The champagne flute trembled in my hand as I stood at the edge of the ballroom, acutely aware I didn’t belong. One wrong move, and the entire illusion would shatter—my borrowed gown, my fake name, my borrowed life. Then he appeared. Alexander Vale. CEO of Veyron Industries. The man whose face was on every financial magazine, now staring at me like I was the only person in the room.

He took my hand without a word and led me onto the dance floor. His voice was low, dangerous. "You're not who they say you are." My pulse spiked. "Neither are you," I shot back.

Later that night, he offered me a deal: marry him, become his shield against board takeovers, and he’d erase my debts. No affection. Just contracts. I said yes.

Now, standing in the master suite of his penthouse, I hear his footsteps approaching. The game has begun. Do I play the obedient wife, flee before the cameras wake, or demand answers about the locked study downstairs?