King of Chaos

"You want me to marry a complete stranger?"

The words sounded absurd as I spoke them, but the man in the sharp navy suit didn't react. His name was Julian Cross. He had no patience for theatrics or emotions.

"I want you to marry me," he corrected.

"Technically. Legally. Not romantically."

I blinked. "Did I fall into a Netflix movie plot without noticing?"

He leaned back, fingers steepled, his gaze unreadable. "Do you want to hear the terms or not?"

I scanned the rooftop restaurant, half expecting someone to yell "prank." Nothing. Me-a broke, paint-smudged waitress facing New York's most untouchable billionaire. Completely normal.

"I heard you needed a graphic designer," I said. "That's why I came. Not for... this."

"Change of plan." He spoke in a clipped tone. "I need a wife. In name only. For one year. Two million pounds. Tax-free."

My jaw dropped. "You could hire a supermodel."

"I don't need a supermodel. I need someone with no ties to my world, no past scandals, and no risk of leaking anything to the press. I vetted you."

"You vetted me?"

He nodded with a deliberate motion. "Your mother's condition. Your student loan debt. Your eviction notice. You're smart, desperate, and discreet. You're ideal."

My chest burned. "So that's why you picked me? Because I'm drowning?"

"I picked you because you're invisible. No one would suspect you. That matters."

I gripped the edge of the table to stop myself from throwing my water glass at him. "That's charming."

"I'm not charming. I'm efficient."

"Why do you even need a wife? You're rich and powerful, and you likely have got more women than you can count."

His jaw flexed. "It's personal."

"Let me guess. A dying relative left a fortune, and the catch is you need to get married."

He didn't answer. That told me I was right.

I stared at him. "You're insane."

"You are considering it."

"Because two million dollars could save my mum's life."

"And that's exactly why you will say yes."

I hated that he was right. My throat tightened as I looked down at the folder he'd slid across the table. The contract inside spelt everything out: the rules, the timeline, and the payout.

"You don't care about anyone, do you?" I said.

"I care about results. You sign that contract, and your problems go away. Simple."

I pushed the folder back. "And what do I get after the year? Money?"

"Freedom," he said. "And a clean break."

I swallowed hard. "And what happens if I fall for you?"

"You will not."

His confidence was infuriating. "You do not know that."

"I do. Because I don't let people close enough for that to happen."

"That sounds lonely."

He shrugged, as if loneliness were a fact of life. "It's safe."

I looked down at my chipped nail polish, my cheap shoes, and my phone that was one text away from disconnection. My mum's latest bill loomed in my inbox: twenty-eight thousand pounds due by Friday. She needed her new meds-fast.

I opened the folder.

"Good choice," he said.

"I haven't signed anything yet."

"You will."

"What is your full name?" I asked.

"Julian Marcus Cross."

I pulled a pen from my purse, stared at the dotted line, and hesitated.

"If you lie to me," I said, "about anything... I walk."

He nodded once. "Fair."

"If you treat me like furniture... I walk."

"I'll treat you like a partner. A silent one."

"And if I decide I want more?"

"Then you will disappoint yourself."

I signed.