Claire Winters wasn’t supposed to be crying in the back of a taxi.

Not tonight.

Not after everything she had sacrificed to get here—to this moment. The promotion, the client pitch, the seven hours of straightening her hair, and picking the perfect navy-blue dress. It was all supposed to end with a glass of champagne in her hand, not tears on her cheeks.

She looked out the window at the glowing skyline. Her reflection stared back: mascara smudged, lips pressed tight, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

He’d lied to her. Again.

And this time, she wasn’t sure she could forgive it.

“Miss?” the driver asked, glancing at her through the rearview mirror.

Claire blinked. “Sorry. Just—keep going.”

The car kept moving. So did her thoughts. Ripping, tearing, spinning.

Jason.

She had believed in him.

They’d been together for almost two years. He was charming, reliable, and sharp. Everyone in the office adored him. He made people laugh—even her, which wasn’t easy.

He also had a secret.

A fiancée.

Someone Claire didn’t know existed until an hour ago, when she opened his phone because he’d left it at her apartment. She never checked his phone. Never felt the need to. But tonight… she had.

A message. One picture.

A ring on another woman’s hand.

Jason holding her waist.

The caption?

“Can’t wait to be Mrs. Brooks.”

Claire felt her chest tighten again just thinking about it. She reached for her phone, then shoved it back into her purse. She wanted to scream. Break something. Crawl out of her own skin.

Instead, she took a breath.

And another.

Then she whispered, “No more crying over him.”

Ten minutes later, the taxi pulled up in front of her apartment. A sleek black Mercedes was already parked near the curb.

Claire blinked.

That car didn’t belong here.

Before she could ask the driver to go around, the rear door opened—and a man in a charcoal suit stepped out.

Alexander King.

CEO. Billionaire. Head of the firm where she worked. Her boss.

And the last person she expected to see standing on her sidewalk at midnight.

Claire’s stomach dropped.

This couldn’t be about work.

Not at this hour. Not with that look on his face.

He stepped toward the cab, face unreadable. “Claire.”

Her heart stuttered. “Mr. King?”

“I need a word,” he said, his voice low and even.

The driver looked between them, uncertain.

Claire nodded. “It’s okay.”

She stepped out slowly, clutching her bag like a shield. “Is something wrong?”

Alexander’s jaw tensed. “Walk with me.”

They moved down the sidewalk in silence. The night air was cool, sharp. The city around them buzzed, but in that moment, all Claire could hear was the sound of her own heartbeat.

Finally, she said, “Is this about the Martinez account? I didn’t miss the—”

“It’s not work-related,” he cut in.

She stopped walking. “Then what is this about?”

He turned to face her fully.

Alexander King was always sharp—crisp suits, perfect posture, calm eyes that gave away nothing. But tonight, there was something else in his expression.

Tension.

Urgency.

“Claire,” he said, “I need you to marry me.”

The world went quiet.

Claire stared at him like he’d spoken another language.

“I’m sorry—what?”

“I need a wife,” he said again, flat and cold. “For six months.”

Claire took a step back. “Is this a joke?”

“I don’t joke.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s not a joke.”

She crossed her arms. “Why me?”

“Because you’re clean,” he said bluntly. “No scandals. No distractions. You’re smart, discreet, and you understand what’s at stake.”

She blinked. “You’ve been spying on me?”

“I vet everyone I work with.”

“That’s not an answer either.”

Alexander exhaled slowly. “My father’s will has a clause. If I’m not married by the end of this quarter, the board can challenge my control of the company. I won’t let them.”

Claire’s heart pounded. “So you want me to be your shield?”

“No. I want a business arrangement. Legal. Private. Six months. I’ll make it worth your time.”

Her voice trembled, but she held her ground. “You want me to fake a marriage just so you can keep your empire?”

“Yes.”

She stared at him.

Because under all his control and coldness, she saw something else.

Desperation.

The great Alexander King was afraid.

That should’ve made her feel powerful.

It didn’t.

It made her feel used.

“I just got out of a relationship with a liar,” she said quietly. “Why would I jump into one with a stranger?”

He tilted his head. “Because you’re smart enough to know this isn’t personal. And because I’m offering you two million dollars.”

The air left her lungs.

“Excuse me?”

“One million upon signing. One after the divorce. No strings. No contact after. We keep it clean.”

Claire took a shaky step back. “You think money can fix everything?”

“No,” he said. “Just the things that matter.”

She shook her head. “This is insane.”

“I need an answer by tomorrow.”

“What if I say no?”

His voice didn’t change.

“Then I go to someone else.”

Claire bit the inside of her cheek.

She hated this.

The timing. The offer. The man.

But her rent was late. Her savings were nearly gone. Her ex had left more than just emotional damage.

And the idea of saying yes?

Of beating him at his own cold game?

It didn’t feel like surrender.

It felt like power.

Maybe the first real power she’d had in years.

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

Alexander nodded once. “I’ll have the contract sent to your inbox by morning.”

Then he turned, got into his car, and disappeared into the night.

Claire didn’t sleep.

She sat at her kitchen table, staring at the contract on her laptop. It was clean. No emotion. Just lines and clauses and dollars.

No intimacy required. Public appearances only.

Six months. Done.

She could walk away with more money than she’d ever seen.

And maybe, just maybe, she could learn to play the game.

Even with a man like Alexander King.

By sunrise, she clicked “Reply.”

Subject: Re: Proposal Agreement

Body: I’ll do it. Under one condition.

I make my own rules.