said.

Clara blinked, utterly stunned. "You haven't even discussed the fee, or looked over the terms."

"I don't need your money, Ms. Vance." Alexander signed the heavy parchment with a swift flourish.

He intentionally made the signature illegible, his scrawled, jagged ink completely obscuring the name "Sterling."

He stood up, effortlessly buttoning his suit jacket. "We are going to City Hall right now."

Clara looked up at him. "Right now?"

"Unless you'd prefer to wait?" he countered smoothly, a hint of amusement flashing in his storm-gray eyes. "I assume time is of the essence for you."

Clara grabbed her purse, her heart racing. "Let's go."

A sleek black sedan was idling at the curb.

The driver, an older man named Marcus who had worked for the Sterling family for thirty years, stepped out and opened the rear door. He looked at Alexander, then at Clara, a flash of confusion crossing his stoic face.

Alexander shot Marcus a hard glare.

The look was sharp, clear, and full of warning. Not a word.

"City Hall, Marcus," Alexander ordered.

He had to admit to himself, he was in a bit of a rush, and just a little nervous.