The chapel was too cold, the ring too heavy. I barely knew the man beside me, yet the priest said, 'You may kiss the bride,' and Dave leaned down like we’d practiced this moment a hundred times. His lips were firm, brief, and utterly devoid of warmth. 'It’s just business,' he murmured, pulling away. 'Six months. No attachments.'

I nodded, clutching my bouquet like it was the only real thing left. Outside, paparazzi swarmed—not for us, thank God, but for some celebrity couple arriving late. My phone buzzed: Mom’s hospital bill had been paid in full. Relief warred with dread. I’d sold my freedom for her life.

That night, in the sterile luxury of his penthouse, he handed me a contract addendum. 'No public appearances together. No mention of marriage. You live separately. Understood?' I opened my mouth to protest, but the doorbell rang. A delivery—my first painting accepted into a downtown gallery. My dream, finally within reach. Then Dave saw the title: The Man I Married. 'Change it,' he said flatly. 'Or withdraw it.'

My heart pounded. This was my shot. But if I refused, would he pull funding from Mom’s recovery center? If I obeyed, would I vanish into his shadow forever?